The calm of the morning reminds me of a scene which I forgot to
describe at the time of its occurrence, but which I remember from
its being the first time that I had heard the near breathing of
whales. It was on the night that we passed between the Falkland
Islands and Staten Land. We had the watch from twelve to four, and
coming upon deck, found the little brig lying perfectly still,
surrounded by a thick fog, and the sea as smooth as though oil had
been poured upon it; yet now and then a long, low swell rolling
under its surface, slightly lifting the vessel, but without breaking
the glassy smoothness of the water. We were surrounded far and near by
shoals of sluggish whales and grampuses, which the fog prevented our
seeing, rising slowly to the surface, or perhaps lying out at
length, heaving out those peculiar lazy, deep, and long-drawn
breathings which give such an impression of supineness and strength.
Some of the watch were asleep, and the others were perfectly still, so
that there was nothing to break the illusion, and I stood leaning over
the bulwarks, listening to the slow breathings of the mighty
creatures- now one breaking the water just alongside, whose black
body I almost fancied that I could see through the fog; and again
another, which I could just hear in the distance- until the low and
regular swell seemed like the heaving of the ocean's mighty bosom to
the sound of its heavy and long-drawn respirations.
Pages:
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55