Dear Diary,
"Call me Ishmael. Some years ago----never mind how long precisely---having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever it is I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off---then, I account it high time to get to the sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings toward the ocean with me."
MOBY DICK or The White Whale, by Herman Melville, CHAPTER 1, Loomings, p. 21
When, DD, will I again set my foot into the sea? Not necessarily as a sailor upon a ship, who aways to a distant port of call. Merely to touch the wet stuff, to wade in the surf till it overwhelms me. Ishmael is correct, DD---'most men in their degree'---long for the sea.
CoCo