Chapter XII

by Jack London

　　Nor have I ever regretted those months of mad devilry I put inwith Nelson. He could sail, even if he did frighten every manthat sailed with him. To steer to miss destruction by an inch oran instant was his joy. To do what everybody else did not dareattempt to do, was his pride. Never to reef down was his mania,and in all the time I spent with him, blow high or low, theReindeer was never reefed. Nor was she ever dry. We strained heropen and sailed her open and sailed her open continually. And weabandoned the Oakland water-front and went wider afield for ouradventures.

　　And all this glorious passage in my life was made possible for meby John Barleycorn. And this is my complaint against JohnBarleycorn. Here I was, thirsting for the wild life of adventure,and the only way for me to win to it was through John Barleycorn'smediation. It was the way of the men who lived the life. Did Iwish to live the life, I must live it the way they did. It was byvirtue of drinking that I gained that partnership and comradeshipwith Nelson. Had I drunk only the beer he paid for, or had Ideclined to drink at all, I should never have been selected by himas a partner. He wanted a partner who would meet him on thesocial side, as well as the work side of life.

　　I abandoned myself to the life, and developed the misconceptionthat the secret of John Barleycorn lay in going on mad drunks,rising through the successive stages that only an ironconstitution could endure to final stupefaction and swinishunconsciousness. I did not like the taste, so I drank for thesole purpose of getting drunk, of getting hopelessly, helplesslydrunk. And I, who had saved and scraped, traded like a Shylockand made junkmen weep; I, who had stood aghast when French Frank,at a single stroke, spent eighty cents for whisky for eight men, Iturned myself loose with a more lavish disregard for money thanany of them.

　　I remember going ashore one night with Nelson. In my pocket wereone hundred and eighty dollars. It was my intention, first, tobuy me some clothes, after that, some drinks. I needed theclothes. All I possessed were on me, and they were as follows: apair of sea-boots that providentially leaked the water out as fastas it ran in, a pair of fifty-cent overalls, a forty-cent cottonshirt, and a sou'wester. I had no hat, so I had to wear thesou'wester, and it will be noted that I have listed neitherunderclothes nor socks. I didn't own any.

　　To reach the stores where clothes could be bought, we had to passa dozen saloons. So I bought me the drinks first. I never got tothe clothing stores. In the morning, broke, poisoned, butcontented, I came back on board, and we set sail. I possessedonly the clothes I had gone ashore in, and not a cent remained ofthe one hundred and eighty dollars. It might well be deemedimpossible, by those who have never tried it, that in twelve hoursa lad can spend all of one hundred and eighty dollars for drinks.I know otherwise.

　　And I had no regrets. I was proud. I had shown them I couldspend with the best of them. Amongst strong men I had provedmyself strong. I had clinched again, as I had often clinched, myright to the title of "Prince." Also, my attitude may beconsidered, in part, as a reaction from my childhood's meagrenessand my childhood's excessive toil. Possibly my inchoate thoughtwas: Better to reign among booze-fighters a prince than to toiltwelve hours a day at a machine for ten cents an hour. There areno purple passages in machine toil. But if the spending of onehundred and eighty dollars in twelve hours isn't a purple passage,then I'd like to know what is.

　　Oh, I skip much of the details of my trafficking with JohnBarleycorn during this period, and shall only mention events thatwill throw light on John Barleycorn's ways. There were threethings that enabled me to pursue this heavy drinking: first, amagnificent constitution far better than the average; second, thehealthy open-air life on the water; and third, the fact that Idrank irregularly. While out on the water, we never carried anydrink along.

　　The world was opening up to me. Already I knew several hundredmiles of the water-ways of it, and of the towns and cities andfishing hamlets on the shores. Came the whisper to range farther.I had not found it yet. There was more behind. But even thismuch of the world was too wide for Nelson. He wearied for hisbeloved Oakland water-front, and when he elected to return to itwe separated in all friendliness.

　　I now made the old town of Benicia, on the Carquinez Straits, myheadquarters. In a cluster of fishermen's arks, moored in thetules on the water-front, dwelt a congenial crowd of drinkers andvagabonds, and I joined them. I had longer spells ashore, betweenfooling with salmon fishing and making raids up and down bay andrivers as a deputy fish patrolman, and I drank more and learnedmore about drinking. I held my own with any one, drink for drink;and often drank more than my share to show the strength of mymanhood. When, on a morning, my unconscious carcass wasdisentangled from the nets on the drying-frames, whither I hadstupidly, blindly crawled the night before; and when the water-front talked it over with many a giggle and laugh and anotherdrink, I was proud indeed. It was an exploit.

　　And when I never drew a sober breath, on one stretch, for threesolid weeks, I was certain I had reached the top. Surely, in thatdirection, one could go no farther. It was time for me to moveon. For always, drunk or sober, at the back of my consciousnesssomething whispered that this carousing and bay-adventuring wasnot all of life. This whisper was my good fortune. I happened tobe so made that I could hear it calling, always calling, out andaway over the world. It was not canniness on my part. It wascuriosity, desire to know, an unrest and a seeking for thingswonderful that I seemed somehow to have glimpsed or guessed. Whatwas this life for, I demanded, if this were all? No; there wassomething more, away and beyond. (And, in relation to my muchlater development as a drinker, this whisper, this promise of thethings at the back of life, must be noted, for it was destined toplay a dire part in my more recent wrestlings with JohnBarleycorn.)

