And jolly enough were the sights and the sounds that came bearing down before the wind, some few weeks after Ahab's harpoon had been welded.
It was a Nantucket ship, the Bachelor, which had just
wedged in her last cask of oil, and bolted down her bursting hatches;
and now, in glad holiday apparel, was joyously, though somewhat
vain-gloriously, sailing round among the widely-separated ships on the
ground, previous to pointing her prow for home.
The three men at
her mast-head wore long streamers of narrow red bunting at their hats;
from the stern, a whale-boat was suspended, bottom down; and hanging
captive from the bowsprit was seen the long lower jaw of the last whale
they had slain. Signals, ensigns, and jacks of all colors were flying
from her rigging, on every side. Sideways lashed in each of her three
basketed tops were two barrels of sperm; above which, in her top-mast
cross-trees, you saw slender breakers of the same precious fluid; and
nailed to her main truck was a brazen lamp.
As was afterwards
learned, the Bachelor had met with the most surprising success; all the
more wonderful, for that while cruising in the same seas numerous other
vessels had gone entire months without securing a single fish. Not only
had barrels of beef and bread been given away to make room for the far
more valuable sperm, but additional supplemental casks had been bartered
for, from the ships she had met; and these were stowed along the deck,
and in the captain's and officers' state-rooms. Even the cabin table
itself had been knocked into kindling-wood; and the cabin mess dined off
the broad head of an oil-butt, lashed down to the floor for a
centerpiece. In the forecastle, the sailors had actually caulked and
pitched their chests, and filled them; it was humorously added, that the
cook had clapped a head on his largest boiler, and filled it; that the
steward had plugged his spare coffee-pot and filled it; that the
harpooneers had headed the sockets of their irons and filled them; that
indeed everything was filled with sperm, except the captain's pantaloons
pockets, and those he reserved to thrust his hands into, in
self-complacent testimony of his entire satisfaction.
As this glad
ship of good luck bore down upon the moody Pequod, the barbarian sound
of enormous drums came from her forecastle; and drawing still nearer, a
crowd of her men were seen standing round her huge try-pots, which,
covered with the parchment-like poke or stomach skin of the black fish,
gave forth a loud roar to every stroke of the clenched hands of the
crew. On the quarter-deck, the mates and harpooneers were dancing with
the olive-hued girls who had eloped with them from the Polynesian Isles;
while suspended in an ornamental boat, firmly secured aloft between the
foremast and mainmast, three Long Island negroes, with glittering
fiddle-bows of whale ivory, were presiding over the hilarious jig.
Meanwhile, others of the ship's company were tumultuously busy at the
masonry of the try-works, from which the huge pots had been removed. You
would have almost thought they were pulling down the cursed Bastille,
such wild cries they raised, as the now useless brick and mortar were
being hurled into the sea.
Lord and master over all this scene,
the captain stood erect on the ship's elevated quarter-deck, so that the
whole rejoicing drama was full before him, and seemed merely contrived
for his own individual diversion.
And Ahab, he too was standing on
his quarter-deck, shaggy and black, with a stubborn gloom; and as the
two ships crossed each other's wakes- one all jubilations for things
passed, the other all forebodings as to things to come- their two
captains in themselves impersonated the whole striking contrast of the
"Come aboard, come aboard!" cried the gay Bachelor's commander, lifting a glass and a bottle in the air.
"Hast seen the White Whale?" gritted Ahab in reply.
"No; only heard of him; but don't believe in him at all," said the other good-humoredly. "Come aboard!"
"Thou art too damned jolly. Sail on. Hast lost any men?"
enough to speak of- two islanders, that's all;- but come aboard, old
hearty, come along. I'll soon take that black from your brow. Come
along, will ye (merry's the play); a full ship and homeward-bound."
wondrous familiar is a fool!" muttered Ahab; then aloud, "Thou art a
full ship and homeward bound, thou sayst; well, then, call me an empty
ship, and outward-bound. So go thy ways, and I will mine. Forward there!
Set all sail, and keep her to the wind!"
And thus, while the one
ship went cheerily before the breeze, the other stubbornly fought
against it; and so the two vessels parted; the crew of the Pequod
looking with grave, lingering glances towards the receding Bachelor; but
the Bachelor's men never heeding their gaze for the lively revelry they
were in. And as Ahab, leaning over the taffrail, eyed the homewardbound
craft, he took from his pocket a small vial of sand, and then looking
from the ship to the vial, seemed thereby bringing two remote
associations together, for that vial was filled with Nantucket
The contrast is pretty stark in this chapter. The Bachelor, joyous and buoyant and homeward bound. The Pequod, dark and heavy and White Whale bound. It's the difference between wedding and funeral. Reception and wake. The crew of the Bachelor is sailing toward the future. The crew of the Pequod, toward imminent, albino-fluked doom.
Today, I'm going to write about a subject that is difficult for me. My mother has been struggling with dementia for several years now. My father passed away in February. They were married for 65 years, raised nine children. Buried two of them. They were partners for a very long time. As my father lay dying in the hospital, my mother was holding his hand, saying over and over, "You were a good husband. You were a good father."
Sometimes, I think my mother's dementia has been a blessing for her in the last seven months. It has allowed her to go through her days without feeling my father's absence constantly. Every once in a while, she will ask where he is. For the most part, however, she's been not exactly happy, but blessed with only small bouts of grief.
Recently, however, my mother has been focused on my father's death, asking my sisters how he died, what the funeral was like, whether she needs to sell her house, where her car is. Very recently, she's been repeating one thought: "I should just die and get it over with."
It seems as though she's giving up. Instead of sailing into the future, she's headed out into deeper, darker waters. Perhaps this is natural, but it is difficult to hear and witness. Her dementia allows her to focus and obsess on certain thoughts and actions. Right now, she's obsessed with death.
My mother has always been a huge force in my life, even more so than my father. She was the one who pushed me to excel in school, supported me through some of the most difficult times of my life. She never judged any of the decisions I made, even if she thought they were wrong-headed. No, her one wish was simply for me to be happy.
I want my mother to be happy, to be celebrating something instead of mourning my father. I'm not sure I can do anything to make that possible. There's a big piece of her puzzle missing now. A 65-year-shaped piece. And she's spending her days looking for that piece.
Saint Marty is thankful this morning for having a mother who has loved him. Unconditionally.
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