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“ Oh , the rare old Whale , mid storm and gale In his ocean home will be A giant in might , where might is right , And King of the boundless sea . ” — Whale Song . CHAPTER 1 . Loomings . Call me Ishmael . 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 . There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes , belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs — commerce surrounds it with her surf . Right and left , the streets take you waterward . Its extreme downtown is the battery , where that noble mole is washed by waves , and cooled by breezes , which a few hours previous were out of sight of land . Look at the crowds of water - gazers there . Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon . Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip , and from thence , by Whitehall , northward . What do you see ? — Posted like silent sentinels all around the town , stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries . Some leaning against the spiles ; some seated upon the pier - heads ; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China ; some high aloft in the rigging , as if striving to get a still better seaward peep . But these are all landsmen ; of week days pent up in lath and plaster — tied to counters , nailed to benches , clinched to desks . How then is this ? Are the green fields gone ? What do they here ?
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