The Sea Wolf

The Sea Wolf
by Jack London
CHAPTER I

I scarcely know where to begin, though I sometimes facetiously place
the cause of it all to Charley Furuseth's credit. He kept a summer
cottage in Mill Valley, under the shadow of Mount Tamalpais, and
never occupied it except when he loafed through the winter mouths and
read Nietzsche and Schopenhauer to rest his brain. When summer came
on, he elected to sweat out a hot and dusty existence in the city and to
toil incessantly. Had it not been my custom to run up to see him every
Saturday afternoon and to stop over till Monday morning, this
particular January Monday morning would not have found me afloat on
San Francisco Bay.
Not but that I was afloat in a safe craft, for the Martinez was a new
ferry-steamer, making her fourth or fifth trip on the run between
Sausalito and San Francisco. The danger lay in the heavy fog which
blanketed the bay, and of which, as a landsman, I had little
apprehension. In fact, I remember the placid exaltation with which I
took up my position on the forward upper deck, directly beneath the
pilot-house, and allowed the mystery of the fog to lay hold of my
imagination. A fresh breeze was blowing, and for a time I was alone in
the moist obscurity--yet not alone, for I was dimly conscious of the
presence of the pilot, and of what I took to be the captain, in the glass
house above my head.
I remember thinking how comfortable it was, this division of labour
which made it unnecessary for me to study fogs, winds, tides, and
navigation, in order to visit my friend who lived across an arm of the
sea. It was good that men should be specialists, I mused. The peculiar

knowledge of the pilot and captain sufficed for many thousands of
people who knew no more of the sea and navigation than I knew. On
the other hand, instead of having to devote my energy to the learning of
a multitude of things, I concentrated it upon a few particular things,
such as, for instance, the analysis of Poe's place in American
literature--an essay of mine, by the way, in the current Atlantic.
Coming aboard, as I passed through the cabin, I had noticed with
greedy eyes a stout gentleman reading the Atlantic, which was open at
my very essay. And there it was again, the division of labour, the
special knowledge of the pilot and captain which permitted the stout
gentleman to read my special knowledge on Poe while they carried him
safely from Sausalito to San Francisco.
A red-faced man, slamming the cabin door behind him and stumping
out on the deck, interrupted my reflections, though I made a mental
note of the topic for use in a projected essay which I had thought of
calling "The Necessity for Freedom: A Plea for the Artist." The
red-faced man shot a glance up at the pilot-house, gazed around at the
fog, stumped across the deck and back (he evidently had artificial legs),
and stood still by my side, legs wide apart, and with an expression of
keen enjoyment on his face. I was not wrong when I decided that his
days had been spent on the sea.
"It's nasty weather like this here that turns heads grey before their
time," he said, with a nod toward the pilot-house.
"I had not thought there was any particular strain," I answered. "It
seems as simple as A, B, C. They know the direction by compass, the
distance, and the speed. I should not call it anything more than
mathematical certainty."
"Strain!" he snorted. "Simple as A, B, C! Mathematical certainty!"
He seemed to brace himself up and lean backward against the air as he
stared at me. "How about this here tide that's rushin' out through the
Golden Gate?" he demanded, or bellowed, rather. "How fast is she
ebbin'? What's the drift, eh? Listen to that, will you? A bell-buoy, and
we're a-top of it! See 'em alterin' the course!"

From out of the fog came the mournful tolling of a bell, and I could see
the pilot turning the wheel with great rapidity. The bell, which had
seemed straight ahead, was now sounding from the side. Our own
whistle was blowing hoarsely, and from time to time the sound of other
whistles came to us from out of the fog.
"That's a ferry-boat of some sort," the new-comer said, indicating a
whistle off to the right. "And there! D'ye hear that? Blown by mouth.
Some scow schooner, most likely. Better watch out, Mr. Schooner-man.
Ah, I thought so. Now hell's a poppin' for somebody!"
The unseen ferry-boat was blowing blast after blast, and the mouth-
blown horn