Loomings

That shape in the distance, at the periphery of vision, is the whale. It has been following some time now, sometimes drawing closer, sometimes keeping its distance and eventually it will attack and make smithereens of this boat. What is to be done then? At least learn to swim, or make the boat stronger somehow. As to why the whale follows; an old score perhaps, territorial, a case of mistaken identity; who knows, it does not matter now.

Many of us now regret setting sail, and long for the safety of the shore, the work-a-day lives that we were trying to escape. Some suggest turning back while there is still time enough. Some doubt our ability to reach a haven before the whale attacks, and preach courage, saying it is better to be wrecked out on the seven seas, although our time be short, than to while away long lives in the oblivious warmth of the tavern, telling stories of other brave men who risked it all and lost their lives, envious drunken fools stripped of masculinity. The captain, Ahab, at least seems hell bent of victory or death and spends long hours gazing at the dark mass in the distance, sometimes holding his harpoon, petting it like some dog before it is unleashed.