Maximum-assistance view: every word above everyday vocabulary is explained at every appearance; each name is introduced at its first appearance in the chapter.

CHAPTER 1. Loomings (shapes coming dimly into sight, the way a far-off thing first shows itself).

Call me Ishmael (Ishmael, the sailor who tells this story). Some years ago—never mind how long precisely (This is told long after it happened, by the man it happened to, and he will not say how long ago. Everything you read from here is his own voice and his own view of things.)—having little or no money in my purse (in the small bag men carried coins in), and nothing particular (special) to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail (travel by ship) about a little and see the watery part of the world (the parts of the world that are covered by sea). It is a way I have of driving off (getting rid of) the spleen (a low, angry gloom. Old medicine placed such feelings in an organ of the body with that name.) and regulating the circulation (getting my blood moving properly again). Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth (starting to set my lips hard and look sour); whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul (when I feel sad and heavy inside, the way a cold wet month feels); whenever I find myself involuntarily (without meaning to) pausing before coffin warehouses (shops where the boxes for the dead were made and stored), and bringing up the rear (walking at the back) of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos (my low, hopeless mood, a short word of that day for feeling deeply depressed) get such an upper hand of me (take such control of me), that it requires a strong moral principle (sense of right and wrong) to prevent me from deliberately (on purpose) stepping into the street, and methodically (in a careful, orderly way) knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time (I decide it is well past time) to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball (a gun and its lead shot, meaning killing himself). With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword (Cato was a Roman who ended his own life on his own blade rather than live under a ruler he hated, and made a fine show of doing it); I quietly take to (go aboard) the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it (If only they knew it), almost all men in their degree (each in his own way), some time or other (at some point in their lives), cherish very nearly the same feelings (feel almost exactly the same) towards the ocean with me (towards the sea as I do).

There now is your insular (sitting on an island) city of the Manhattoes (Manhattan, the island New York City stands on), belted round by wharves (with a ring of landing places for ships around it) as Indian isles by coral reefs (the way islands in the eastern seas are ringed by walls of stony sea growth)—commerce surrounds it with her surf (trade breaks against it the way waves break on a shore). Right and left, the streets take you waterward (towards the water). Its extreme downtown is the battery (the Battery, the open ground at the southern tip of that island), where that noble mole (the great stone wall built out into the water) is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land (far enough out that no land could be seen). Look at the crowds of water-gazers (people standing and staring at the water) there.

Circumambulate (Walk all the way round) the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon (on a half-asleep Sunday afternoon, the Christian day of rest). Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip (two points on the New York waterfront, one on the east side, one at the south), and from thence (from there), by Whitehall (past Whitehall, a street at the southern end of the city), northward (towards the north). What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels (standing still like guards on duty) all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men (men who will one day die) fixed in ocean reveries (waking dreams). Some leaning against the spiles (the wooden posts driven into the river bed); some seated upon the pier-heads (the far ends of the landing platforms); some looking over the bulwarks (the raised sides of a ship's deck) of ships from China (ships from China, on the far side of the world from New York); some high aloft in the rigging (far up among the ropes that hold the sails), as if striving (trying hard) to get a still better seaward peep (quick look out to sea). But these are all landsmen (people who live and work on land); of week days (on working days) pent up (kept inside all day with no way out) in lath and plaster (walls of thin wood strips covered over with a smooth grey coat)—tied to counters (held at shop counters all day), nailed to benches (stuck at work benches from morning to night), clinched to desks (fixed to office desks as if with nails). How then is this? (So why is this?) Are the green fields gone? What do they here? (What are they doing here?)

But look! here come more crowds, pacing (walking with steady steps) straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive (looking as if they mean to jump in). Strange! Nothing will content them but (Nothing satisfies them except) the extremest (furthest out) limit of the land; loitering (standing about with nothing to do) under the shady lee (the cool dark side, out of the wind) of yonder (over there) warehouses (big buildings where goods were kept) will not suffice (is not enough). No. They must get just as nigh (near) the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand—miles of them—leagues (a league is about three miles). Inlanders (people who live far from the sea) all, they come from lanes and alleys (narrow passages between buildings), streets and avenues—north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite (come together). Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles (the pulling power in compass needles, spoken of then as a hidden force in the metal itself) of the compasses (the instruments whose needles point north for a ship) of all those ships attract them thither (to that place)?

