"Capting! Capting!" yelled the bumpkin, running toward that officer; "Capting, Capting, here's the devil."
"Hallo, you sir," cried the Captain, a gaunt rib of the sea, stalking up to Queequeg, "what in thunder do you mean by that? Don't you know you might have killed that chap?"
"What him say?" said Queequeg, as he mildly turned to me.
"He say," said I, "that you came near kill-e that man there," pointing to the still shivering greenhorn.
"Kill-e," cried Queequeg, twisting his tattooed face into an unearthly expression of disdain, "ah! him bevy small-e fish-e; Queequeg no kill-e so small-e fish-e; Queequeg kill-e big whale!"
"Look you," roared the Captain, "I'll kill-e you, you cannibal, if you try any more of your tricks aboard here; so mind your eye."
But it so happened just then, that it was high time for the Captain to mind his own eye. The prodigious strain upon the main-sail had parted the weather-sheet, and the tremendous boom was now flying from side to side, completely sweeping the entire after part of the deck. The poor fellow whom Queequeg had handled so roughly, was swept overboard; all hands were in a panic; and to attempt snatching at the boom to stay it, seemed madness. It flew from right to left, and back again, almost in one ticking of a watch, and every instant seemed on the point of snapping into splinters. Nothing was done, and nothing seemed capable of being done; those on deck rushed toward the bows, and stood eyeing the boom as if it were the lower jaw of an exasperated whale. In the midst of this consternation, Queequeg dropped deftly to his knees, and crawling under the path of the boom, whipped hold of a rope, secured one end to the bulwarks, and then flinging the other like a lasso, caught it round the boom as it swept over his head, and at the next jerk, the spar was that way trapped, and all was safe. The schooner was run into the wind, and while the hands were clearing away the stern boat, Queequeg, stripped to the waist, darted from the side with a long living arc of a leap. For three minutes or more he was seen swimming like a dog, throwing his long arms straight out before him, and by turns revealing his brawny shoulders through the freezing foam. I looked at the grand and glorious but saw no one to be saved. The greenhorn had gone down. Shooting himself perpendicularly from the water, Queequeg, now took an instant's glance around him, and seeming to see just how matters were, dived down and disappeared. A few minutes more, and he rose again, one arm still striking out, and with the other dragging a lifeless form. The boat soon picked them up. The poor bumpkin was restored. All hands voted Queequeg a noble trump; the captain begged his pardon. From that hour I clove to Queequeg like a barnacle; yea, till poor Queequeg took his last long dive.
Was there ever such unconsciousness? He did not seem to think that he at all deserved a medal from the Humane and Magnanimous Societies. He only asked for water- fresh water- something to wipe the brine off; that done, he put on dry clothes, lighted his pipe, and leaning against the bulwarks, and mildly eyeing those around him, seemed to be saying to himself- "It's a mutual, joint-stock world, in all meridians. We cannibals must help these Christians."
Queequeg is a constant surprise to everybody who meets him. People judge him by his appearance--his dark skin, tattoos, pointed teeth. He does nothing to insult or hurt any stranger he meets. Yet, he seems to be a constant source of fear and amusement to those he encounters, until they provoke him into some kind of action. Yet, he is so honorable and decent, willing to help large and small, weak or strong.
Sorry I didn't post last night. I spent the day in rehearsal and the night in performance at the Calumet Theatre, hanging with musicians and actors and creative folk. I have been doing theater for most of my adult life--acting, singing, directing, writing. It's such a wonderful community of people--giving, understanding, compassionate, funny. Theater people accept you for who you are, welcome you with all of your shortcomings, and make you feel important in some way. Like you count, even if all you're doing is handing out water bottles or programs.
When I showed up at the Calumet Theatre on Friday night, I was immediately greeted with hugs and kindnesses. Frankly, after my dad's death the night before, I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to be of any help with the shows. I was a little drained. Yet, after a few minutes, I found myself laughing and joking and singing. It was a sort of tonic. Calmed me right down. Energized me.
I always think that God puts you in the places you need to be. There was a reason for me to be at the Calumet Theatre this weekend, surrounded by performers (people who might seem strange and Queequeg-ish to outsiders). I needed the distraction, needed to be around these creative misfits (and I mean that in a good way). I belonged there. I guess what I'm saying is that I'm a Queequeg, too.
When I got back to my hotel room last night, I looked at the program. On the bottom of the front page were these words:
Tonight's program is dedicated
to the memory of Marty's father
Fred Achatz
Saint Marty was a blessed man this weekend, and he is so thankful for his friends from the Calumet Theatre.
