GRUNION: What's up, Z? Came over for a swimeroo in your big water thing.
Z: Call me Ishmael, Starbuck.
Z: At last the anchor was up, the sails were set, and off we glided. It was a sharp, cold Christmas; and as the short northern day merged into night, we found ourselves almost broad upon the wintry ocean, whose freezing spray cased us in ice, as in polished armor.
Z: They think me mad--Starbuck does; but I'm demoniac, I am madness maddened! That wild madness that's only calm to comprehend itself!
GRUNION: Maybe you've had too much sun, dude. You better sit down in the shade.
GRUNION: I'm gonna jump in the water!
Z: However baby man may brag of his science and skill, and however much, in a flattering future, that science and skill may augment; yet for ever and for ever, to the crack of doom, the sea will insult and murder him, and pulverize the stateliest, stiffest frigate he can make; nevertheless, by the continual repetition of these very impressions, man has lost that sense of the full awfulness of the sea which aboriginally belongs to it.
GRUNION: Man, you are spoutin some heavy stuff.
Z: There she blows!--there she blows! A hump like a snow-hill! It is Moby Dick!
Z: From hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee!
GRUNION: Okay. I'm outta here.
Z: What? You don't like Melville?