Once more (Here is another example). Say you are (Suppose you are) in the country; in some high land of lakes (hill country with lakes in it). Take almost any path you please (Take almost any path you like), and ten to one (almost certainly) it carries you down in a dale (a valley), and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded (with his thoughts far away) of men be plunged in his deepest reveries (sunk deep in his own waking dreams)—stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going (start him walking), and he will infallibly (for certain) lead you to water, if water there be (if there is any water) in all that region. Should you ever be athirst (thirsty) in the great American desert (the dry plains in the middle of America), try this experiment, if your caravan (your party of travellers crossing together) happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor (a teacher of deep questions about the world). Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever (Here is the point the crowds on the docks and the country walk were building to: thinking and water belong together, and always will.).

But here is an artist. He desires to paint you (to paint for you) the dreamiest (most like something out of sleep), shadiest (with the most shade), quietest, most enchanting (lovely enough to hold you) bit of romantic landscape (wild, beautiful country of the kind painters like) in all the valley of the Saco (the valley of the Saco, a river in the north-east of America). What is the chief element (the main thing) he employs (uses)? There stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk (a tree stem empty inside), as if a hermit and a crucifix (a man living alone for religion, and a cross with the figure of Christ on it) were within (were inside the trunk); and here sleeps his meadow (the grass field lies still, as if asleep), and there sleep his cattle; and up from yonder (over there) cottage (a small country house) goes a sleepy smoke (smoke drifts up slowly from its chimney). Deep into distant woodlands (land covered with trees) winds a mazy way (a twisting path runs far into the woods), reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains (ridges running down from the mountains, one behind another) bathed in their hill-side blue (covered in the blue colour hills seem to have when they are far away). But though the picture lies thus tranced (lies as still as if under a spell), and though this pine-tree (a tall tree with needles instead of leaves) shakes down its sighs like leaves (drops its soft sounds the way it drops leaves) upon this shepherd’s (belonging to the man who keeps sheep) head, yet all were vain (it would all be for nothing), unless the shepherd’s (that same man's) eye were fixed upon (eye were looking steadily at) the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies (the wide grass plains of central America) in June, when for scores on scores of miles (many tens of miles, a score being twenty) you wade (walk through something that comes up your legs) knee-deep among Tiger-lilies (tall orange flowers with dark spots)—what is the one charm wanting (the one thing missing that would make it lovely)?—Water—there is not a drop of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand (Niagara is a huge waterfall on the border of America and Canada. If it poured sand instead of water), would you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee (some unnamed poor poet from Tennessee, a state in the south of America), upon suddenly receiving two handfuls (as much as a hand will hold) of silver, deliberate (think hard about) whether to buy him a coat (buy himself a coat), which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian trip (a journey made on foot) to Rockaway Beach (a beach near New York where people went for the sea air)? Why is almost every robust (strong and full of life) healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea (wanting very badly to go to sea)? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration (a strange feeling inside that you could not explain), when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land (so far out that no land could be seen)? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy (the Persians, the people of the old country now called Iran, treated the sea as sacred, something belonging to their gods that must not be fouled or crossed carelessly)? Why did the Greeks (the people of ancient Greece) give it a separate deity (a god of its own), and own brother of Jove (Jove is the Roman name for the greatest of the gods, and the sea had a god of its own, his brother)? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus (Narcissus, in an old Greek story, fell in love with his own face in the water), who because he could not grasp (take hold of) the tormenting (that gave him no peace), mild image (gentle, soft-looking face) he saw in the fountain (pool of spring water), plunged (threw himself down) into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans (We ourselves see that same face in every river and every ocean). It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life (What we see looking back is life itself, ghost-like, something we can never catch and hold); and this is the key to it all (the thing that explains everything).

