The story:
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago -- never mind how long precisely -- having nothing particular to interest me, I thought I would geocache about a little and see a part of the world.
I soon arrived in the port of Pisgah upon the Kilburn Sea, looking for a Pisgan geocaching boat on which to ship. One stood out. You may have seen many a quaint craft in your day, for aught I know, but take my word for it, you never saw such a rare old craft as this same old rare Pequod. I looked about the quarter deck for some one having authority, in order to propose myself as a candidate for the voyage. I at length found one who by his aspect seemed to have authority.
There was nothing so particular about the elderly man I saw. He was brown and brawny, like most old geocachers, only there was a fine and almost microscopic net-work of the minutest wrinkles interlacing round his eyes, which must have arisen from his continual geocaching in many hard weathers, and always looking to windward; -- for this causes the muscles 'bout the eyes to become pursed together.
I was soon to learn this was Capt. Bob, ever searching for the white whale of geocaching.
"There he blows!" comes from the crows nest. "Quick, into the boat!" yells Capt. Bob. "Hard to it, boys, he's no more than 600 feet, nay, but 8 feet shy of that, at ten degrees! He's still carrying one harpoon! We'll soon drive another into him! As the boat approaches the great white whale, Capt. Bob himself takes the harpoon. "Moby Dick will be mine! At last, I grapple with thee, I stab at thee!" The harpoon was darted, the stricken whale flew forward; with igniting velocity the line ran 180 feet. Fifty degrees and away he went, stuck fast, at his last.