As children, as friends, Ahab and I grew up 

On the weather side of Nantucket,

Frequenting the wharves and churches

Of whalery. That our paths led to the sea

Was determined by our heritage, by our locale,

By our inclinations, by hard-bitten necessity.

Ahab's captaincy was hard won, familial

Influence marginal. He worked his way

From before the mast to the quarterdeck 

In slow and difficult steps. Once there

He stood proudly, and what was to befall him

Was not even a moonraker on the horizon. 

He married and sired, as did I, but I

Gave up the sea, took to crops, fool that I am.

When I heard of Moby Dick, and the wraith

And wreck that had become Ahab, I mourned,

Mourned for a lost friend, for he was gone.

His obsession is well documented, no need

To repeat what is known, there is only this to say—

He was loved. He was loved as a husband,

As a father, as a friend, if not as a captain.

That spermaceti and rendered oil brought his death,

And the death of the crew, all but one, that bid his will,

Seems unfair trade. Yet, there was nothing

Unique in his death, only his passion in seeking it.