　　But what gave immediacy to my decision to move on was a trick JohnBarleycorn played me--a monstrous, incredible trick that showedabysses of intoxication hitherto undreamed. At one o'clock in themorning, after a prodigious drunk, I was tottering aboard a sloopat the end of the wharf, intending to go to sleep. The tidessweep through Carquinez Straits as in a mill-race, and the fullebb was on when I stumbled overboard. There was nobody on thewharf, nobody on the sloop. I was borne away by the current. Iwas not startled. I thought the misadventure delightful. I was agood swimmer, and in my inflamed condition the contact of thewater with my skin soothed me like cool linen.

　　And then John Barleycorn played me his maniacal trick. Somemaundering fancy of going out with the tide suddenly obsessed me.I had never been morbid. Thoughts of suicide had never entered myhead. And now that they entered, I thought it fine, a splendidculminating, a perfect rounding off of my short but excitingcareer. I, who had never known girl's love, nor woman's love, northe love of children; who had never played in the wide joy-fieldsof art, nor climbed the star-cool heights of philosophy, nor seenwith my eyes more than a pin-point's surface of the gorgeousworld; I decided that this was all, that I had seen all, livedall, been all, that was worth while, and that now was the time tocease. This was the trick of John Barleycorn, laying me by theheels of my imagination and in a drug-dream dragging me to death.

　　Oh, he was convincing. I had really experienced all of life, andit didn't amount to much. The swinish drunkenness in which I hadlived for months (this was accompanied by the sense of degradationand the old feeling of conviction of sin) was the last and best,and I could see for myself what it was worth. There were all thebroken-down old bums and loafers I had bought drinks for. Thatwas what remained of life. Did I want to become like them? Athousand times no; and I wept tears of sweet sadness over myglorious youth going out with the tide. (And who has not seen theweeping drunk, the melancholic drunk? They are to be found in allthe bar-rooms, if they can find no other listener telling theirsorrows to the barkeeper, who is paid to listen.)

　　The water was delicious. It was a man's way to die. JohnBarleycorn changed the tune he played in my drink-maddened brain.Away with tears and regret. It was a hero's death, and by thehero's own hand and will. So I struck up my death-chant and wassinging it lustily, when the gurgle and splash of the current-riffles in my ears reminded me of my more immediate situation.

　　Below the town of Benicia, where the Solano wharf projects, theStraits widen out into what bay-farers call the "Bight of Turner'sShipyard." I was in the shore-tide that swept under the Solanowharf and on into the bight. I knew of old the power of the suckwhich developed when the tide swung around the end of Dead Man'sIsland and drove straight for the wharf. I didn't want to gothrough those piles. It wouldn't be nice, and I might lose anhour in the bight on my way out with the tide.

　　I undressed in the water and struck out with a strong, single-overhand stroke, crossing the current at right-angles. Nor did Icease until, by the wharf lights, I knew I was safe to sweep bythe end. Then I turned over and rested. The stroke had been atelling one, and I was a little time in recovering my breath.

　　I was elated, for I had succeeded in avoiding the suck. I startedto raise my death-chant again--a purely extemporised farrago of adrug-crazed youth. "Don't sing--yet," whispered John Barleycorn."The Solano runs all night. There are railroad men on the wharf.They will hear you, and come out in a boat and rescue you, and youdon't want to be rescued." I certainly didn't. What? Be robbed ofmy hero's death? Never. And I lay on my back in the starlight,watching the familiar wharf-lights go by, red and green and white,and bidding sad sentimental farewell to them, each and all.

　　When I was well clear, in mid-channel, I sang again. Sometimes Iswam a few strokes, but in the main I contented myself withfloating and dreaming long drunken dreams. Before daylight, thechill of the water and the passage of the hours had sobered mesufficiently to make me wonder what portion of the Straits I wasin, and also to wonder if the turn of the tide wouldn't catch meand take me back ere I had drifted out into San Pablo Bay.

　　Next I discovered that I was very weary and very cold, and quitesober, and that I didn't in the least want to be drowned. I couldmake out the Selby Smelter on the Contra Costa shore and the MareIsland lighthouse. I started to swim for the Solano shore, butwas too weak and chilled, and made so little headway, and at thecost of such painful effort, that I gave it up and contentedmyself with floating, now and then giving a stroke to keep mybalance in the tide-rips which were increasing their commotion onthe surface of the water. And I knew fear. I was sober now, andI didn't want to die. I discovered scores of reasons for living.And the more reasons I discovered, the more liable it seemed thatI was going to drown anyway.

　　Daylight, after I had been four hours in the water, found me in aparlous condition in the tide-rips off Mare Island light, wherethe swift ebbs from Vallejo Straits and Carquinez Straits werefighting with each other, and where, at that particular moment,they were fighting the flood tide setting up against them from SanPablo Bay. A stiff breeze had sprung up, and the crisp littlewaves were persistently lapping into my mouth, and I was beginningto swallow salt water. With my swimmer's knowledge, I knew theend was near. And then the boat came--a Greek fisherman runningin for Vallejo; and again I had been saved from John Barleycorn bymy constitution and physical vigour.

　　And, in passing, let me note that this maniacal trick JohnBarleycorn played me is nothing uncommon. An absolute statisticof the per centage of suicides due to John Barleycorn would beappalling. In my case, healthy, normal, young, full of the joy oflife, the suggestion to kill myself was unusual; but it must betaken into account that it came on the heels of a long carouse,when my nerves and brain were fearfully poisoned, and that thedramatic, romantic side of my imagination, drink-maddened tolunacy, was delighted with the suggestion. And yet, the older,more morbid drinkers, more jaded with life and more disillusioned,who kill themselves, do so usually after a long debauch, whentheir nerves and brains are thoroughly poison-soaked.