The long, thin Malacca Peninsula juts southeast from Myanmar’s lands, marking the southernmost tip of all Asia. Stretching straight out from this peninsula are the long chains of Sumatra, Java, Bali, and Timor Islands.
Together with countless smaller isles, they form a massive natural barrier. This long ridge links Asia to Australia, splitting the endless Indian Ocean from the crowded island seas of East Asia. Several key straits cut through this barrier for ships and sea life to pass through, with the Sunda and Malacca Straits being the most famous. Most western ships sailing to China pass through the Sunda Strait to enter the South China Sea.
The narrow Sunda Strait separates Sumatra and Java, sitting right in the middle of that huge island barrier. Sailors know the bold, green headland here as Java Head. This strait is like a central gate leading to a vast, walled empire.
The seas here are filled with endless treasures—spices, silk, jewels, gold, and ivory from thousands of islands. Nature seems to have purposely built this island barrier, as if to guard these riches from the greedy eyes of the Western world, even if the protection is only superficial.
Unlike the Mediterranean, Baltic, and Sea of Marmara, no mighty fortresses line the Sunda Strait’s shores to control incoming ships. For centuries, countless cargo vessels loaded with the East’s finest treasures have sailed day and night between Sumatra and Java.
Local sailors never force passing ships to lower their top sails as a sign of respect, a custom enforced by Danish sailors in northern waters. But while they skip this empty formality, they have never given up claiming real, tangible tribute from foreign ships.
For as long as anyone can remember, Malay pirate boats have hidden in the shadowy coves and tiny islets off Sumatra. They ambush ships passing through the straits, demanding tribute at spearpoint.
European warships have repeatedly defeated and punished these pirates, weakening their boldness in recent years. Even so, news still spreads now and then of British and American ships being brutally boarded and looted in these waters.
A fresh, steady wind pushed the Pequod steadily toward the Sunda Strait. Captain Ahab planned to sail through the strait into the Java Sea. From there, he would cruise north through waters famous for sperm whale sightings, sail inshore past the Philippines, and reach Japan’s coast just in time for the peak whaling season.
This route would let the Pequod, on its global voyage, cover nearly every known sperm whale hunting ground. After this, they would head for the equatorial waters of the Pacific. Ahab had failed to hunt down Moby Dick everywhere else, but he was certain he would meet the great white whale in its favorite waters, during its most active season.
Someone might ask: Does Ahab never stop for land? Does his crew survive on nothing but air?
Surely they must stop to resupply fresh water—right?
Wrong.
The sun burns endlessly in its fiery orbit, needing no outside nourishment, sustained by its own power. Ahab and his whaling ship are just the same.
Ordinary merchant ships sail loaded with foreign goods to trade at distant ports. But a wandering whaling ship carries no cargo except itself, its crew, their weapons, and their basic supplies. Its huge hold stores enough fresh water to fill an entire lake.
The ship’s ballast is all practical supplies, not useless heavy lead weights. It carries years of fresh water on board—pure, old water from Nantucket. Even after three months at sea, Nantucket sailors would rather drink their stored fresh water than brackish river water newly brought on board from Peru or India.
This is why a merchant ship might sail from New York to China and back, docking at dozens of ports, while a whaling ship in the same time never spots a single stretch of land. Its crew sees no one but fellow sailors adrift at sea. If someone told them another great flood had drowned the world, they would simply laugh and say, “Well boys, we’re on the ark.”
The waters off Java’s western edge, near the Sunda Strait, were well-known among fishermen as prime sperm whale hunting grounds. As the Pequod drew closer to Java Head, the watchmen were ordered to stay sharp and alert at all times.
Soon, the green, palm-covered cliffs of Java came into view on the right side of the ship. The wind carried the sweet, fresh scent of cinnamon across the waves. Yet no whale spouts could be seen anywhere.
The crew was almost ready to give up spotting whales in the area, and the ship was nearly inside the strait, when a loud, excited shout came from the lookout high above. In an instant, a breathtaking sight unfolded before them.
In recent years, relentless whaling across all four oceans has changed sperm whale behavior. Once, they traveled in small, separate groups. Now, they gather in enormous herds, as if thousands of whales have formed a united alliance to protect one another.
