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Sea wolf
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
months
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
!
"
