Life is a strange, messy mix of joy and trouble. There are weird, quiet moments when a person starts to see the entire universe as one giant, practical joke. You can barely make out the punchline, but you’re pretty sure you’re the only one the joke is targeting.
In this state, nothing bothers you, and nothing feels worth fighting over. You swallow every hardship, every belief, every tough truth—big or small—just like an ostrich with an iron stomach gulps down bullets and flint stones without hesitation.
Small troubles, constant worries, sudden disaster scares, even the threat of death itself all feel like gentle, playful jabs. They’re just lighthearted punches from some invisible, mysterious trickster pulling the strings of the world.
This strange, reckless mood only hits people in their darkest, most desperate hours. It creeps in right when you’re taking life deadly seriously. Things that once felt huge and life-altering suddenly feel like nothing more than a silly part of the universal joke.
No job breeds this relaxed, daring, go-with-anything philosophy quite like whaling. Standing face-to-face with constant mortal danger strips away unnecessary fear. That was the mindset I had now, looking at our entire voyage on the Pequod, and our obsessive hunt for the great White Whale.
I was the last person hauled back onto the ship’s deck. I stood there shaking my soaked jacket to fling off the seawater, then turned to Queequeg.
“Queequeg, my good friend,” I said, “does this kind of near-death disaster happen often out here?”
Soaked to the bone just like me, Queequeg showed barely any emotion. He gestured simply, letting me know this kind of chaos was totally common in whaling life.
I turned next to Stubb. He stood calmly smoking his pipe in the pouring rain, fully buttoned up in his oilskin jacket, completely unfazed by our close call.
“Mr. Stubb,” I asked him, “I’ve always heard you say our first mate Starbuck is far more careful and cautious than any other whaler you’ve ever known. So tell me—charging straight at a speeding whale with full sail up, right in the middle of a foggy storm—does that count as peak whaler caution?”
“Absolutely,” Stubb replied casually. “I’ve chased whales in a full gale off Cape Horn, in a boat that was already leaking like a sieve.”
I then turned to Flask, who stood nearby, and posed the same question to him.
“Mr. Flask, you’re the experienced one here, and I’m still new to all this. Can you tell me—is it an unwritten rule of whaling that oarsmen have to row backward, straight into the jaws of death, straining their bodies to the breaking point?”
“Can’t you put that in simpler terms?” Flask scoffed. “But yeah, that’s the unshakable rule. I’d love to see a crew row forward straight at a whale. Ha! That whale would stare them right back down, mark my words!”
I’d now gotten the exact same take from three unbiased, seasoned sailors. Storms, near capsizes, and floating adrift on the open ocean were just ordinary parts of this brutal lifestyle.
In the most critical, life-or-death moments of a whale chase, your entire life rested in the hands of the man steering the boat. More often than not, that steersman was so hyped up and reckless that his own frantic movements nearly sank the boat anyway.
Our latest disaster happened because Starbuck had pushed straight for the whale, charging headfirst into an oncoming squall. And yet, Starbuck was famous across all whaling crews for being overly careful and prudent.
If the most cautious mate on the sea could land us in mortal danger, no one was safe. On top of that, I was wrapped up in Ahab’s insane, all-consuming vendetta against the White Whale—a hopeless, devilish chase from the start.
Putting all these facts together, I decided I might as well head below deck and write up a rough draft of my last will and testament.
“Queequeg,” I said, turning to my friend, “come with me. You’ll be my lawyer, my executor, and my sole heir.”
It might seem odd that sailors are always drafting and rewriting their wills, but no group of people on earth loves this strange ritual more. This was already the fourth time in my sailing life I’d written out my final wishes.
As soon as I finished the simple ceremony, a huge weight lifted from my chest. I felt completely at peace.
Every day I lived after this near-death scare felt like extra time, a pure bonus—just like Lazarus’s life after being resurrected from the dead. Every week, every month I survived was free, unearned time I had no right to expect.
I’d already cheated death. My end, my burial, all the finality of dying felt locked away safely in my chest. I looked out at the stormy sea with quiet, calm contentment.
I felt like a peaceful ghost with a clear conscience, sitting safely inside the locked bars of a family tomb, untroubled by the chaos raging outside.
Without even realizing it, I rolled up the sleeves of my shirt, ready for whatever came next.
I was prepared to face death and destruction with total calm. Let the worst come—I’d face it head-on, and let the devil take whoever fell behind.