The Fishing Season, 1808.

"This is the first of a series of record years, in which the most prodigious slaughter of whales took place" (p. 181).

"The first arrival from the fishery was the Henrietta (Captain Kearsly) on June 12, after an absence of only 85 days, having left the ice on May 22. She was a very full ship with 21 whales on board, the blubber of 7 of them being uncasked."
...

"There was general rejoicing in the fishing ports when ship after ship began to arrive with a bumper cargo and brought excellent reports of the fishing. It was soon seen that the season would prove the best on record.

Not a single ship in the whole fleet had less than 10 whales. The Aurora (Captain Sadler) arrived from Greenland with 38 fish, making 700 butts or 264 tons of oil; whilst the Samuels (Captain Marshall) arrived from Davis Straits on the same day (July 29) with 20 fish, making 278 tons of oil and 10 tons of bone. The Ellison (Captain Holberry) arrived from Greenland on August 12, with 30 fish, 550 butts, and the Walker (Captain Sadler, late of the Molly) arrived from Greenland on August 5 with 27 whales, 530 butts. The Resolution (Captain Scoresby) with 27 fish was the best of the Whitby ships, the William and Ann (Captain Johnston), with 25 fish, coming next.

The Middleton (Captain Johnston) was the best fished of the Newcastle ships with 31. The Dundee of London had 28 fish; the Lively of Berwick, 25; the Hope of Peterhead (Captain Geary), 30 fish; and the Enterprise of Peterhead (Captain Volum), 27 fish.

The Grimsby ships were both full, the Birnie, with 18 whales, being the second ship to arrive from Greenland.

Of the 4 Aberdeen ships, the best fished was the Neptune which came home with 26 fish, one of them in bulk. The Hercules (Captain Gibbon) was also full.

Of the 7 Dundee ships, the Rodney was full, with 12 fish; Horn had 9 and Mary 9. Of the 7 Leith whalers, the best fished was the Thomas and Ann (Captain Newton), full up with 18 whales. The North Star had the misfortune to be burnt on the passage out on March 30. The Lion of Liverpool had 19 fish, boiling 130 tons. The Lady Jane of Newcastle brought home the crew of the British ship Adventure, which after discharging a cargo at one of the Danish Greenland Settlements, was lost on the passage home.

When entering port, whalers emptied their guns by discharging them. On August 7, whilst the Isabella was carrying out this operation, one of her crew had his arm blown off.

During the summer, in spite of the large cargoes brought in, whale oil was fetching from £26 to £27 a ton, but before the winter, owing chiefly to the great continental demand caused by the war and the lack of European whalers, the price had risen £10."
(pp. 182-183)

from The Arctic Whalers by Basil Lubbock

Exterminating the Greenland Whale

The Greenland ships were still killing immature fish; whilst 193 whales killed by 19 Davis Straits ships produced 2803 tons of oil and 117 tons of bone, the 281 whales killed by 19 Greenland ships only produced 2235 tons of oil and 62 tons of bone. Again we have the Aurora (Captain "But" Sadler) killing 26 whales, boiling out 244 tons of oil and 9 tons of bone, as against the Samuels', whose 15 whales boiled out 247 tons of oil and 81/2 tons of bone.

These figures give one a hint of the way in which the Greenland whale, though still very prolific, was rapidly being exterminated.

(p. 169)


A Hull advertisement which provides further evidence of the wholesale killing of immature fish runs as follows:

FOR SALE BY PRIVATE CONTRACT.

Whale Oil Ready for Delivery.

About 50 tons of whale oil of superior quality being part of the produce of 22 fish under 7 feet 6 inches bone.

(Signed) CHRIS BRIGGS

Hull, July, 1805. 

 (p. 170)

(From The Arctic Whalers by Basil Lubbock)

Heaven isn't for introverts

The platitudes delivered to others in the throes of death, old age, or after loss is that one's friends, loved ones,  and pets will be there with them on the other side.

Rubbish.

First, this demand to never let go of those we love, to never accept their disappearance from one's life and from this earth is a selfish impulse. To address that with a platitude that heaven is a big happy house where they will all be and that while those who mourn their passing and can never let go can rest assured that their lost loves are in good hands.

Rubbish.

