The Old Man And The Sea
To Charlie Shribner
To Max Perkins
He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone
eighty-four days now without taking a fish. In the first forty days a boy had
been with him. But after forty days without a fish the boy's parents had told
him that the old man was now definitely and finally salao, which is the worst
form of unlucky, and the boy had gone at their orders in another boat which
caught three good fish the first week. It made the boy sad to see the old man
come in each day with his skiff empty and he always went down to help him carry
either the coiled lines or the gaff and harpoon and the sail that was furled
around the mast. The sail was patched with flour sacks and, furled, it looked
like the flag of permanent defeat.
The old man was thin and gaunt with deep wrinkles in the back of his neck. The
brown blotches of the benevolent skin cancer the sun brings from its
reflection on the tropic sea were on his cheeks. The blotches ran well down the
sides of his face and his hands had the deep-creased scars from handling heavy
fish on the cords. But none of these scars were fresh. They were as old as
erosions in a fishless desert.
Everything about him was old except his eyes and they were the same color as the
sea and were cheerful and undefeated.
"Santiago," the boy said to him as they climbed the bank from where the skiff
was hauled up. "I could go with you again. We've made some money.
The old man had taught the boy to fish and the boy loved him.
"No," the old man said. "You're with a lucky boat. Stay with them."
"Rut remember how you went eighty-seven days without fish and then we caught big
ones every day for three weeks."
"I remember," the old man said. "I know you did not leave me because you
"It was papa made me leave. I am a boy and I must obey him."
"I know," the old man said. "It is quite normal."
"He hasn't much faith."
"No," the old man said. "But we have. Haven't we?"
'Yes," the boy said. "Can I offer you a beer on the Terrace and then we'll take
the stuff home."
"Why not?" the old man said. "Between fishermen." They sat on the Terrace and
many of the fishermen made fun of the old man and he was not angry. Others, of
the older fishermen, looked at him and were sad. But they did not show it and
they spoke politely about the current and the depths they had drifted their
lines at and the steady good weather and of what they had seen. The successful
fishermen of that day were already in and had butchered their marlin out and
carried them laid full length across two planks, with two men staggering at the
end of each plank, to the fish house where they waited for the ice truck to
carry them to the market in Havana. Those who had caught sharks had taken them
to the shark factory on the other side of the cove where they were hoisted on a
block and tackle, their livers removed, their fins cut off and their hides
skinned out and their flesh cut into strips for salting.
When the wind was in the east a smell came across the harbour from the shark
factory; but today there
was only the faint edge of the odour because the wind had backed into the north
and then dropped off and it was pleasant and sunny on the Terrace.
"Santiago," the boy said.
"Yes," the old man said. He was holding his glass and thinking of many years
"Can I go out to get sardines for you for tomorrow?"
"No. Go and play baseball. I can still row and Rogelio will throw the net."
"I would like to go. If I cannot fish with you. I would like to serve in some
"You bought me a beer," the old man said. "You are already a man."
"How old was I when you first took me in a boat?"
"Five and you nearly were killed when I brought the fish in too green and he
nearly tore the boat to pieces. Can you remember?"
"I can remember the tail slapping and banging and the thwart breaking and the
noise of the clubbing. I can remember you throwing me into the bow where the wet
coiled lines were and feeling the whole boat shiver and the noise of you
clubbing him like chopping a tree down and the sweet blood smell all over me."
"Can you really remember that or did I just tell it to you?"
"I remember everything from when we first went together."
The old man looked at him with his sun-burned, confident loving eyes.
"If you were my boy I'd take you out and gamble," he said. "But you are your
father's and your mother's and you are in a lucky boat."
"May I get the sardines? I know where I can get four baits too."
"I have mine left from today. I put them in salt in the box."
"Let me get four fresh ones."
"One," the old man said. His hope and his confidence had never gone. But now
they were freshening as when the breeze rises.
"Two," the boy said.
"Two," the old man agreed. "You didn't steal them?"
"I would," the boy said. "But I bought these."
"Thank you," the old man said. He was too simple to wonder when he had attained
humility. But he
knew he had attained it and he knew it was not disgraceful and it carried no
loss of true pride.
'Tomorrow is going to be a good day with this current," he said.
"Where are you going?" the boy asked.
"Far out to come in when the wind shifts. I want to be out before it is light."
"I'll try to get him to work far out," the boy said. "Then if you hook something
truly big we can come to your aid."
"He does not like to work too far out."
"No," the boy said. "Rut I will see something that he cannot see such as a bird
working and get him to come out after dolphin."
"Are his eyes that bad?"
