Post by Grubb.
Saturday morning it was raining when we hit New Bedford. At one time, this Massachusetts shipping town was the center of the American whaling industry. Now it just sticks with fish. Downtown by the docks the cobblestone streets were slippery, the weathered brick buildings damp and dripping, giving the area a 19th century feel lest we forget the heroics of practically exterminating the world’s largest mammal.
This dubious chapter of our seafaring history is on display at the New Bedford Whaling Museum. Before we toured the exhibits, we saw a short 3-D film touting the return of the blue whale. I suppose this was meant to make us feel better about the carnage documented throughout the museum.
Melville has given us the classic narrative; viewing the slaughter house tools and witchy cauldrons used to melt the oil out of the whale fat make it easier to understand the raving madness of Ahab. Whaling wasn’t just about the fortune to be made providing oil for lamps, it was about the obsession behind hunting the largest sea creature on earth. The photos of the harpooning sailors in the museum depict proud men. The photos of the whale-hunting natives from the Azores and Cape Verde show exultant men. Life on these islands was a harsh existence. Whaling was their ticket to New Bedford where survival wasn’t so rigorous. So whale-hunting wasn’t only heroic, it was an escape. Roaming through the museum checking out the sleek whale-chasing boats, tracing the epic voyages around the world, inspecting the finely detailed scrimshaws made from whale teeth, I started to feel the mania. “Thar she blows! Toss me that harpoon! Let’s get ready to bathe in blubber.” Where were the “Kill the whales” bumper stickers? I’m thinking down in Florida outside a Confederate flag-flying filling station in a red bin selling Trump paraphernalia. Luckily I was in Yankee country.
Don’t forget the whale bones used in corsets. I’m sure that was big business.
We looked whale-ware, but nothing was on display.