Starbuck saw the giant squid as a dark, ominous sign. But Queequeg saw it very differently.
“You see that squid?” Queequeg said, sharpening his harpoon atop the raised whale boat. “That means a sperm whale is close. Real close.”
The next day was eerily still and sweltering. There was nothing to keep the Pequod’s crew busy, and the flat, empty sea cast a heavy, drowsy spell over every man on board.
This stretch of the Indian Ocean was never a busy whaling ground. Unlike the waters off the Rio de la Plata or the coast of Peru, there were barely any porpoises, dolphins, flying fish, or other lively sea creatures to liven things up.
It was my turn to keep watch at the foremast. I leaned my shoulders against the slack rigging, swaying lazily back and forth in the thick, dreamlike air.
No one could fight the exhaustion. My mind slipped away completely. My soul felt like it had left my body entirely, yet my torso kept swaying on its own—like a pendulum that keeps moving long after the push stops.
Before I fully blacked out, I noticed the lookouts at the main and mizzen masts were already half-asleep.
Soon, all three of us hung limp from the ship’s spars, swinging slowly. Every time we moved, the sleepy helmsman down below nodded drowsily in time with us. The ocean waves nodded too, their lazy crests rolling gently. The entire sea seemed trapped in a trance, east and west blending together under the quiet sun.
Suddenly, I felt bubbles burst right beneath my closed eyes. My hands clamped tight around the rigging, gripping it like a vice. Some invisible force kept me from falling. In an instant, I jolted fully awake.
And there it was.
Less than forty fathoms off the ship’s lee side, a massive sperm whale rolled slowly on the water. Its huge, jet-black back glinted like a polished mirror in the sunlight, looking just like an overturned warship’s hull.
The whale drifted lazily in the ocean swells, blowing thin puffs of mist into the air every now and then. It looked like a plump old townsman casually smoking a pipe on a warm afternoon.
But that quiet pipe would be its last.
As if a magic spell had broken over the whole ship, every sleeping man jolted awake in an instant. Dozens of voices shouted the familiar whale sighting cry, blending with the three sharp signal blasts from the lookouts high above.
“Launch the boats! Turn hard to windward!” Ahab roared.
He didn’t wait for the helmsman to react. He slammed the ship’s rudder over himself, forcing the vessel to swing toward the whale.
Our sudden shouts must have spooked the beast. Before any whale boat could even hit the water, the great whale turned gracefully and swam toward the leeward side.
It moved so calmly, barely stirring the surface of the sea. Ahab figured it hadn’t truly panicked yet.
“No oars. No loud voices,” he ordered. “Only whispers.”
We sat on the edges of the small whale boats, quiet as Native American hunters, paddling silently forward. The air was too still to raise our sails, so we crept ahead slowly, chasing the unknowing giant.
Moments later, the whale lifted its massive tail forty feet straight into the air. Then it vanished beneath the waves, sinking fast like a tall tower disappearing into the sea.
“It’s diving!” someone shouted.
Now we had time to rest. Stubb immediately pulled out a match and lit his pipe, waiting for the whale to resurface.
After the usual long dive interval passed, the whale rose again. This time, it was much closer to Stubb’s boat than any other. Stubb knew he’d get the honor of taking it down.
The whale was definitely aware of us now. There was no more use for quiet caution.
We dropped our silent paddles and grabbed the heavy oars, rowing hard and loud across the water. Stubb kept puffing his pipe, yelling encouragement to his crew as we charged in for the attack.
The whale had completely changed its demeanor. It knew it was being hunted, and it surged forward with its head angled high, churning the sea into a frothy, white chaos behind it.
The giant sperm whale’s head is surprisingly light for its massive size. It’s the most buoyant part of its body, letting it lift easily out of the water. When it swims at full speed, it tilts its head upward, reshaping itself from a slow, bulky barge into a sharp, speedy racing boat, cutting straight through the waves.
“Row hard, men! Don’t rush, but move fast!” Stubb shouted, blowing smoke from his mouth mid-sentence. “Long, strong strokes, Tashtego! Keep steady, keep cool—calm as cucumbers! But row like death itself is on our heels! Move out!”
“Woo-hoo! Wa-hee!” Tashtego screamed back, letting loose an ancient war cry that cut through the quiet air.
His powerful first stroke sent the whole boat lurching forward, every rower jerking ahead with the force of it.
“Kee-hee! Kee-hee!” Daggoo yelled in response, rocking back and forth on his seat like a caged tiger ready to pounce.