"He is almost blind."
"It is strange," the old man said. "He never went turtle-ing. That is what kills
"But you went turtle-ing for years off the Mosquito Coast and your eyes are
"I am a strange old main"
"Rut are you strong enough now for a truly big fish?"
"I think so. And there are many tricks."
"Let us take the stuff home," the boy said. "So I can get the cast net and go
after the sardines."
They picked up the gear from the boat. The old man carried the mast on his
shoulder and the boy carried the wooden bo,4 with the coiled, hard-braided brown
lines, the gaff and the harpoon with its shaft. The box with the baits was under
the stern of the skiff along with the club that was used to subdue the big fish
when they were brought alongside. No one would steal from the old man but it was
better to take the sail and the heavy lines home as the dew was bad for them
and, though he was quite sure no local people would steal from him, the old man
thought that a gaff and a harpoon were needless temptations to leave in a boat.
They walked up the road together to the old man's shack and went in through its
open door. The old man leaned the mast with its wrapped sail against the wall
and the boy put the box and the other gear beside it. The mast was nearly as
long as the one room of the shack. The shack was made of the tough budshields of
the royal palm which are called guano and in it there was a bed, a table, one
chair, and a place on the dirt floor to cook with charcoal. On the brown walls
of the flattened, overlapping leaves of the sturdy fibered
guano there was a picture in color of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and another of
the Virgin of Cobre. These were relics of his wife. Once there had been a tinted
photograph of his wife on the wall but he had taken it down because it made him
too lonely to see it and it was on the shelf in the corner under his clean
"What do you have to eat?" the boy asked.
"A pot of yellow rice with fish. Do you want some?"
"No. I will eat at home. Do you want me to make the fire?"
"No. I will make it later on. Or I may eat the rice cold."
"May I take the cast net?"
There was no cast net and the boy remembered when they had sold it. But they
went through this fiction every day. There was no pot of yellow rice and fish
and the boy knew this too.
"Eighty-five is a lucky number," the old man said. "How would you like to see me
bring one in that dressed out over a thousand pounds?"
"I'll get the cast net and go for sardines. Will you sit in the sun in the
"Yes. I have yesterday's paper and I will read the baseball."
The boy did not know whether yesterday's paper was a fiction too. But the old
man brought it out from under the bed.
"Perico gave it to me at the bodega," he explained. "I'll be back when I have
the sardines. I'll keep yours and mine together on ice and we can share them in
the morning. When I come back you can tell me about the baseball."
"The Yankees cannot lose."
"But I fear the Indians of Cleveland."
"Have faith in the Yankees my son. Think of the great DiMaggio."
"I fear both the Tigers of Detroit and the Indians of Cleveland."
"Be careful or you will fear even the Reds of Cincinnati and the White Sax of
"You study it and tell me when I come back."
"Do you think we should buy a terminal of the lottery with an eighty-five?
Tomorrow is the eighty-fifth day."
"We can do that," the boy said. "But what about the eighty-seven of your great
"It could not happen twice. Do you think you can find an eighty-five?"
"I can order one.
"One sheet. That's two dollars and a half. Who can we borrow that from?"
'That's easy. I can always borrow two dollars and a half."
"I think perhaps I can too. But I try not to borrow. First you borrow. Then you
"Keep warm old man," the boy said. "Remember we are in September."
"The month when the great fish come," the old man said. "Anyone can be a
fisherman in May."
"I go now for the sardines," the boy said.
When the boy came back the old man was asleep in the chair and the sun was down.
The boy took the old army blanket off the bed and spread it over the back of the
chair and over the old man's shoulders. They were strange shoulders, still
powerful although very old, and the neck was still strong too and the creases
did not show so much when the old man was asleep and his head fallen forward.
His shirt had been patched so many times that it was like the sail and the
patches were faded to many different shades by the sun. The
old man's head was very old though and with his eyes closed there was no life in
his face. The newspaper lay across his knees and the weight of his arm held it
there in the evening breeze. He was barefooted.
The boy left him there and when he came back the old man was still asleep.
"Wake up old man," the boy said and put his hand on one of the old man's knees.
The old man opened his eyes and for a moment he was coming back from a long way
away. Then he smiled.
"What have you got?" he asked.
"Supper," said the boy. 'We're going to have supper.
"I'm not very hungry."
"Come on and eat. You can't fish and not eat."
"I have," the old man said getting up and taking the newspaper and folding it.
Then he started to fold the blanket.
"Keep the blanket around you," the boy said. "You'll not fish without eating
while I'm alive."
