I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York, to a respectable family. We were not originally from that part of the country; my father was a foreigner from Bremen who had first settled at Hull. He had earned a substantial fortune through trade and, after retiring from business, chose to live in York. It was there he married my mother, whose family name was Robinson. They were an excellent local family, and it was after them that I was named Robinson Kreutznaer. However, due to the typical corruption of words in England, we are now called—and indeed call ourselves and write our name—Crusoe. This was the name my companions always used for me.
I had two elder brothers. One became a lieutenant-colonel in an English infantry regiment in Flanders and was killed in battle against the Spaniards near Dunkirk. As for my second brother, I never knew what became of him, just as my father and mother eventually had no idea what became of me.
Being the third son and not having been trained for any particular trade, my mind began to fill very early with restless, wandering thoughts. My father, who was quite elderly, had provided me with a solid education through home-schooling and the local free school. He intended for me to study law, but I would be satisfied with nothing but going to sea. This desire was so powerful that it led me to ignore the will—and even the commands—of my father, as well as the pleas and persuasions of my mother and friends. Looking back, there seemed to be something fatal in that natural inclination, leading me directly toward the life of misery that was to follow.
My father, a wise and serious man, gave me honest and excellent advice against what he foresaw were my plans. One morning, he called me into his room, where he was confined by the gout, and spoke to me very warmly on the subject. He asked what reasons, other than a mere wandering impulse, I had for leaving my father’s house and my native country. He pointed out that I was well-positioned to improve my fortune through hard work and industry, which would lead to a life of ease and pleasure. He explained that it was men of desperate fortunes on one hand, or those of aspiring, superior fortunes on the other, who went abroad in search of adventure. Such men sought to rise through daring enterprises and make themselves famous in ways that were out of the ordinary.
He told me that these paths were either too far above me or too far below me; mine was the "middle state," which he had found by long experience to be the best state in the world. It was the most suited to human happiness, as it was not exposed to the hardships and physical labour of the working class, nor embarrassed by the pride, luxury, and ambition of the upper class. He told me I could judge the happiness of this state by one fact: it was the condition of life that everyone else envied. Even kings, he remarked, had often lamented the miserable consequences of being born to greatness, wishing they had been placed in the middle of the two extremes.
He urged me to observe that the calamities of life were shared between the highest and lowest of mankind, but that those in the middle station suffered the fewest disasters. They were not subjected to as many illnesses or stresses of body and mind as those who lived through luxury and excess on one side, or through hard labour and poverty on the other. He described the middle station as being designed for all kinds of virtue and enjoyment. Peace and plenty were its companions, while temperance, health, and agreeable diversions were its blessings. In this state, a man might slide gently through the world and pass comfortably out of it, neither enslaved by the labour of his hands nor harassed by the burning desire for great things.
Finally, he pressed me earnestly not to "play the young man" or throw myself into miseries that my station in life had protected me from. He told me I was under no necessity to seek my own bread; he would provide for me and help me enter the comfortable life he had recommended. If I were not happy, it would be my own fault or fate. He warned me that while he would do kind things for me if I stayed, he would have no part in my misfortune if I chose to leave. To close the conversation, he used my elder brother as an example, whom he had also tried to persuade against going to the wars, but could not. My brother had joined the army and was killed. Though he promised to pray for me, he cautioned that if I took this foolish step, God would not bless me, and I would eventually have plenty of time to regret ignoring his advice when there was no one left to help me.
I noticed that during the last part of this discourse, which turned out to be truly prophetic, tears ran down my father's face, especially when he spoke of my brother’s death. He was so moved that he broke off the conversation, telling me his heart was too full to say any more.
I was sincerely affected by this talk—indeed, who could not be? I resolved not to think of going abroad again, but to settle at home as my father wished. Alas, within a few days, the feeling wore off. To prevent any further pressure from my father, I decided a few weeks later to run away. However, I did not act quite as impulsively as I first intended. I approached my mother when she seemed in a pleasant mood and told her that my mind was so set on seeing the world that I would never be able to focus on anything else. I suggested it would be better for my father to give his consent than for me to go without it. I was now eighteen years old, which I argued was too late to become an apprentice or a clerk. I told her that if she would persuade my father to let me go on just one voyage, and if I didn't like it, I would return and work twice as hard to make up for lost time.
This put my mother into a great passion. She told me she knew it would be useless to speak to my father. She wondered how I could even think of such a thing after the kind and tender expressions he had used toward me. In short, she said that if I chose to ruin myself, there was nothing to be done, but I would never have their consent. She refused to have a hand in my destruction.
Although my mother refused to help, I heard later that she reported the entire conversation to my father. After showing great concern, he sighed and said, "That boy might be happy if he would stay at home; but if he goes abroad, he will be the most miserable wretch ever born. I can give no consent to it."
It was not until almost a year later that I finally broke loose. In the meantime, I remained stubbornly deaf to all proposals of settling into a career. One day, while I was in Hull, I met a companion who was about to sail to London in his father’s ship. He pressured me to go with him, using the common lure of sailors: that the passage would cost me nothing. Without consulting my father or mother, or even sending them word, I went on board on the 1st of September, 1651.