Now, (So, to be clear) when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes (start seeing things dimly), and begin to be over conscious of my lungs (too aware of my own breathing), I do not mean to have it inferred (want anyone to think) that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go (Because to go) as a passenger you must needs have (you have to have) a purse, and a purse is but a rag (a money bag is only a scrap of cloth) unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick—grow quarrelsome (ready to argue)—don’t sleep of nights (do not sleep at night)—do not enjoy themselves much, as a general thing (usually);—no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt (a bit of an old sailor), do I ever go to sea as a Commodore (an officer above a captain, set over several ships), or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction (the pride and the respect of others) of such offices (such jobs in charge of a ship) to those who like them. For my part (As for me), I abominate (I hate) all honorable (deserving respect) respectable toils, trials, and tribulations (hard work, tests and troubles) of every kind whatsoever (of any kind at all). It is quite as much as I can do (already all I can manage) to take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners (sailing ships of different sizes, with different numbers of masts and sails), and what not (and so on). And as for (And about) going as cook (taking the cook's job on the ship),—though I confess (admit) there is considerable (quite a lot of) glory in that, a cook being a sort of officer (one of the senior men on a ship, who give the orders) on ship-board (on a ship)—yet (but), somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls (I never liked the thought of roasting birds);—though once broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted (but once it has been cooked over the fire, buttered with good judgment and salted with the same good judgment. The two long words mean much the same thing, and the fun is in using both.) and peppered, there is no one who will speak more respectfully (politely), not to say (or even) reverentially (with deep respect), of a broiled fowl (a bird cooked over the fire) than I will. It is out of (It is because of) the idolatrous dotings (loving them so much they treated them as gods) of the old Egyptians (the people of ancient Egypt) upon broiled ibis (a long-legged wading bird, cooked over a fire) and roasted river horse (the great fat animal of African rivers, cooked in an oven), that you see the mummies (bodies dried and wrapped in cloth so they would keep for ever) of those creatures in their huge bake-houses (buildings holding the great ovens bread was baked in) the pyramids (the huge stone tombs of Egypt).

No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast (as one of the common crew, who lived forward of the masts), plumb down into the forecastle (straight down into the crew's quarters at the front), aloft (high up in the masts) there to the royal mast-head (up to the very top of the highest sail). True (I admit), they rather order me about some (give me a good many orders), and make me jump from spar (a pole that carries a sail) to spar, like a grasshopper (a small green jumping insect) in a May meadow (a field of grass). And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough (quite unpleasant). It touches one’s sense of honor (It hurts a man's pride), particularly if you come of (are born into) an old established family in the land, the Van Rensselaers, or Randolphs (two grand old American family names), or Hardicanutes (a name out of the old line of English kings). And more than all (And worst of all), if just previous to (just before) putting your hand into the tar-pot (the pot of thick black sticky stuff sailors spread over ropes and decks to keep water out), you have been lording it (behaving like the boss over everyone) as a country schoolmaster (a village teacher), making the tallest boys stand in awe of you (be afraid of you and think you great). The transition (change from one thing to another) is a keen one (one that hits you hard), I assure (promise) you, from a schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and the Stoics (Seneca and the Stoics were Roman teachers who said a man should bear pain without complaint. The word here means a strong drink boiled out of herbs.) to enable you to grin and bear it (take it without complaining). But even this wears off (gets less and less until it is gone) in time (after a while).

What of it (What does it matter), if some old hunks of a sea-captain (some bad-tempered old sea captain) orders me to get a broom (a brush on a long handle for sweeping) and sweep down the decks (brush the floors of the ship clean)? What does that indignity (insult to a person's worth) amount to (count for), weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament (measured against what the Christian gospels teach)? Do you think the archangel Gabriel (Gabriel, the chief messenger angel of the Bible) thinks anything the less of me (has a lower opinion of me), because I promptly (without delay) and respectfully (politely, treating him as my better) obey (do as I am told) that old hunks (that same bad-tempered old man) in that particular (one single) instance? Who ain’t a slave? (A joke that carries the chapter's real claim. Everyone alive is ordered about by somebody, so being ordered about is no shame.) Tell me that. Well, then (So, in that case), however the old sea-captains may order me about (keep telling me what to do)—however they may thump and punch me about (hit and knock me around), I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served (treated) in much the same way—either in a physical or metaphysical point of view (either in the body or in the mind), that is; and so the universal thump (the blow everyone gets) is passed round (is given to each person in turn), and all hands (everyone on board) should rub (press and move a hand over) each other’s shoulder-blades (the flat bones in the upper back), and be content (be satisfied).

Again, (Another reason:) I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me (take care to pay me) for my trouble (for the work I do), whereas (while by contrast) they never pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of (as far as I know). On the contrary (The other way round), passengers themselves must pay. And there is all the difference in the world (an enormous difference) between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction (punishment laid on a person) that the two orchard thieves (Adam and Eve, who took the forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden) entailed upon us (passed down to us). But being paid,—what will compare with it (what can match it)? The urbane activity (The smooth, polite readiness) with which a man receives money is really marvellous (amazing), considering that we so earnestly (seriously) believe money to be the root of all earthly ills (the cause of every trouble on earth, in the words of the Bible), and that on no account (in no case) can a monied man (a rich man) enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition! (how happily we send ourselves to hell. He means the opposite of what he says: people take money gladly while claiming money ruins the soul, and he is making fun of that.)

Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome (good for the body) exercise and pure air of the fore-castle deck (the raised floor at the front of the ship, where the crew lived). For as in this world (Because, just as in this world), head winds (winds blowing straight at the front of a ship) are far more prevalent (common) than winds from astern (winds pushing from behind) (that is, if you never violate (break) the Pythagorean maxim (a rule of the old Greek teacher Pythagoras against eating beans. Beans make gas in the body, so the joke is that the wind here is the kind that comes out of a man himself.)), so for the most part (mostly) the Commodore (the senior officer, ranking above a captain) on the quarter-deck (the raised floor at the back, where the officers walk) gets his atmosphere at second hand (breathes air that has already passed over the sailors in front of him) from the sailors on the forecastle (the crew's quarters at the front of the ship). He thinks he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty (the ordinary people) lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it (hardly guess it). But wherefore (why) it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea (having been out at sea again and again) as a merchant sailor (a sailor on a trading ship), I should now take it into my head (suddenly decide) to go on a whaling voyage; this the invisible police officer (an unseen watchman set to follow a man about) of the Fates (the three goddesses of old Greek stories who fixed how long each life ran), who has the constant (never stopping) surveillance (constant watching) of me, and secretly dogs me (follows me everywhere), and influences me in some unaccountable (that nobody can explain) way—he can better answer than any one else. And, doubtless (no doubt), my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence (the great plan God laid out for everything that happens) that was drawn up (written out) a long time ago. It came in (It was put in) as a sort of brief interlude and solo (a short piece put in between, performed by one person alone) between more extensive performances (longer shows). I take it that (I suppose that) this part of the bill (the printed list of what is to be performed) must have run something like this (was probably printed like this):

“Grand Contested Election (a big vote fought hard between rivals) for the Presidency of the United States (the job of President, the head of the United States). “WHALING VOYAGE (a long trip by ship to hunt whales. For three lines the page looks like a theatre poster listing the acts of a show, and his own trip is one small act between two big ones) BY ONE ISHMAEL (by a man called Ishmael, the narrator himself, named the way you name someone nobody knows). “BLOODY (with many killed and wounded) BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN (Afghanistan, spelled as it was then, where Britain was at war).”

Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers (the people who decide, out of sight, what each person in the play will do), the Fates (those same three goddesses who settle how each life goes), put me down for (entered my name for) this shabby (small and low-grade) part of a whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnificent (grand) parts in high tragedies (serious plays that end in death), and short and easy parts in genteel comedies (polite funny plays about well-off people), and jolly parts in farces (cheerful parts in wild, silly plays)—though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the circumstances (the facts of how it happened), I think I can see a little into the springs and motives (the hidden causes that set me going) which being cunningly (cleverly and slyly) presented to me under various disguises (outfits worn to hide who you are), induced me to set about performing (got me to start playing) the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion (sweet-talking me into the false belief) that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill (a free choice of my own, with nothing pushing me one way or the other) and discriminating judgment (a careful decision about which way was better).

Chief among these motives (reasons for doing a thing) was the overwhelming idea of the great whale himself. Such a portentous (seeming to warn of something terrible) and mysterious monster roused (woke up and set going) all my curiosity. Then the wild and distant seas where he rolled his island bulk (his body as big as an island); the undeliverable, nameless perils (dangers no one can save you from and no one can name) of the whale; these, with all the attending marvels (the wonders that go with it) of a thousand Patagonian (of Patagonia, the far southern end of South America) sights and sounds, helped to sway me to my wish (push me towards what I wanted). With other men, perhaps, such things would not have been inducements (reasons to say yes); but as for me, I am tormented (given no rest) with an everlasting itch for things remote (a hunger that never stops for whatever is far away). I love to sail (travel by ship) forbidden seas, and land on barbarous (wild and strange to us) coasts. Not ignoring what is good (I do notice good things too), I am quick to perceive a horror (quick to see a thing that frightens me), and could still be social with it (live easily alongside it)—would they let me (if the horrors would allow it)—since it is but well (it is only sensible) to be on friendly terms (to be friends) with all the inmates of the place one lodges in (the others living in the house where you have a room).

By reason of these things (Because of all this), then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open (the gates holding back a world of wonders opened wide), and in the wild conceits (the wild imaginings) that swayed me to my purpose (pushed me towards what I meant to do), two and two (in pairs) there floated into my inmost soul (the deepest part of me), endless processions (lines of them without end) of the whale, and, mid most of them all (right in the middle of them all), one grand hooded phantom (a great covered shape, seen only in his mind), like a snow hill in the air (like a hill of snow floating above the sea).