People grease carriage axles to let them roll smooth and fast.
Whalers do nearly the exact same thing for their small fishing boats. They coat the entire bottom with grease.
There’s no harm in the practice, and it definitely helps.
Oil repels water and creates a slippery surface, letting the boat glide across the waves with far less resistance.
Queequeg swore by this old whaler’s trick.
Shortly after the German ship Jungfrau vanished at sea, he spent extra time tending to his boat one quiet morning.
He crawled underneath the hull where the boat hung over the ship’s side.
He rubbed grease deep into every crack and seam, working so hard you’d think he was trying to grow hair on the bare, smooth keel.
It looked like he was obeying a strong gut feeling, a premonition he couldn’t ignore.
And as it turned out, his instinct was absolutely right.
Around midday, the crew spotted a pod of whales.
But the moment the ship sailed toward them, the whales spun around and fled.
They scattered in a frantic, messy rush, just like Cleopatra’s fleeing ships at the Battle of Actium.
Still, the whaling boats gave chase, with Stubb’s boat racing out in the lead.
After pushing their arms and backs to the limit, Tashtego finally drove a harpoon iron deep into one whale’s flesh.
Instead of diving down to escape, the wounded whale kept speeding flat across the water, moving even faster than before.
The constant, violent tugging on the stuck harpoon would yank it loose sooner or later.
They had two choices: strike the fleeing whale with a lance, or let it get away for good.
But the whale was swimming so fast and furiously that pulling the boat up alongside it was impossible.
They were stuck with only one desperate option.
Veteran whalers know all kinds of clever tricks, quick hand moves, and subtle tactics to hunt fast-running whales.
None of those skills compare to the advanced lance technique known as pitchpoling.
No sword or blade fighting skill comes close to its precision and daring.
This move is only used for whales that refuse to stop running.
Its greatest feat is landing an accurate lance strike from a wildly rocking, speeding boat, across a huge stretch of open water.
The full pitchpole spear is ten to twelve feet long, combining steel and wood.
Its pine wooden shaft is thinner and lighter than a harpoon’s.
A long thin rope called a warp is tied to the spear, so the hunter can pull it back after every throw.
It’s worth noting that you can pitchpole a harpoon too, but almost no one does it.
Harpoons are heavier and shorter than lances, making them far less accurate and reliable for long-distance throws.
For that reason, sailors always harpoon and lock onto a whale first before attempting pitchpoling.
Now watch Stubb.
He’s the perfect man for this risky move. Calm, steady, and always cool under extreme pressure, he thrives in chaos.
He stands tall in the bouncing bow of their speeding boat.
The wounded whale drags them forward, forty feet ahead through thick white foam.
Stubb holds the long lance lightly.
He glances down its length two or three times to make sure it’s perfectly straight.
Whistling casually, he coils the warp rope neatly in one hand, securing the loose end so the rest can flow free mid-throw.
He holds the lance steady in front of his waist, aiming straight for the fleeing whale.
Once locked on target, he presses down gently on the spear’s rear end.
The front tip lifts high, balancing perfectly on his palm, fifteen feet up in the air.
For a split second, he looks like a street performer balancing a long staff on his hand.
Then, in one fluid, powerful motion, the steel tip arcs high across the foaming water.
It flies true and buries itself directly in the whale’s vital spot.
The whale’s spout no longer sprays clear seawater. It bursts with bright red blood.
“We knocked the plug right out of him!” Stubb shouted triumphantly.
“This is like the Fourth of July! Every fountain’s pouring wine today!”
“I wish this was good old Orleans whiskey, or Ohio liquor, or that strong Monongahela brew!”
“Tashtego, boy, grab a cup! We’ll catch this spray and drink a round!”
“Hearts alive, we’d mix the finest punch right in that spout hole! Drink straight from this living punch bowl!”
He keeps up his playful, rowdy chatter as he hurls the lance again and again.
Each time, the spear flies out and snaps back to his hand, obedient as a well-trained hound on a leash.
The dying whale thrashes wildly in agony.
The tow rope goes slack.
Stubb leans back, drops his pitching pole, folds his arms, and watches silently as the great monster takes its last breath.