'Then live a long time and take care of yourself," the old man said. "What are
"Black beans and rice, fried bananas, and some stew.
The boy had brought them in a two-decker metal container from the Terrace. The
two sets of knives and forks and spoons were in his pocket with a paper napkin
wrapped around each set.
"Who gave this to you?"
"Martin. The owner.
"I must thank him."
"I thanked him already," the boy said. "You don't need to thank him."
"I'll give him the belly meat of a big fish," the old man said. "Has he done
this for us more than once?"
"I think so."
"I must give him something more than the belly meat then. He is very thoughtful
"He sent two beers."
"I like the beer in cans best."
"I know. But this is in bottles, Hatuey beer, and I take back the bottles."
"That's very kind of you," the old man said. "Should we eat?"
"I've been asking you to," the boy told him gently. "I have not wished to open
the container until you were ready."
"I'm ready now," the old man said. "I only needed time to wash."
Where did you wash? the boy thought. The village water supply was two streets
down the road. I must have water here for him, the boy thought, and soap and a
good towel. Why am I so thoughtless? I must get him another shirt and a jacket
for the winter and some sort of shoes and another blanket.
"Your stew is excellent," the old man said.
"Tell me about the baseball," the boy asked him.
"In the American League it is the Yankees as I said," the old man said happily."
"They lost today," the boy told him.
"That means nothing. The great DiMaggio is himself again."
"They have other men on the team."
"Naturally. But he makes the difference. In the other league, between Brooklyn
and Philadelphia I must take Brooklyn. But then I think of Dick Sisler and those
great drives In the old park."
"There was nothing ever like them. He hits the longest ball I have ever seen."
"Do you remember when he used to come to the Terrace?"
I wanted to take him fishing but I was too timid to ask him. Then I asked you to
ask him and you were too timid."
"I know. It was a great mistake. He might have gone with us. Then we would have
that for all of our lives."
"I would like to take the great DiMaggio fishing," the old man said. "They say
his father was a fisherman. Maybe he was as poor as we are and would
"The great Sisler's father was never poor and he, the father, was playing in the
Big Leagues when he was my age.
"When I was your age I was before the mast on a square rigged ship that ran to
Africa and I have seen lions on the beaches in the evening."
"I know. You told me."
"Should we talk about Africa or about baseball?"
"Baseball I think," the boy said. "Tell me about the great John J. McGraw." He
said Jota for J.
"He used to come to the Terrace sometimes too in the older days. But he was
rough and harsh-spoken and difficult when he was drinking. His mind was on
horses as well as baseball. At least he carried lists of
horses at all times in his pocket and frequently spoke the names of horses on
"He was a great manager," the boy said. "My father thinks he was the greatest."
"Because he came here the most times," the old man said. "If Durocher had
continued to come here each year your father would think him the greatest
"Who is the greatest manager, really, Luque or Mike Gonzalez?"
"I think they are equal."
"And the best fisherman is you."
"No. I know others better."
"Que Va," the boy said. "There are many good fishermen and some great ones. But
there is only you."
"Thank you. You make me happy. I hope no fish will come along so great that he
will prove us wrong."
"There is no such fish if you are still strong as you say."
"I may not be as strong as I think," the old man said. "But I know many tricks
and I have resolution."
"You ought to go to bed now so that you will be fresh in the morning. I will
take the things back to the Terrace."
"Good night then. I will wake you in the morning."
"You're my alarm clock," the boy said.
"Age is my alarm clock," the old man said. "Why do old men wake so early? Is it
to have one longer day?"
"I don't know," the boy said. "All I know is that young boys sleep late and
"I can remember it," the old man said. "I'll waken you in time.
"I do not like for him to waken me. It is as though I were inferior."
"Sleep well old man."
The boy went out. They had eaten with no light on the table and the old man took
off his trousers and went to bed in the dark. He rolled his trousers up to make
a pillow, putting the newspaper inside them. He rolled himself in the blanket
and slept on the other old newspapers that covered the springs of the bed.
He was asleep in a short time and he dreamed of Africa when he was a boy and the
long golden beaches and the white beaches, so white they hurt your eyes, and the
high capes and the great brown mountains. He lived along that coast now every
night and in his dreams he heard the surf roar and saw the native boats
come riding through it. He smelled the tar and oakum of the deck as he slept and
he smelled the smell of Africa that the land breeze brought at morning.
Usually when he smelled the land breeze he woke up and dressed to go and wake
the boy. But tonight the smell of the land breeze came very early and he knew it
was too early in his dream and went on dreaming to see the white peaks of the
Islands rising from the sea and then he dreamed of the different harbours and
roadsteads of the Canary Islands.
