EPISODE 3

LOOMINGS [3]

Think of the story of Narcissus. He saw his own reflection in water and could not grasp it. He leaned closer and closer until he fell in and drowned. That reflection we chase—it appears in rivers and oceans everywhere. It represents the mysterious, unreachable part of life itself. That is the deeper meaning behind our attraction to water.

Now when I say I go to sea whenever I feel troubled, I do not mean I travel as a passenger. To be a passenger you need money, and a purse without money is just cloth. Besides, passengers get seasick. They complain. They sleep badly. They often do not enjoy themselves. No—I never go as a passenger.

Nor do I go as a captain, commodore, or cook. I leave the honor of those positions to others. Taking care of myself is enough work; I do not wish to be responsible for ships and crews. As for being a cook—yes, there is some glory in that—but I have never desired to stand over a hot stove broiling chickens, even though I greatly respect a well-cooked one. The ancient Egyptians admired roasted birds so much they preserved them in their pyramids.

No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor. I work before the mast. I sleep in the forecastle. I climb the rigging.

True, they order me around. They make me jump from rope to rope like a grasshopper in spring. At first, it stings your pride—especially if you once held a respected position on land, perhaps as a schoolmaster who made tall boys stand straight in fear. Going from teacher to common sailor is a sharp change. It requires a strong dose of patience and philosophy to smile and endure it. But in time, you grow used to it.

If an old sea captain orders me to sweep the deck, what of it? Does it truly lessen me? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks less of me because I obey? Who is not a servant in some way? We all answer to someone. The world passes its blows around equally, and we should rub each other’s shoulders and accept it.

Another reason I go as a sailor is simple: they pay me. Passengers pay others. And there is a great difference between paying and being paid. Paying feels painful. Being paid feels wonderful. It is strange how gladly we accept money, even while we claim it causes so much trouble.

Finally, I go to sea as a sailor because of the fresh air and honest labor. Often, leaders believe they stand first in the wind, but truly the common sailors feel it before they do. In many ways, ordinary people lead their leaders without the leaders knowing it.

But why, after sailing as a merchant sailor before, did I decide to join a whaling voyage? That is a question even I cannot fully answer. Perhaps the Fates, those invisible managers of life, had already written it into their script. Perhaps it was part of a larger plan drawn up long ago.

If life were a program printed for a stage performance, maybe it would read:

“Grand Election for the Presidency.”

“Whaling Voyage by One Ishmael.”

“Bloody Battle in Afghanistan.”

Why I was assigned the humble role of whaler while others received grand tragedies or cheerful comedies, I do not know. But looking back, I can see certain hidden forces guiding me, gently convincing me it was my own free choice.

The greatest of these was the whale itself.

The idea of such a massive, mysterious creature filled me with wonder. The wild oceans where it swam. The dangers that could not be fully described. The strange sights and sounds of distant lands. All this stirred something deep inside me.

Other men might not be tempted by such things. But I have always felt an itch for what is far away and unknown. I like sailing forbidden seas and walking on strange shores. I do not ignore what is good, but I am not afraid to face what is frightening either. It is best, after all, to live peacefully with whatever world you find yourself in.

Because of these thoughts, the whaling voyage opened before me like a floodgate to a world of wonder. In my imagination, endless whales swam through my mind—processions of them. And among them all, one great shadow stood out: a grand, hooded phantom, white as a snow hill rising into the sky.

EPISODE 2

LOOMINGS [2]

Yet most of them are not sailors. On weekdays they are trapped indoors—behind counters, desks, benches, and walls. So why are they here? Have the green fields disappeared? What pulls them to the water?

More people keep coming. They walk straight toward the edge, as if they might dive in. They are not satisfied standing under the shade of warehouses. No—they must get as close as possible without falling in. There they stand—miles of them. They come from every direction: north, south, east, west. What draws them? Is it some invisible magnet in the ships’ compasses?

Now imagine you are far from the city, in the countryside, among lakes and hills. Take almost any path, and it will lead you down into a valley, where you end up beside water. It feels like magic. Even a distracted man, deep in thought, if set walking, will find himself heading toward water without meaning to. And if you ever get lost and thirsty in a desert, try this: let the most thoughtful man in your group walk freely. If there is water anywhere nearby, he will likely find it. Meditation and water seem forever linked.

Consider an artist who wants to paint the most peaceful, romantic landscape. He paints trees with hollow trunks, quiet meadows, cattle resting, soft smoke rising from a cottage. A winding path leads into distant blue hills. The whole scene feels calm and dreamy. But something is still missing. The shepherd in the painting must be looking at water. Without a stream before him, the picture feels empty.

Visit the wide prairies in June, where flowers stretch for miles. What is missing? Water. Even the grand Niagara Falls—if it were made of sand instead of water—would you travel far to see it?

Why did a poor poet, upon receiving a small amount of money, hesitate between buying a coat he badly needed and spending it to visit the ocean? Why does almost every healthy young boy dream of going to sea? Why did you, on your first voyage, feel something strange and powerful when you were told the ship was out of sight of land?

Why did ancient Persians call the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it its own god?

All this must mean something.

Think of the story of Narcissus. He saw his own reflection in water and could not grasp it. He leaned closer and closer until he fell in and drowned. That reflection we chase—it appears in rivers and oceans everywhere. It represents the mysterious, unreachable part of life itself. That is the deeper meaning behind our attraction to water.

Now when I say I go to sea whenever I feel troubled, I do not mean I travel as a passenger...

CHAPTER 1

LOOMINGS

Call me Ishmael.

Some years ago—never mind exactly how long—I found myself with little or no money in my pocket and nothing much keeping me on land. So I decided to sail for a while and see the watery part of the world.

Going to sea is how I deal with sadness. It helps me clear my mind and feel alive again. Whenever I notice myself growing gloomy… whenever it feels like a damp, gray November inside my soul… whenever I catch myself slowing down in front of coffin shops or quietly walking behind funeral processions… and especially when my dark thoughts get so strong that I must use real effort not to step into the street and start knocking hats off people’s heads—then I know it is time to leave. I need the ocean.

This is my substitute for pistol and ball. Where Cato dramatically fell on his sword, I calmly board a ship.

There is nothing strange about this. If people were honest, they would admit that at some point in their lives, they too have felt drawn to the sea the way I do.

Look at Manhattan, that island city, surrounded by docks the way coral reefs surround tropical islands. Business circles it like restless waves. Almost every street seems to lead you toward the water. At the very bottom of the city lies the Battery, where the sea breeze touches land after hours of blowing over open ocean. Stand there and look at the crowds staring out at the water.

Walk around the city on a quiet Sunday afternoon. From Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, then up past Whitehall. What do you see? Thousands of people standing still, staring at the ocean as if lost in thought. Some lean against posts. Some sit at the ends of piers. Some peer over the sides of ships from China. Some even climb high into the rigging, just to get a better view.

Yet most of them are not sailors. On weekdays they are trapped indoors—behind counters, desks, benches, and walls. So why are they here? Have the green fields disappeared? What pulls them to the water?