raises me a white-headed whale with a wrinkled brow and a crooked jaw; whosoever of ye raises me that white-headed whale, with three holes punctured in his starboard fluke—look ye, whosoever of ye raises me that same white whale, he shall have this gold ounce my boys!”’
October 11, course changed again to West.
(As a traveler to unknown parts, Columbus was of course expected to bring back tales of fish growing on trees men with tails and headless people with eyes in their bellies . . .
And there was the light, seen by Columbus—or so he says—two hoursbefore midnight on the Eleventh: “. . . like a little wax candle rising and falling.” Be it the pine-knot torch of an Indian . . . sea worms, phosphorescent . . . or the jammed and crowded imaginings of Christopher . . . whatever it be, Columbus, on the strength of it, claimed his own doublet, and the Sovereigns’ 10,000 maravedis . . .
Ahab: “‘. . . the doubloon is mine, Fate reserved the doubloon for me. I only; none of ye could have raised the White Whale first. There she blows! . . .”’
Like a great albuminous globe, monstrous beyond all proportion, the ovum looms ahead . . .
October 12:
“At two hours after midnight the land was sighted . . .”
CHARYBDIS
ONE
A FTER ALASKA , Carl came back to Indianapolis, with a duffle bag of old clothes and odd relics . . . bits of bone from walrus, seal, and man, pieces of carved wood, various stones shaped by the ocean, or by Carl himself, or perhaps by long-dead Indians. He stayed (as always) only a short time . . . “just long enough to change my sox.” Then he was off, apparently without funds (this is another story, where his money came from, where he got it, or whose it was—he never seemed to have any except just when he needed it, and then only just enough), heading east . . .
and the next we heard he was in Spain, flying a plane . . . seat of the pants flying, he said, no instruments, no time to learn (he had never flown before) . . . for the Loyalists.
Columbus:
“this night the wind increased, and the waves were terrible, rising against each other and so shaking and straining the vessel that she would make no headway, and was in danger of being stove in.”
The first return voyage:—as on all eastward voyages, the voyages of return, voyages back—opposite and contrary to those westward—he met dirty weather.
“At sunrise the wind blew still harder, and the cross sea was terrific. They continued to show the closely reefed mainsail to enable her to rise from between the waves, or she would otherwise have been swamped.”
For two days, on board the Niña, the officer of the watch scanned each on-coming wave, and gave quick orders to the helmsman, in order that the wave might be met at the best angle. All contact with the Pinta was lost, and no attempt was made to hold to a course.
“. . . no one expected to escape, holding themselves for lost, owing to the fearful weather . . .”
“Here the Admiral writes of the causes that made him fear he would perish, and of others that gave him hope that God would work his salvation, in order that such news as he was bringing to the Sovereigns might not be lost. It seemed to him the strong desire he felt to bring such great news, and to show that all he had said and offered to discover had turned out true, suggested the fear that he would not be able to do so . . .”
(Melville to Hawthorne: “. . . I am so pulled hither and thither by circumstances. The calm, the coolness, the silent grass-growing mood in which a man ought always to compose,—that, I fear, can seldom be mine.”
“He says further that it gave him great sorrow to think
October 11, course changed again to West.
(As a traveler to unknown parts, Columbus was of course expected to bring back tales of fish growing on trees men with tails and headless people with eyes in their bellies . . .
And there was the light, seen by Columbus—or so he says—two hoursbefore midnight on the Eleventh: “. . . like a little wax candle rising and falling.” Be it the pine-knot torch of an Indian . . . sea worms, phosphorescent . . . or the jammed and crowded imaginings of Christopher . . . whatever it be, Columbus, on the strength of it, claimed his own doublet, and the Sovereigns’ 10,000 maravedis . . .
Ahab: “‘. . . the doubloon is mine, Fate reserved the doubloon for me. I only; none of ye could have raised the White Whale first. There she blows! . . .”’
Like a great albuminous globe, monstrous beyond all proportion, the ovum looms ahead . . .
October 12:
“At two hours after midnight the land was sighted . . .”
CHARYBDIS
ONE
A FTER ALASKA , Carl came back to Indianapolis, with a duffle bag of old clothes and odd relics . . . bits of bone from walrus, seal, and man, pieces of carved wood, various stones shaped by the ocean, or by Carl himself, or perhaps by long-dead Indians. He stayed (as always) only a short time . . . “just long enough to change my sox.” Then he was off, apparently without funds (this is another story, where his money came from, where he got it, or whose it was—he never seemed to have any except just when he needed it, and then only just enough), heading east . . .
and the next we heard he was in Spain, flying a plane . . . seat of the pants flying, he said, no instruments, no time to learn (he had never flown before) . . . for the Loyalists.
Columbus:
“this night the wind increased, and the waves were terrible, rising against each other and so shaking and straining the vessel that she would make no headway, and was in danger of being stove in.”
The first return voyage:—as on all eastward voyages, the voyages of return, voyages back—opposite and contrary to those westward—he met dirty weather.
“At sunrise the wind blew still harder, and the cross sea was terrific. They continued to show the closely reefed mainsail to enable her to rise from between the waves, or she would otherwise have been swamped.”
For two days, on board the Niña, the officer of the watch scanned each on-coming wave, and gave quick orders to the helmsman, in order that the wave might be met at the best angle. All contact with the Pinta was lost, and no attempt was made to hold to a course.
“. . . no one expected to escape, holding themselves for lost, owing to the fearful weather . . .”
“Here the Admiral writes of the causes that made him fear he would perish, and of others that gave him hope that God would work his salvation, in order that such news as he was bringing to the Sovereigns might not be lost. It seemed to him the strong desire he felt to bring such great news, and to show that all he had said and offered to discover had turned out true, suggested the fear that he would not be able to do so . . .”
(Melville to Hawthorne: “. . . I am so pulled hither and thither by circumstances. The calm, the coolness, the silent grass-growing mood in which a man ought always to compose,—that, I fear, can seldom be mine.”
“He says further that it gave him great sorrow to think
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