The Lee Shore

Some chapters back, one Bulkington was spoken of, a tall, newlanded mariner, encountered in New Bedford at the inn.

A few chapters back, I mentioned Bulkington, a tall sailor newly arrived ashore, whom I met at the inn in New Bedford.

When on that shivering winter’s night, the Pequod thrust her vindictive bows into the cold malicious waves, who should I see standing at her helm but Bulkington! I looked with sympathetic awe and fearfulness upon the man, who in mid-winter just landed from a four years’ dangerous voyage, could so unrestingly push off again for still another tempestuous term. The land seemed scorching to his feet. Wonderfullest things are ever the unmentionable; deep memories yield no epitaphs; this six-inch chapter is the stoneless grave of Bulkington. Let me only say that it fared with him as with the storm-tossed ship, that miserably drives along the leeward land. The port would fain give succor; the port is pitiful; in the port is safety, comfort, hearthstone, supper, warm blankets, friends, all that’s kind to our mortalities. But in that gale, the port, the land, is that ship’s direst jeopardy; she must fly all hospitality; one touch of land, though it but graze the keel, would make her shudder through and through. With all her might she crowds all sail off shore; in so doing, fights ’gainst the very winds that fain would blow her homeward; seeks all the lashed sea’s landlessness again; for refuge’s sake forlornly rushing into peril; her only friend her bitterest foe!

On that shivering winter night, the Pequod drove her vengeful bows into the cold, hostile waves. Who should I see standing at her helm but Bulkington! I looked at him with sympathy, awe, and fear. He had just come ashore in midwinter after a dangerous four-year voyage. Yet he could not rest and was setting out again for another stormy stretch at sea. The land seemed to scorch his feet. The most wonderful things can never be spoken of. Deep memories leave no epitaphs. This six-inch chapter is Bulkington’s grave, with no stone to mark it. Let me only say that he was like a storm-tossed ship, driven helplessly toward the shore by the wind. The port would gladly offer help. It is compassionate. In port there is safety, comfort, a fireside, supper, warm blankets, friends, everything kind to our mortal lives. But in that gale, the port and the land are the ship’s greatest danger. She must flee all that welcome. One touch of land, even a scrape against her keel, would make her shudder from end to end. She spreads every sail and strains with all her might to get offshore. In doing so, she fights the very winds that would gladly blow her home. She seeks the open, storm-lashed sea again. To find refuge, she rushes desperately into danger. Her only friend is her bitterest enemy!

Know ye now, Bulkington? Glimpses do ye seem to see of that mortally intolerable truth; that all deep, earnest thinking is but the intrepid effort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea; while the wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her on the treacherous, slavish shore?

Do you understand now, Bulkington? You seem to glimpse a truth too terrible to bear. All deep, earnest thinking is the soul's fearless effort to remain free on the open sea. Meanwhile, the wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to drive the soul onto the treacherous shore of bondage.

But as in landlessness alone resides highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God—so, better is it to perish in that howling infinite, than be ingloriously dashed upon the lee, even if that were safety! For worm-like, then, oh! who would craven crawl to land! Terrors of the terrible! is all this agony so vain? Take heart, take heart, O Bulkington! Bear thee grimly, demigod! Up from the spray of thy ocean-perishing—straight up, leaps thy apotheosis!

But the highest truth exists only where there is no land. It is without shores or limits, like God. So it is better to perish in that howling infinity than to be shamefully dashed against the shore, even if the shore were safe! Who would crawl to land like a cowardly worm? Horrors of horrors! Is all this agony for nothing? Take heart, take heart, O Bulkington! Hold firm, demigod! From the spray as you perish in the ocean, you leap straight up to godhood!