This new habit explains why sailors can sail for weeks, even months, without seeing a single spout in the best whaling grounds—then suddenly come upon countless whales all at once.
Two or three miles ahead, stretching across half the horizon in a huge semicircle, endless whale spouts rose and sparkled in the midday sun.
Right whales shoot two straight, vertical spouts that split at the top and fall like drooping willow branches. Sperm whales are different: they blow a single forward-angled spout that forms a thick, curling cloud of white mist, rising steadily before drifting away downwind.
From the Pequod’s deck, as the ship rose and fell on the rolling waves, the countless curling spouts looked exactly like the smoky chimneys of a huge, bustling city seen on a clear, mild autumn morning from a distant hilltop.
Like an army rushing past a dangerous mountain pass to reach safe open plains, the massive whale herd hurried forward through the strait. Their wide semicircle slowly closed in, forming a tight, curved mass moving steadily onward.
The Pequod unfurled every sail to give chase. Harpooners gripped their weapons and cheered loudly from the hanging whale boats. With the wind holding strong, everyone was confident they would drive the huge herd into the open eastern seas and harpoon many of them.
No one could tell—maybe Moby Dick himself was hidden among the massive group, like a sacred white elephant in a royal coronation procession in Siam.
The ship piled on extra sails, speeding forward to chase the giant sea creatures. Just then, Tashtego’s sharp voice rang out, warning the crew of something behind them.
Behind the ship, mirroring the curved whale herd ahead, another curved line of white mist hovered over the waves. It looked just like whale spouts, but these puffs did not fade and disappear. They hung steadily in the air, following close behind.
Ahab raised his spyglass to his eye, spun sharply on his heel, and barked orders.
“Men aloft! Get ropes and buckets ready to wet the sails! Malays! Pirate boats are chasing us!”
The cunning pirates had waited hidden behind the headlands, holding back until the Pequod was fully inside the strait. Now they rushed forward at full speed, trying to make up for their earlier caution.
The Pequod had a strong tailwind and was already speeding after the whales. In a strange twist, the pursuing pirates were only pushing the ship faster toward Ahab’s hunting grounds. Ahab paced the deck with his spyglass tucked under his arm.
With every step forward, he saw the giant whales he hunted. With every step back, he saw the bloodthirsty pirates hunting him.
He stared at the green-walled strait ahead—the very passage that led to his long-awaited revenge. Now, through this same gate, he chased his prey and was chased by enemies, rushing straight toward a deadly confrontation. The pirates’ wild, mocking cheers and curses echoed across the water.
These dark thoughts carved deep lines into Ahab’s forehead, leaving his face hard and gaunt, like a black sand beach scraped raw by storm tides yet still unshaken.
But the reckless crew paid little mind to Ahab’s dark mood. The Pequod gradually pulled ahead of the pirates, leaving them far astern. When the ship finally sailed past the bright green Cockatoo Point on Sumatra and burst into open waters, the harpooners cared far more that the whales were gaining speed than they celebrated escaping the pirates.
The crew kept chasing the herd, and slowly the whales began to slow down. The ship drew closer and closer. When the wind died away completely, the order went out to lower the whale boats into the water.
But the sperm whales possessed an incredible instinct. Even with the boats still a mile behind, the entire herd sensed the pursuit. They regrouped instantly, forming tight, disciplined ranks. Their countless spouts flashed like rows of bayonets, and they surged forward at double speed.
The sailors stripped down to their shirts and trousers, jumped into the lightweight whale boats, and began rowing furiously. After hours of exhausting rowing, the crew was ready to abandon the chase—until a strange unrest rippled through the whale herd, giving them new hope.
Fishermen call this state “gallied”: when whales grow confused, panicked, and unsure of what to do.
The tight, orderly formation the whales had kept broke apart completely. They scattered in huge, chaotic circles, swimming aimlessly in every direction. Their short, frantic spouts betrayed their pure terror. Some whales even froze completely, floating motionless on the water like broken, waterlogged ships.
Even a flock of sheep chased by three wolves could not have looked more terrified. This skittishness is common among herd animals. Tens of thousands of wild buffalo will flee from a single horseman. Crowds of people in a theater will stampede and trample each other to death at the slightest hint of fire.
So there was no need to marvel at the panicked whales—human madness has always been far greater than animal foolishness.
