Slowly wading through the meadows of Bight, the Pequod continued its northeastern journey toward the island of Java. A gentle breeze pushed her keel, causing her three tall, tapering masts to gently sway, like three mild palms on a plain. Occasionally, at wide intervals in the silvery night, a solitary, alluring jet would be seen.

One transparent blue morning, when an almost preternaturally still silence spread over the sea—though not without a subtle, shimmering calm—the long, burnished sun glinting on the waters seemed to lay a golden finger across them, enjoining some secrecy. The waves whispered softly as they ran, and in this profound hush, Daggoo, from the main-mast head, saw a strange specter.

In the distance, a great white mass lazily rose, growing higher and higher until it disentangled itself from the azure sky, gleaming before the ship like a snow-slide freshly slid from the hills. Glistening for a moment, it slowly subsided and sank, then rose again, silently gleaming. It seemed not a whale, and yet, could it be Moby Dick? thought Daggoo. The phantom went down again, but re-appeared, and with a stiletto-like cry that startled every man, Daggoo yelled out, "There! There again! There she breaches! Right ahead! The White Whale, the White Whale!"

On this, the seamen rushed to the yard-arms, as bees swarm to the boughs. Bare-headed in the sultry sun, Ahab stood on the bowsprit, one hand pushed far behind in readiness to wave orders to the helmsman. Casting his eager glance in the direction indicated by Daggoo's outstretched and motionless arm, Ahab waited for the next sign of Moby Dick.
