“Do you think the moon affects the weather that way?”
Kreelman gave me a look of scorn and contempt, and, without answering, walked away.
The night was the wildest we had known, and the morning broke with disheartening prospects. During the rest of the voyage I never saw such an angry sea or knew such a dreadful storm. As noon approached the waves began to go down and the wind to subside. By two o’clock the weather was fair, and the wind had shifted in our favor. Every one was contented except Kreelman. His discontent related only to me; for, as he passed me on the deck, he gave me a withering look. The next day Kreelman was more genial, and I thought I would see if he was approachable. I observed:
“I studied up the Pacific some before leaving home, and I suppose that we are now going to whale it off the coast, and then farther west on the Offshore Ground.”
All he said was, “Water and fresh stuff.”
This was a puzzle. I didn’t want to betray my ignorance, and, while the man had been helpful to me in many ways, I didn’t warm up to him very much when he was in the wrong mood. I determined to find out what he meant, if I could, from another source.
I have said little or nothing about our single Kanaka. He was of the color of his race—not very dark—a good sailor, good-natured, lusty and diligent. He had shipped on his first voyage at Honolulu and had seen something of the world—more particularly of the world of water. Born in a sunny clime, he did not like cold weather, and he had suffered greatly in rounding the Horn. He had picked up considerable knowledge from observation and experience, and he had what people call in common language “horse sense.” In the second dogwatch I went up to him and said:
“Ohoo, I suppose that we are going whaling now.”
“Whale as you go, but I tink cap’n, he go get to drink and eat.”
“What do you mean by that, Ohoo?”