It so chanced, that after the Parsee's disappearance, I was he whom the Fates ordained to take the place of Ahab's bowsman, when that bowsman assumed the vacant post; the same, who, when on the last day the three men were tossed from out of the rocking boat, was dropped astern. So, floating on the margin of the ensuing scene, and in full sight of it, when the halfspent suction of the sunk ship reached me, I was then, but slowly, drawn towards the closing vortex. When I reached it, it had subsided to a creamy pool. Round and round, then, and ever contracting towards the button-like black bubble at the axis of that slowly wheeling circle, like another Ixion I did revolve. Till, gaining that vital centre, the black bubble upward burst; and now, liberated by reason of its cunning spring, and, owing to its great buoyancy, rising with great force, the coffin life-buoy shot lengthwise from the sea, fell over, and floated by my side. Buoyed up by that coffin, for almost one whole day and night, I floated on a soft and dirgelike main. The unharming sharks, they glided by as if with padlocks on their mouths; the savage sea-hawks sailed with sheathed beaks. On the second day, a sail drew near, nearer, and picked me up at last. It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan. FINIS
There you have it. The sole survivor of the voyage of the Pequod: Ishmael. Orphaned and floating, he remains unharmed by shark or whale. Eventually, the Rachel reappears and rescues Ishmael. Period. The End. FINIS. We, readers, already knew that Ishmael survives. After all, he's the narrator. The consciousness through which we view and hear the events of Moby-Dick. Gone are Ahab and Queequeg. Stubb and Starbuck. Victims and, now, ghosts.
Sorry, again, for my prolonged absence. Three days past the midterm elections, I have finally come up for some air. It has been quite the week. The Democrats took control of the House of Representatives, and my daughter became a musical theater star at her high school. In the middle of all that, I had to undergo my annual classroom observation on Wednesday night. Stress couched between nights when I felt my heart breaking open as I watched my daughter on stage.
Tonight, the weather is turning bad in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. A winter storm warning. If everything goes according to forecasts, by tomorrow morning, about eight to 12 inches of snow will have fallen, and 30- to 40-mile-an-hour winds will be blowing. Winter is upon us.
Tonight, I'm writing the Epilogue to this week. Everyone in my house is in bed. My daughter is spending the night at her boyfriend's house. I'm watching The Sound of Music on my local Public Television station, and I'm exhausted. Feeling like I'm simply treading water. I don't know if I'm going to make it over the mountains with the von Trapps.
Saint Marty is thankful tonight for a warm bed and a snow shovel.
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