Though individual whales thrashed wildly, the entire herd did not move forward or retreat. They stayed trapped in one chaotic spot.
Following standard whaling practice, the three boats split up, each targeting a lone whale on the edge of the herd. Within three minutes, Queequeg hurled his harpoon true and struck his target.
The wounded whale sprayed blinding seawater over the crew, then surged forward at lightning speed, dragging the boat straight into the heart of the massive herd.
This was a common but extremely dangerous part of whaling. Once a harpooned whale drags your boat into a panicked herd, you abandon all caution. You survive only in a frantic, heart-pounding blur.
The whale charged blindly ahead, desperate to shake the iron harpoon embedded in its flesh. The boat sliced a white gash through the waves, surrounded on all sides by thrashing, terrified whales. It was like a ship trapped among shifting ice floes in a storm, navigating narrow, deadly passages with constant risk of being crushed.
Queequeg steered the boat steadily through the chaos, completely unshaken. He swerved to avoid whales darting across their path and edged away from giant tails swinging just overhead.
Starbuck stood firm in the bow, holding a long lance. He stabbed quickly at any whale that drifted too close, clearing a safe path for the boat—there was no time for long, careful strikes.
The oarsmen no longer rowed, but they were far from idle. They shouted constant warnings at the surging whales all around them.
“Move aside, captain of the sea!” one sailor yelled at a massive whale that suddenly surfaced, nearly capsizing their boat.
“Watch that tail!” another shouted at a whale floating beside the boat, calmly fanning the water with its huge tail fin.
Every whale boat carries a special tool invented by old Nantucket indigenous whalers, called a drugg. It is two square wooden blocks clamped together to form a cross, with a long rope tied to the center. The rope can be looped quickly onto a harpoon.
Druggs are used specifically on gallied, panicked whale herds. When countless whales surround you, you cannot harpoon them all at once. Instead, you cripple as many as possible with druggs, slowing them down to hunt later.
Their boat had three druggs on board. The first two were thrown successfully, attaching to two separate whales. The heavy wooden drag slowed the giant creatures drastically, leaving them struggling to swim, like prisoners chained to heavy iron balls.
But when throwing the third drugg, the clumsy wooden block caught under a boat seat. It ripped the seat clean out of the boat in an instant, dumping an oarsman onto the boat’s floor. Seawater flooded in through the broken planks on both sides. The crew stuffed spare shirts and trousers into the cracks to stop the leaks temporarily.
They only managed to deploy the druggs because their harpooned whale had slowed down significantly as they entered the herd. The deeper they sailed into the group, the calmer the waters became, and the chaotic thrashing of the outer whales faded away.
Finally, the harpoon line jolted free, and the wounded whale drifted off to the side and vanished. Carried by the last of its forward momentum, their boat glided smoothly between two giant whales into the absolute center of the herd.
It was like sliding from a raging mountain torrent into a peaceful mountain lake. The violent chaos of the outer whales echoed around them but no longer touched them. The water here was smooth and satiny, calmed by the fine mist the resting whales released into the air.
They had entered the strange, enchanted calm hidden at the heart of every storm. All around them, the outer circles of whales still churned in wild panic. Groups of eight or ten whales swam in endless tight loops, shoulder to shoulder, so closely packed a person could have walked across their backs.
Thick walls of living whales surrounded their boat on every side. There was no escape—they could only wait for a gap to open in the swirling herd that had trapped them inside.
Small, gentle female whales and young calves swam up to the boat now and then, gliding through the calm central waters.
The entire whale herd spanned two to three square miles of ocean. From their low boat, whale spouts could be seen rising all the way to the distant horizon.
The young whales and mothers in the center seemed completely unaware of the panic raging just outside their peaceful sanctuary. Whether from ignorance, youth, or a strange calm amid chaos, they showed no fear of the human intruders.
They swam right up to the boat’s edges, snuffling curiously like household dogs. Queequeg patted their foreheads. Starbuck scratched their backs with his lance, holding back from striking, wary of the consequences.
Leaning over the boat’s sides, the crew discovered an even more wondrous sight beneath the surface. The clear, transparent water revealed mother whales nursing their calves, and full-bodied females ready to give birth soon.
Baby whales floated beside their mothers, staring upward toward the boat with blank, innocent eyes—seeing the sailors not as threats, but as trivial floating seaweed.