“Ka-la! Koo-loo!” Queequeg howled, sounding like a man savoring a rich, hearty meal.
Oars slammed through the waves, and wild shouts filled the air as our boats cut across the sea. Stubb stayed at the front of the chase, still smoking his pipe and urging us onward.
We rowed like desperate men pushing past our limits. Then came the shout we’d been waiting for.
“Stand up, Tashtego! Strike now!”
The harpoon flew through the air and buried itself in the whale’s flesh.
“Back oars! Reverse!”
Every man pulled the oars backward instantly. At the exact same moment, a hot, hissing line burned across every wrist in the boat—the deadly whale line we’d readied so carefully.
Stubb had quickly wrapped two extra loops of the line around the boat’s loggerhead. The rope spun so fast it began pouring out thin blue hemp smoke, mixing with the steady cloud from his pipe.
Right before wrapping the loggerhead, the blazing hot line slid straight through both of Stubb’s bare palms. His protective canvas hand pads had slipped off by accident.
It was like gripping the sharp edge of a double-edged sword, fighting to hold on as an unseen force tried to yank it free.
“Wet the line! Wet it now!” Stubb barked at the sailor sitting beside the rope tub.
The man snatched off his hat and scooped seawater over the smoking rope, cooling it down fast. More loops wrapped tight around the loggerhead, securing the line in place.
The boat shot across the boiling waves like a shark at full speed. Stubb and Tashtego quickly swapped positions in the rocking, chaotic craft—trading the bow and stern mid-chase.
Old Dutch whalers used mops to cool speeding lines. Other ships kept special wooden buckets for the job. But a sailor’s hat was always the fastest, most reliable tool.
The taut whale line stretched the full length of the boat, tighter than a harp string. It felt like our small craft had two keels—one slicing through the water below, the other cutting through the air above.
Water crashed in constant cascades over the bow. A wild swirling vortex churned in our wake. The boat vibrated and creaked violently. The tiniest shift from any man made the whole craft tilt dangerously toward the waves.
We clung tight to our seats, fighting to stay aboard as we raced onward. Tashtego hunched low over the steering oar, bending his body double to keep the boat balanced.
We flew across the ocean, covering vast stretches of water in moments, until the wounded whale finally began to slow its frantic flight.
“Haul in! Pull the line tight!” Stubb ordered the bowsman.
We turned toward the whale, pulling ourselves closer even as the creature still dragged us forward. Soon we pulled up alongside its massive body.
Stubb braced one knee firmly in the boat’s cleat and drove his lance again and again into the fleeing whale’s flesh. On his command, we backed the boat away from the whale’s violent thrashing, then darted forward for another strike.
Bright red blood poured from the whale’s wounds, streaming down its sides like rushing creeks down a hillside. The beast no longer rolled in saltwater—it wallowed in its own blood, which bubbled and churned for miles behind us.
The slanted afternoon sun glinted off the crimson sea, painting every man’s face red. The whale puffed desperate bursts of white mist from its blowhole over and over again.
Stubb was just as relentless. After every stab, he pulled his lance back by its attached rope, sharpened it quickly against the boat’s gunwale, and drove it deep into the whale once more.
“Pull up! Get closer!” Stubb shouted as the whale’s furious struggles began to weaken.
We edged right up to the beast’s flank. Stubb leaned far over the bow and twisted his sharp lance deep inside the whale’s body, working it slowly back and forth.
He moved carefully, as if searching for a hidden treasure inside—though the treasure he sought was the whale’s very life.
He found it.
The whale jolted out of its dull agony and erupted into a violent, final death flurry. It thrashed wildly in its pool of blood, kicking up a blinding storm of churning foam and spray.
We pulled the boat back fast, struggling blindly to escape the chaotic, bloody haze and get back into clear, open water.
Slowly, the whale’s frantic movements died down. It rolled back into full view, surging weakly side to side. Its blowhole squeezed open and shut in sharp, gasping bursts, each breath a painful, strained jerk.
Finally, thick clots of dark red gore burst from its blowhole, spraying into the air like spoiled wine dregs. The blood fell back down, dripping thick and heavy along its still, massive sides and into the sea.
Its heart had burst.
“It’s dead, Mr. Stubb,” Daggoo said quietly.
“Aye. Both our pipes are smoked out for good,” Stubb replied.
He pulled his pipe from his mouth, tapped the dead ashes out over the water, and stood silent for a long moment, staring out at the enormous whale corpse he’d brought down.