I don’t know how to explain my love of history without inevitably returning to the fact that history is so human. Our history will always be human. I’m transcribing a virtually untouched whaling logbook from just about 200 years ago knowing well that the man who wrote it is long dead, but somehow even from just his run-on-sentence-length entries for every day of his voyage it is impossible not to think about how human he was, too.
Sometimes his straightedge wasn’t level because he was human. He spelled the name of another ship wrong based on the way he heard it because he was human. He wrote about getting dinner right after writing about killing a whale because he was human, and he had a favorite way of ending his entries because he was human.
It’s just so strange and wonderful to think about how even two centuries apart I find things to adore about this unknown, unassuming man I never shared the planet with. I don’t know anything about this whaleman besides what he writes in his logbook. I don’t even really know his name. But though his name may be lost to history, at the very least I know he is not, because I know that on December 21st of 1825 he thought it was important to tell me that the water was very blue.

