One newborn calf was barely a day old, roughly fourteen feet long and six feet thick. It still looked crumpled and unformed, its body only just unfolded from the tight bent shape it had held inside its mother’s womb, like a folded bow. Its delicate side fins and tail flukes still had the crinkled, new look of a newborn creature.
“Line! Line!” Queequeg suddenly shouted, leaning far over the gunwale and staring down into the water. “He’s fast! Still attached! Who struck him? Two whales—one big, one little!”
“What is it?” Starbuck asked sharply.
“Look here,” Queequeg said, pointing downward.
Starbuck peered into the water and saw long, coiled umbilical cord trailing from a mother whale, still tethering her calf to her body. In the frantic chaos of whaling, these natural cords often tangled with harpoon ropes, trapping the young calves accidentally.
In this magical, calm patch of ocean, the crew witnessed some of the sea’s most hidden secrets: the quiet love and bond between mother and baby sperm whales.
Sperm whales mate and give birth year-round, carrying their young for nine months. They almost always birth one calf at a time, with rare twins. Mother whales have two teats beside their anal fins. If a hunter’s lance cuts these delicate nursing organs, the mother’s milk and blood stain the seawater red for long distances. Whale milk is sweet and rich, said to taste wonderful with wild strawberries. Whales show affection for one another in gentle, intimate ways.
Surrounded by terror and chaos on every side, the whales in the central sanctuary lived in total peace, calm, and affection. In the same way, the narrator thought, even amid the raging storms of his own troubled mind, a quiet, eternal joy lives deep in his core, untouched by endless sorrow.
While the boat floated in the peaceful center, the other two boats continued hunting on the chaotic outer edges of the herd, drugging and crippling fleeing whales. But a new, terrifying sight soon drew everyone’s attention.
Whalers sometimes try to disable powerful whales by slashing their giant tail tendons with a special short-handled cutting spade attached to a rope. One whale had been wounded this way but not fully disabled. It escaped the boat, carrying half a harpoon line and the sharp spade embedded in its flesh.
Driven into maddening agony by the embedded blade, the whale charged wildly through the swirling herd. It darted blindly in every direction, the loose spade slicing through the water, wounding and killing other whales by accident. It was like a lone, desperate warrior charging through enemy ranks, spreading panic everywhere it went.
This one crazed, wounded whale shattered the herd’s stunned paralysis.
The outer ring of whales began jostling and crashing into one another, as if rocked by invisible waves. The calm central sanctuary vanished instantly. The mother whales and calves disappeared. The entire herd began swimming in tighter, faster, panicked circles, crowding inward toward a single chaotic mass.
The long, peaceful lull was over. A low, thunderous rumble rolled across the water. Like frozen river ice breaking apart in spring, the entire whale herd surged inward, piling toward the center in a massive, chaotic heap.
Starbuck and Queequeg swapped positions in an instant, Starbuck moving to the stern to steer.
“Oars! Oars now!” Starbuck whispered fiercely, gripping the helm. “Grab your oars and hold on for your lives! God help us, men, stand ready! Push off, Queequeg—stab that whale! Hit it! Stand up steady! Row hard! Don’t mind their backs—scrape past them! Keep moving!”
The boat was wedged tightly between two enormous whale bodies, with only a narrow, deadly gap between them. With desperate, frantic effort, they shot through a fleeting opening, then backed rapidly away, scanning for another escape route.
After countless near misses, they finally burst out of the inner chaos into an outer ring—now also filled with whales surging toward the center. Their narrow escape cost Queequeg his hat, snatched away by the wind from a whale’s sudden tail flick beside the bow.
The total chaos slowly shifted into a unified, desperate retreat. The entire herd clustered into one massive group and fled forward at top speed.
Further chasing was useless. The boats lingered behind to capture any whales crippled by druggs, and to secure one whale Flask had killed and marked with a waif—a tall pole with a flag, stuck into a dead whale’s body to claim ownership and mark its position on the open sea.
The day’s hunt proved the old whaler’s saying true: the more whales you find, the fewer you catch. Out of the dozens of drugged and crippled whales, only one was successfully captured. The rest escaped for the time being—only to be hunted and caught later by other ships, not the Pequod.