Never did a young adventurer's misfortunes begin sooner or last longer than mine. As soon as the ship left the river, the wind began to blow and the sea rose in a terrifying manner. Since I had never been to sea before, I was both incredibly seasick in body and terrified in mind. I began to reflect seriously on what I had done and how justly I was being punished by Heaven for abandoning my duty. My parents' advice and my father’s tears came fresh into my mind, and my conscience reproached me for my disobedience.
The storm increased, and the sea grew very high. Though it was nothing compared to what I have seen since, it was enough to overwhelm a young sailor. I expected every wave to swallow us up. In this agony of mind, I made many vows: if God would spare my life this once, I would go straight home to my father and never set foot on a ship again. I saw now the wisdom of his observations about the "middle station" of life, and I resolved that I would, like the prodigal son, return to my family.
These sober thoughts lasted as long as the storm did. However, the next day the wind died down and the sea became calmer. Although I was still a little seasick, the weather cleared up toward nightfall, followed by a charming evening. When the sun rose the next morning over a smooth, shining sea, it was the most delightful sight I had ever seen.
I had slept well and was no longer sick. My companion, who had encouraged me to leave home, came to me and said, "Well, Bob, how do you feel now? I bet you were frightened last night when we had that little capful of wind."
"A capful?" I replied. "It was a terrible storm."
"A storm, you fool!" he laughed. "That was nothing at all. Give us a good ship and sea-room, and we think nothing of a squall like that. But you’re just a fresh-water sailor, Bob. Come, let’s make a bowl of punch and forget it."
To cut this sad part of my story short, I did what sailors often do. The punch was made, I got drunk, and in that one night of wickedness, I drowned all my repentance and all my resolutions for the future. As the sea returned to its calm surface, my fears were forgotten. I found some intervals of reflection afterward, but I shook them off like an illness. By the end of five or six days, I had achieved a complete victory over my conscience.
But I was to have another trial. Providence, as it often does, decided to leave me without excuse. On the sixth day at sea, we arrived at Yarmouth Roads. The wind was against us, so we were forced to drop anchor and wait. We stayed there for seven or eight days, during which time many other ships arrived, waiting for the wind to change.
On the eighth day, the wind increased. By noon, the sea was very high indeed. Our ship was struggling, and we had to drop a second anchor. It was now a terrible storm. I saw terror and amazement even in the faces of the experienced seamen. I heard the master softly saying to himself, "Lord be merciful to us! We shall all be lost!"
I lay in my cabin, paralyzed with fear. I could hardly return to my earlier state of repentance because I had so deliberately ignored my previous vows. When I finally got up and looked out, the sight was dismal. The sea ran mountains high, breaking over us every few minutes. I saw two ships nearby cut away their masts to keep from sinking, and our men cried out that a ship ahead of us had foundered—sunk beneath the waves.
Toward evening, the mate and boatswain begged the master to let them cut away the fore-mast to save the ship. He was reluctant, but eventually consented. When that didn't help enough, they had to cut away the main-mast as well, leaving us with a clear deck. I was in tenfold more horror of mind because of my broken resolutions than I was of death itself. The storm was so violent that the master and others were at their prayers, expecting the ship to go down at any moment.
In the middle of the night, someone cried out that we had a leak. All hands were called to the pumps. At that word, my heart died within me, and I fell backward onto my bed. However, the men roused me, telling me that I was as capable of pumping as anyone else. I worked heartily until I heard the master fire a gun as a signal of distress. Not knowing what it meant, I was so surprised that I fainted. Since everyone was fighting for their life, nobody paid me any attention. Another man simply stepped over me to take my place at the pump.
Eventually, a lighter ship ahead of us ventured to send a boat to help. With great danger, they managed to get near our stern. We cast them a rope with a buoy, which they caught, and we all managed to get into their boat. We watched from the boat as our ship sank only a quarter of an hour after we left her. It was then that I truly understood what "foundering" meant. My heart was dead within me from fright and horror.
We finally reached the shore near Winterton and walked to Yarmouth. The people there were very kind to us. The magistrates provided us with quarters, and local merchants gave us enough money to travel either to London or back to Hull.
Had I possessed any sense, I would have gone back to Hull and then home. My father would likely have "killed the fatted calf" for me, as in the parable. But my ill fate pushed me on with an obstinacy that nothing could resist. I felt an overruling decree was hurrying me toward my own destruction.
My companion, the master’s son, was now much more subdued than I was. When he spoke to me a few days later, his tone had changed. After I told his father my story, the old man looked at me very gravely.
"Young man," he said, "you ought never to go to sea again. You should take this as a visible sign that you are not meant to be a sailor."
"Why, sir," I asked, "will you go to sea no more?"
"That is different," he replied. "It is my calling and my duty. But you made this voyage as a trial, and you see what Heaven has shown you. Perhaps this has all happened because of you, like Jonah in the ship of Tarshish."
He exhorted me to go back to my father and warned me that if I did not, I would meet with nothing but disasters until my father’s words were fulfilled. We parted soon after, and I travelled to London by land.
On the road, I had many struggles with myself. I was terrified of going home because of the shame. I imagined how the neighbours would laugh at me, and I was ashamed to face my parents. I have since observed how irrational young people are: they are not ashamed to sin, but they are ashamed to repent. They are not ashamed of the actions that prove them to be fools, but they are ashamed of returning to the path of wisdom.
In this uncertain state, I stayed in London for some time. My reluctance to go home remained, and as the memory of the storm wore off, so did my desire to return. At last, I laid aside those thoughts entirely and began to look for another voyage.