I was the attendant or page of Queequeg, while busy at the mat. As I kept passing and repassing the filling or woof of marline between the long yarns of the warp, using my own hand for the shuttle, and as Queequeg, standing sideways, ever and anon slid his heavy oaken sword between the threads, and idly looking off upon the water, carelessly and unthinkingly drove home every yarn; I say so strange a dreaminess did there then reign all over the ship and all over the sea, only broken by the intermitting dull sound of the sword, that it seemed as if this were the Loom of Time, and I myself were a shuttle mechanically weaving and weaving away at the Fates. There lay the fixed threads of the warp subject to but one single, ever returning, unchanging vibration, and that vibration merely enough to admit of the crosswise interblending of other threads with its own. This warp seemed necessity; and here, thought I, with my own hand I ply my own shuttle and weave my own destiny into these unalterable threads. Meantime, Queequeg's impulsive, indifferent sword, sometimes hitting the woof slantingly, or crookedly, or strongly, or weakly, as the case might be; and by this difference in the concluding blow producing a corresponding contrast in the final aspect of the completed fabric; this savage's sword, thought I, which thus finally shapes and fashions both warp and woof; this easy, indifferent sword must be chance- aye, chance, free will, and necessity- wise incompatible- all interweavingly working together. The straight warp of necessity, not to be swerved from its ultimate course- its every alternating vibration, indeed, only tending to that; free will still free to ply her shuttle between given threads; and chance, though restrained in its play within the right lines of necessity, and sideways in its motions directed by free will, though thus prescribed to by both, chance by turns rules either, and has the last featuring blow at events.
Thus we were weaving and weaving away when I started at a sound so strange, long drawn, and musically wild and unearthly, that the ball of free will dropped from my hand, and I stood gazing up at the clouds whence that voice dropped like a wing. High aloft in the cross-trees was that mad Gay-Header, Tashtego. His body was reaching eagerly forward, his hand stretched out like a wand, and at brief sudden intervals he continued his cries. To be sure the same sound was that very moment perhaps being heard all over the seas, from hundreds of whalemen's look-outs perched as high in the air; but from few of those lungs could that accustomed old cry have derived such a marvellous cadence as from Tashtego the Indian's.
As he stood hovering over you half suspended in air, so wildly and eagerly peering towards the horizon, you would have thought him some prophet or seer beholding the shadows of Fate, and by those wild cries announcing their coming.
"There she blows! there! there! there! she blows! she blows!"
"Where-away?"
"On the lee-beam, about two miles off! a school of them!"
Instantly all was commotion.
The Sperm Whale blows as a clock ticks, with the same undeviating and reliable uniformity. And thereby whalemen distinguish this fish from other tribes of his genus.
"There go flukes!" was now the cry from Tashtego; and the whales disappeared.
"Quick, steward!" cried Ahab. "Time! time!"
Dough-Boy hurried below, glanced at the watch, and reported the exact minute to Ahab.
The ship was now kept away from the wind, and she went gently rolling before it. Tashtego reporting that the whales had gone down heading to leeward, we confidently looked to see them again directly in advance of our bows. For that singular craft at times evinced by the Sperm Whale when, sounding with his head in one direction, he nevertheless, while concealed beneath the surface, mills around, and swiftly swims off in the opposite quarter- this deceitfulness of his could not now be in action; for there was no reason to suppose that the fish seen by Tashtego had been in any way alarmed, or indeed knew at all of our vicinity. One of the men selected for shipkeepers- that is, those not appointed to the boats, by this time relieved the Indian at the main-mast head. The sailors at the fore and mizzen had come down; the line tubs were fixed in their places; the cranes were thrust out; the mainyard was backed, and the three boats swung over the sea like three samphire baskets over high cliffs. Outside of the bulwarks their eager crews with one hand clung to the rail, while one foot was expectantly poised on the gunwale. So look the long line of man-of-war's men about to throw themselves on board an enemy's ship.
But at this critical instant a sudden exclamation was heard that took every eye from the whale. With a start all glared at dark Ahab, who was surrounded by five dusky phantoms that seemed fresh formed out of air.
The first sighting of whales. Maybe Moby Dick. Maybe not. But the crew jumps into action, and dark Ahab reveals a surprise that he's hidden since the beginning of the voyage. Stowaways? Ghosts? Demons working under Ahab's command? Of course, I know the answer to all of these questions. However, these are the things that Melville, the storyteller, wants you to contemplate.
Of course, things never turn out the way you expect. Today, I woke up with my day all planned out. Work at 6 a.m. Doctor's appointment at 2:30 p.m. And then, driving my daughter to her dance classes. Some quiet time in my university office. Then home, more writing, and bed. That was my plan, anyway.
Well, my daughter is sick. No school. No dance. No quiet time in my university office to do any writing. Instead, I went for a run this afternoon. First time in about a year. It nearly killed me. I stink, my feet hurt, and I'm hungry. None of these things were on my radar today. Just like the crew of the Pequod, I had my day all planned out, and suddenly there are whales on the horizon and dusky phantoms floating around the ship's deck.
I generally don't do well when my plans get upset. It throws me off. For instance, I planned on having these blog posts done by early afternoon. Instead, I'm still typing away on my laptop, with no idea of what I'm trying to say right now. Things might even get crazier--we might go for ice cream later, too. That's my life. Predictability interspersed with moments of spontaneity, usually brought on by illness or car problems.
That's probably why it takes me quite some time to finish a writing project. I have no set writing time during the day. As I've said before, my writing time is cobbled together from five minutes here, fifteen minutes there. I'm not complaining. That's the way I've written for over 20 years. I can't be Robert Frost, ignoring my wife and children all day while I squirrel myself away in an attic space to compose.
Sometimes I wish I could be like Ahab, ignoring all of my responsibilities in the pursuit of my passions. Maybe I would be as successful as Billy Collins or as famous as Oprah Winfrey if I did that. But I can't. It's not how I was brought up. I grew up with a father who worked from sunup to sundown to support his family, pay the bills, and put food on the table. That's what a husband and father does. Writing takes a back seat a lot of the time in my life.
That's okay. I don't mind the regularity of my life. It helps ground me, lets me know when I need to be a professor or health information clerk or husband or father or poet. I've learned to integrate all of those roles in my life. Unlike dark Ahab, I don't have to hide secrets from the people in my life.
Saint Marty is thankful tonight for whales on the horizon that allow him to get some chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.
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