University of Virginia Library

Relief Pitching

Whale Meat: It's Good For What Ails You

By John M

"CALL ME ISHMAEL."

This might seem rather an unusual request since my given
name is "John" but if I had a nickel for every time I asked
someone to call me "Ishmael" last night, I'd be a rich man
today. It happened sometime after I forsook consciousness for
sleep and found myself on the very unfamiliar decks of a
nineteenth century New England whaler.

The ship was rolling and tumbling and at first I found it
difficult to balance myself. Grabbing the railing for support I
made a quick reconnaissance of my surroundings and found the
ship deserted except for some zombie-like watchmen
patrolling the decks or perched in the rigging. These men paid
no attention to my feeble attempts to communicate with them
and I quickly saw that the situation was hopeless. Gladly
making the decision to step out of the icy night air I walked

down a flight of rickety stairs into what seemed to be the
captain's quarters.

THE CAPTAIN WAS SEATED in a swivel chair behind a
large oaken desk. The only light in the small room was
provided by a dim hurricane lamp suspended from the ceiling.
All I could glean from my first glance at the captain was that
he wore both a black stovepipe hat and a scruffy beard and
bore an amazing resemblance to Bill Gibson, the Cavalier
basketball coach. I was further struck by this similarity when
the captain bade me be seated as he stood up to reveal himself
as a very tall man and spoke only out of the side of his mouth.

"Excuse me, sir," I began, "but I haven't the slightest idea
of my location."

"I thought as much, John," said the Captain. "Thou art as
stupid as thou was first year. A good English major like
yourself should have reckoned thyself easily on board the
whaler Pequod in search of the white whale."

SO DUMBFOUNDED WAS I at the stridency of his tones
that I found myself completely ill at ease in the Captain's
company. While he bent over some charts on his desk, I
surveyed the room further. I noticed only then that it was
painted in hues of orange and blue and that the floor was
littered with dirty tennis shoes and sweat socks. I turned
towards the Captain, drawing his attention with much effort,
and questioned him point-blank as to his identity.

"So thou art finally beginning to catch on, eh?" he
muttered, "It's damn nigh about time that all this Moby Dick
imagery started to sink in. You're a rotten dreamer. Belay this
silly talk, though. I have not the time for your woman's
banter. Perhaps this year, perhaps next, perhaps even the year
after that the white whale will come within range of this ship's
harpoons and I must spend my every waking moment
preparing for that event. For the rest of the voyage you may
have the freedom of the ship. Just don't write anything
uncomplimentary when thou gets ashore.

"WHEN I DRAW THAT WHALE alongside, when I have
the pleasure of sinking the Pequod's harpoons into his thick
hide, then I'll know I've come all the way. See the hundred
dollar bill I've nailed to the mizzenmast, lad? That will go to
the man who leads us to the taking of the ACC title, er I mean
the white whale. I have no more time for ye. Get above decks
and leave me be."

I accepted his invitation with great eagerness and walked
down into steerage where the ship's three harpooners,
Quequeg, Daggoo and Tashtego were sharpening their teeth
with bits of whalebone. I advanced toward them, calling them
by their Indian names of Barry, Wally and Gus. Wally and Gus
chose to pay me no heed whatsoever while Barry left the room
in an impatient hurry. I sat down on a nearby whale's head
while Wally and Gus began to converse.

"Where did Barry say he was going?" asked Wally.

"Down in the hold to work on his coffin," replied Gus.
"You see, he's not going to be able to make this trip with us
again next year."

"ANOTHER WHO WON'T is big McCurdy, the cabin boy."
intoned Wally. "Oh, but we'll miss them. Who can throw a
harpoon like Barry. And, besides that, he also sharpens the
harpoons, winds the ropes, trims the sails, hoists the anchor,
cooks ner and swabs the poopdeck. And McCurdy, wasn't
he a bother when he was around and don't we miss him now.
Say, Gus, who will be the number one harpooneer when Barry
leaves?"

"Not I," said Gus, "We'll find someone of course but he
won't fill Barry's shoes. Perhaps Andrew, the awkward Italian
boy we took on in New York, or Drummond, the soxin's
mate, or even Little Stevie Starbuck, the Captain's right hand
man." With that, both men were startled by a cry of "That she
blows!" from the vicinity of the crow's nest.

"The white whale?" asked Wally.

"Naw," said Gus, "It's just the captain. He's been seeing
that damn white whale ever since we were off the Carolina
coast. It'll be another year at least until we find the son of a
bitch."

"WHEN WE FIND HIM he'll be ours," replied Wally with
Gus nodding his head in solemn agreement. Before I could
voice my accord a strong wave hit the Pequod amidships and
threw me from the doorway.