Call me Washmael. Some weeks ago – never mind how long precisely – having little or no ETH in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me IRL, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the ERC-20 token circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly Wednesday in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every Wassie’s funeral I meet; and especially whenever my typos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically rugging people – then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for having a gf. With a philosophical flourish Smolting throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all Wassies in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.