Ishmael

October. It marks the beginning of a significant declivity in seasons. From here on, it’s downhill for the year. I don’t suffer from extreme depression like some. Nor do I become ghoulish as the days decline in length. But, still, certain feelings of loss overtake me, and I find myself longing for a nice cruise in Caribbean waters. I dream of leaving a fog-shrouded New England coast late in the evening and waking up sailing in the Gulf Stream. 

 I find then find myself thinking about these words from Dana’s Moby Dick:

“Call me Ishmael. Some years ago – never mind how long precisely – having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation …- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.