Last night I embarked, at last, on the "Pequod".
It is a journey that I wanted to do, and so, be able to rest of waiting the winter and so much dancing with dragons.
I had previously served, many years ago, under Captain "Wolf" Larsen's command, aboard the "Ghost", and it was a harsh voyage, but this journey seems to me very different: The world and I have changed a lot since then, and I'm afraid not for good. Then I was young, nearly a beardless teenager, tender, chivalrous and moderately idealistic. Now the mirror gives me back a frown, gray hair and dark circles. And all the cynicism that my wife and my daughter let me hold.
I'd like to think that, at least, I am also tougher, but I'm afraid that, under a gray, dry crust, lies a throbbing bunch of fears, old and new, waiting to hatch, like a brood of vipers.
So, as the unnamed protagonist of the novel did before, I've waited for the whaling ship to stop in my particular Nantucket, I've got my knapsack on my shoulder, and I have enrolled in the private hell of Ahab, with the idea of forgetting, if only for a while, of my own.
... call me Ishmael...