Call me Ishmael. Some years ago, having little or no money in my purse and nothing 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. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth, whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. There is nothing surprising in this. Almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. So I packed a shirt or two into my old carpet bag, tucked it under my arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific.