Some years ago – never mind how long precisely – having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off – then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
Sure Mr. Melville, but I am not in pursuit of a whale that I suspected as having severed my leg to exact revenge upon this animal. I just went to look at them. Well, find them and look at them. And I did both.
Call Me Wrong Side of the Camera. Some hours ago, having very little money in my purse and not a great deal to do, I set upon my journey to see a watery part of the world. Whenever I find that the September air is growing too warm, I set to sea. It is what prevents me from going around and knocking the iPhone 6’s out of people’s hands.
All men in some degree or another should at some point take to the sea: