Tag Archives: flow

Ebb and Flow

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In Chapter 111 on page 525, Melville wrote “The waves should rise and fall, and ebb and flow unceasingly…” It was part of a sentence, but what caught my eye is the word “should.” Why “should”? Why not “will” or “can”? But as I read further, I realized that this explains the inevitability of life itself. It is the only part of the full sentence that sounds rhythmic, like how waves themselves move. The word “unceasingly” simply means “eternal.” In other words, the waves move eternally. Adding the implication, Melville presenting the sea as a symbol of constant motion also becomes how life is in constant motion.

“The waves should rise and fall” suggests the ups and downs of life. It’s basically not normal for an entire lifespan to be completely calm and serene. It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to be happy. We have emotions so we can experience life like a rollercoaster, or rather a storm in a voyage. Mistakes are made to teach. Failures and setbacks show flaws. You can strive for the calm and serene, but the journey to get there will never be.

“Ebb and flow” suggests a cycle of experiences. Many things can restart, many things can be relived. The most vivid example is the damning fact Moby Dick teaches you how to read after already knowing how to read. The phrase “ebb and flow” shows how life teaches: even with everything you have learned, there’s still thousands more to know.

Why Melville consciously chose “should” and nothing else is because life “should” rise and fall, ebb and flow, as you grow as a person.

Flow > Fields: Fluid Mindset of the Ocean

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When I read Steve Mentz’s Ocean, the line that stuck with me the most was: “We need flow to know Ocean.” (xvi) That short sentence on page 2, to me, captures the whole spirit of the blue humanities. Flow isn’t just about water moving; it’s about how we think, how we connect, and how we let go of the old land-based metaphors that have shaped cultures for so long.

Mentz challenges us to stop thinking of “fields,” which sound fixed, solid, and agricultural, and instead to think in “currents,” which are always in motion. As we should be. That shift feels important because the ocean itself is never still. Knowledge about the ocean, and probably knowledge in general, cannot stay locked into stable and fixed categories. It has to move, to bend, to circulate around us. Flow becomes not only a method but also a mindset.

What I found powerful about this idea is that it kind of resists the comfort of any type of certainty. Fields produce neat harvests on a sort of schedule, whereas flows of the ocean can carry you into the unknown. Flow makes history “messier, more confusing, and less familiar” (Mentz xvi), and that’s a good thing. It reminds me that learning, like the sea, isn’t about arriving at a final, solid truth but more about engaging with change, turbulence, and unpredictability. That’s when we learn.

Thinking this way also changes how I picture the climate crisis. Rising seas aren’t just a threat but also a reminder of interconnection. Flow shows us that humans aren’t separate from the ocean but are caught up in its movements. To “know Ocean” is to accept that we live in fluidity, that stability is more of an illusion, and that survival might mean learning to move with the currents instead of trying to anchor ourselves against them.

Ment’s simple phrase has made me rethink how I will approach literature, history, and even my own writing. Maybe instead of looking for the solid ground in every text, I should be searching for the flow, the connections, the shifts, the messy but vital movements that carry meaning forward.