El Lobo Solitario

1VERBO SUSTA



el lobo solitario que estaba en la montaña

The Sea Wolf
CHAPTER I
I scarcely know where to begin, though I sometimesfacetiously place the cause of it all
to Charley Furuseth's credit. He kept a summer cottage in Mill Valley, under the
shadow of Mount Tamalpais, and neveroccupied it except when he loafed through the
winter mouths and read Nietzsche and Schopenhauer to rest his brain. When summer
came on, he elected to sweat out ahot and dusty existence in the city and to toil
incessantly. Had it not been my custom to run up to see him every Saturday afternoon
and to stop overtill Monday morning, this particular January Monday morning would
not have found me afloat on San Francisco Bay.
Not but that I was afloat in a safe craft,for the Martinez was a new ferry-steamer,
making her fourth or fifth trip on the run between Sausalito and San Francisco. The
danger lay in the heavy fogwhich blanketed the bay, and of which, as a landsman, I had
little apprehension. In fact, I remember the placid exaltation with which I took up my
positionon the forward upper deck, directly beneath the pilot-house, and allowed the
mystery of the fog to lay hold of my imagination. A fresh breeze was blowing,and for
a time I was alone in the moist obscurity - yet not alone, for I was dimly conscious of
the presence of the pilot, and of what I took to be thecaptain, in the glass house above
my head.
I remember thinking how comfortable it was, this division of labour which made it
unnecessary for me to study