Ahab's Bane

Ahab's Bane began with a beam of driftwood so large I almost walked past it. It lay half-buried in sand, heavy with water, its grain twisted by more seasons than I could guess. When I finally wrestled it free and turned it in my hands, the outline of a great whale was already there.
I spent weeks surrounding that first piece with others-shorter, denser fragments that could carry the sense of bulk without ever feeling clumsy. I stacked and shifted them until the form held both weight and flow: a massive body that still moves with the quiet certainty only something truly at home in the deep can possess.
The surface of Ahab's Bane is a map of its own journey. There are scars from storms, pale bands where the sun did its slow work, and darkened pockets where moisture lingered. I left every one of those marks visible. They mirror the hidden histories carried by the whales that have outlived shipwrecks, harpoons, and entire eras of human attention.
From a distance, the sculpture reads as a single, commanding silhouette. Up close, the layering reveals a sense of calm force rather than aggression. The head inclines just enough to suggest awareness. The arc of the back is broad and confident, anchored by a tail that feels ready to disappear with one powerful sweep.
Installed over a mantel, in a dining room, or in the lobby of a waterfront space, Ahab's Bane becomes an undeniable focal point. It brings with it the scale of the open ocean-the reminder that, beneath every calm surface, giants continue their migrations, indifferent to the small dramas on shore. This piece is my homage to those enduring lives, built from wood that has survived its own long passage through wind, tide, and time.