They're dead. Gone. Forever dust. The thing that was them, while unique and specific to their circumstances, is one of countless billions that came before who were also unique and specific to their circumstances.

Second, to those who really don't need people around all the time. Heaven sounds like hell. To mangle some Sartre: 'hell is other people.' Why would an introvert want to go to heaven if the balance of narratives one is told about it makes it sounds like one big party where everyone is laughing, smiling, and getting on. In short, it's the same social din that confuses and frustrates the introvert.

I don't want to go to hell, if it is as Sartre describes it. And I don't want to go to heaven if it is as the apologists describe it.

They're the same place.

Nope, I'll fend off too much chatter right here in my little quiet and shaded corner of this world until I return to the oblivion from which I came. My heaven, my church is in attaining excellence in dealing with other people fairly and without any pretense about motives or feelings. So if I'm not having a good time, I'll do my best to politely bow out of a situation. And if they're not having a good time, I'll do what I can within my power to address it by either attempting to be more social or, once again, bowing out.

To be caught in some ardor triangle or to have to wade through a crowd of friends to reach out to someone is not my idea of a good time. Mine is a one on one experience, and my god, those are few and far between in this world if only by virtue of the published lives so many of us live.

I don't want to be conveniently located at the swipe of a finger. I don't want to be constantly on and swiping through others' telepresent self-publications in cookie cutter device applications. I just want some peace and quiet. So please, don't invite me to your big party in heaven or your big party on earth. Don't guilt me into any number of silly situations that you constructed for your own ego. Please, just understand that not everyone wants to be with others, countless others all the goddamned time. Some of us cherish being alone, and we're not being arrogant or selfish or cranky when we refuse to join you or leave early, at least not intentionally so.

Geometry of Murder

Leonora grimaced, as if swallowing some poisonous phlegm. "Major Parker, tell him to--" She glanced at the dark cloud boiling over the mesa like the effluvium of some black-hearted volcano. ''Wait! Let's see what the little cripple can do!" She turned on Manuel with an overbright smile. "Go on, then. Let's see you sculpt a whillwind."

In her face the diagram of bones formed a geometry of murder.

from the short story "The Cloud Sculptors of Coral D" in the book 'Vermilion Sands' by J. G. Ballard

Dream: August 6, 2019

I am in a house. A horse has two long hooks piercing its neck on each side. I am not alone with the horse. Another person, a man perhaps, had set the hooks in the horse in an attempt to kill it. The horse is very much alive and is chasing me from room to room. It isn't charging me or being aggressive, but it appears to not want to run from me or leave me alone. The two hooks don't seem to be stopping it from chasing me and facing me no matter which room I enter. I endeavor to finish the process of killing this horse. I finally grab hold of the two hooks and with the unhooked length hanging from its pierce points I pierce the horse's neck. The effect is gruesome as the skin is deformed by the submerged hooks trying to exit the back of its neck. The horse, at this point isn't resembling so much a horse in its stance, nor are the hooks behaving like two steel hooks that would be stiffly hanging from where they were attached to this horse. Nevertheless, the plunged ends of the hooks I have responsibility for are agonizingly exiting the horse's neck and all focus in my dream is on this. The hooks exit, the spine's outline under the skin is evident, the hooks exit. The dream is over.

Dream: August 4, 2019

I had a dream that my father bought me a guinea pig as a pet. It came in a little cage that came apart in a few pieces. I released him and he scurried around the house, which happened to be the house I grew up in as a kid. After literally less than a minute I decided that I didn't want the guinea pig and proceeded to chase after it to put it back in its package. Several times I grabbed the guinea pig and it would squeal an audibly articulate 'please, no' over and over as I picked it up and put it in the tray of its package and put it back together.

Western culture as bedazzlement with material

The conventional wisdom of our time is that European man has advanced by enormous strides since the age of cathedrals. He has landed on the moon. He has cured smallpox. He has harnessed the power in the atom. Another argument, however, might be made in the opposite direction, that all European man has accomplished in 900 years is a more complicated manipulation of materials, a more astounding display of his grasp of the physical principles of matter. That we are dazzled by mere styles of expression. That ours is not an age of mystics but of singular adepts, of performers. That the erection of the cathedrals was the last wild stride European man made before falling back into the confines of his intellect. (p. 250)

from Arctic Dreams by Barry Lopez