And God created whales—so says the Book of Genesis. Warmblooded and gigantic, these monsters of the sea have always fascinated and terrified mankind. With one flip of his mighty flukes this tremendous seagoing mammal can toss a little boat high into the air, crushing it to splinters and sometimes drowning half its crew. No wonder writers down the centuries have regarded the whale with deepest awe. Henry Beetle Hough, who comes of old whaling stock, writes to well about this dangerous and exciting profession that he need bow to no one save, perhaps, Herman Melville, author of the acknowledged classic, Moby Dick.
Sterling North, General Editor
In my boyhood the docks of New Bedford smelled of whale oil and the sea, not to mention tar, cordage, and things not known. Oil casks by the hundred lay with a seaweed cover to protect them from the sun.
The whaleships, so stout of timber and bluff of bow, with their tryworks midship and their oddly poised davits, were like no other craft of the sea. Nor were the whalemen like any other breed. Such veterans with lean faces, faraway eyes and strange words had many stories to tell, such as those you will find in this book. Even the most taciturn of them let fall hints, offhand recollections, and figures of speech that would fill out the imagination like the sails of a ship and go coursing through the mind. I know it was the whalemen themselves who embodied the mystery and fascination of their great enterprise. Their view was world-wide.
I have letters written to my grandfather with only the name of his ship and "Indian Ocean" for an address; he must have received them, for he brought them home. He was a whaling captain who spent more than thirty years at sea.
This is the background from which I write, with the sound of the surf in my ears and the tides of the sea in my veins.
Henry Beetle Hough
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