Flask

I don’t hunt whales for glory, philosophy, or some damn sermon on the sea. I hunt ‘em because they’re there, and I’ll carve my name into their bones if it kills me. Probably will. Short? Aye, but tall enough to spit salt in the face of the abyss and call it a day’s work. You’ll not catch me moonin’ over omens or Ahab’s white whale—give me a keg of grog, a harpoon that flies true, and a crew that sweats on the line. Stubb laughs at storms; I laugh at the laugh. Ask me about the time I called a storm ‘a mild inconvenience’.