The Dart

A word concerning an incident in the last chapter.

A word about an incident in the last chapter.

According to the invariable usage of the fishery, the whale-boat pushes off from the ship, with the headsman or whale-killer as temporary steersman, and the harpooneer or whale-fastener pulling the foremost oar, the one known as the harpooneer-oar. Now it needs a strong, nervous arm to strike the first iron into the fish; for often, in what is called a long dart, the heavy implement has to be flung to the distance of twenty or thirty feet. But however prolonged and exhausting the chase, the harpooneer is expected to pull his oar meanwhile to the uttermost; indeed, he is expected to set an example of superhuman activity to the rest, not only by incredible rowing, but by repeated loud and intrepid exclamations; and what it is to keep shouting at the top of one’s compass, while all the other muscles are strained and half started—what that is none know but those who have tried it. For one, I cannot bawl very heartily and work very recklessly at one and the same time. In this straining, bawling state, then, with his back to the fish, all at once the exhausted harpooneer hears the exciting cry—“Stand up, and give it to him!” He now has to drop and secure his oar, turn round on his centre half way, seize his harpoon from the crotch, and with what little strength may remain, he essays to pitch it somehow into the whale. No wonder, taking the whole fleet of whalemen in a body, that out of fifty fair chances for a dart, not five are successful; no wonder that so many hapless harpooneers are madly cursed and disrated; no wonder that some of them actually burst their blood-vessels in the boat; no wonder that some sperm whalemen are absent four years with four barrels; no wonder that to many ship owners, whaling is but a losing concern; for it is the harpooneer that makes the voyage, and if you take the breath out of his body how can you expect to find it there when most wanted!

By the unvarying custom of the whaling trade, the whale-boat leaves the ship with the headsman, or whale-killer, temporarily steering. The harpooneer, or whale-fastener, pulls the front oar, known as the harpooneer-oar. Now, driving the first harpoon into the whale takes a strong, vigorous arm. In what is called a long dart, the heavy weapon often has to be thrown twenty or thirty feet. But however long and exhausting the chase, the harpooneer is expected to row as hard as he can throughout. Indeed, he is expected to set the others an example of superhuman energy. He must not only row incredibly hard, but also repeatedly shout out loud and fearless cries. Only those who have tried it know what it is to keep shouting at the top of your lungs while every other muscle is strained and nearly pulled from its place. For one, I cannot shout very heartily and work very recklessly at the same time. So, straining and shouting, with his back to the whale, the exhausted harpooneer suddenly hears the thrilling cry: “Stand up, and give it to him!” He must now drop and secure his oar, turn halfway around, and seize his harpoon from its forked rest. Then, with what little strength he has left, he tries somehow to throw it into the whale. No wonder that, across the whole whaling fleet, fewer than five out of fifty good chances to throw a harpoon succeed. No wonder so many unfortunate harpooneers are cursed furiously and demoted. No wonder some of them actually burst their blood vessels in the boat. No wonder some sperm whalers are away for four years and return with only four barrels of oil. No wonder whaling is a losing business for many shipowners. For the harpooneer makes the voyage a success, and if you take the breath out of his body, how can you expect him to have it when he needs it most!

Again, if the dart be successful, then at the second critical instant, that is, when the whale starts to run, the boatheader and harpooneer likewise start to running fore and aft, to the imminent jeopardy of themselves and every one else. It is then they change places; and the headsman, the chief officer of the little craft, takes his proper station in the bows of the boat.

Again, if the harpoon strike succeeds, the second critical moment comes when the whale starts to run. The boatheader and harpooneer then run toward opposite ends of the boat, putting themselves and everyone else in immediate danger. They switch places, and the headsman, the boat’s chief officer, takes his proper position at the bow.

Now, I care not who maintains the contrary, but all this is both foolish and unnecessary. The headsman should stay in the bows from first to last; he should both dart the harpoon and the lance, and no rowing whatever should be expected of him, except under circumstances obvious to any fisherman. I know that this would sometimes involve a slight loss of speed in the chase; but long experience in various whalemen of more than one nation has convinced me that in the vast majority of failures in the fishery, it has not by any means been so much the speed of the whale as the before described exhaustion of the harpooneer that has caused them.

Now, I don't care who disagrees, but all of this is foolish and unnecessary. The headsman should stay in the bow from beginning to end. He should throw both the harpoon and the lance. He should not be expected to row at all, except in circumstances obvious to any fisherman. I know that this would sometimes slow the chase a little. But my long experience aboard whaling ships of more than one nation has convinced me of something. In the vast majority of failed hunts, the whale's speed was far less to blame than the harpooner's exhaustion, as described above.

To insure the greatest efficiency in the dart, the harpooneers of this world must start to their feet from out of idleness, and not from out of toil.

To throw the harpoon most effectively, harpooners everywhere must spring to their feet from rest, not from hard work.