He no longer dreamed of storms, nor of women, nor of great occurrences, nor of
great fish, nor fights, nor contests of strength, nor of his wife. He only
dreamed of places now and of the lions on the beach. They played like young cats
in the dusk and he loved them as he loved the boy. He never dreamed about the
boy. He simply woke, looked out the open door at the moon and unrolled his
trousers and put them on. He urinated outside the shack and then went up the
road to wake the boy. He was shivering with the morning cold. But he knew he
would shiver himself warm and that soon he would be rowing.
The door of the house where the boy lived was unlocked and he opened it and
walked in quietly with his
bare feet. The boy was asleep on a cot in the first room and the old man could
see him clearly with the light that came in from the dying moon. He took hold of
one foot gently and held it until the boy woke and turned and looked at him. The
old man nodded and the boy took his trousers from the chair by the bed and,
sitting on the bed, pulled them on.
The old man went out the door and the boy came after him. He was sleepy and the
old man put his arm across his shoulders and said, "I am sorry."
"Qua Va," the boy said. "It is what a man must do."
They walked down the road to the old man's shack and all along the road, in the
dark, barefoot men were moving, carrying the masts of their boats.
When they reached the old man's shack the boy took the rolls of line in the
basket and the harpoon and gaff and the old man carried the mast with the furled
sail on his shoulder.
"Do you want coffee?" the boy asked.
"We'll put the gear in the boat and then get some.
They had coffee from condensed milk cans at an early morning place that served
"How did you sleep old man?" the boy asked. He
was waking up now although it was still hard for him to leave his sleep.
"Very well, Manolin," the old man said. "I feel confident today."
"So do I," the boy said. "Now I must get your sardines and mine and your fresh
baits. He brings our gear himself. He never wants anyone to carry anything."
"We're different," the old man said. "I let you carry things when you were five
"I know it," the boy said. "I'll be right back. Have another coffee. We have
He walked off, bare-footed on the coral rocks, to the ice house where the baits
The old man drank his coffee slowly. It was all he would have all day and he
knew that he should take it. For a long time now eating had bored him and he
never carried a lunch. He had a bottle of water in the bow of the skiff and that
was all he needed for the day.
The boy was back now with the sardines and the two baits wrapped in a newspaper
and they went down the trail to the skiff, feeling the pebbled sand under their
feet, and lifted the skiff and slid her into the water.
"Good luck old man."
"Good luck," the old man said. He fitted the rope lashings of the oars onto the
thole pins and, leaning forward against the thrust of the blades in the water,
he began to row out of the harbour in the dark. There were other boats from the
other beaches going out to sea and the old man heard the dip and push of their
oars even though he could not see them now the moon was below the hills.
Sometimes someone would speak in a boat. But most of the boats were silent
except for the dip of the oars. They spread apart after they were out of the
mouth of the harbour and each one headed for the part of the ocean where he
hoped to find fish. The old man knew he was going far out and he left the smell
of the land behind and rowed out into the clean early morning smell of the
ocean. He saw the phosphorescence of the Gulf weed in the water as he rowed over
the part of the ocean that the fishermen called the great well be-cause there
was a sudden deep of seven hundred fathoms where all sorts of fish congregated
because of the swirl the current made against the steep walls of the floor of
the ocean. Here there were concentrations of shrimp and bait fish and sometimes
schools of squid in
the deepest holes and these rose close to the surface at night where all the
wandering fish fed on them.
In the dark the old man could feel the morning coming and as he rowed he heard
the trembling sound as flying fish left the water and the hissing that their
stiff set wings made as they soared away in the darkness. He was very fond of
flying fish as they were his principal friends on the ocean. He was sorry for
the birds, especially the small delicate dark terns that were always flying and
looking and almost never finding, and he thought, the birds have a harder life
than we do except for the robber birds and the heavy strong ones. Why did they
make birds so delicate and fine as those sea swallows when the ocean can be so
cruel? She is kind and very beautiful. But she can be so cruel and it comes so
suddenly and such birds that fly, dipping and hunting, with their small sad
voices are made too delicately for the sea.
He always thought of the sea as la mar which is what people call her in Spanish
when they love her. Sometimes those who love her say bad things of her but they
are always said as though she were a woman. Some of the younger fishermen, those
who used buoys as floats for their lines and had motorboats, bought
when the shark livers had brought much money, spoke of her as el mar which is
masculine. They spoke of her as a contestant or a place or even an enemy. But
the old man always thought of her as feminine and as something that gave or
withheld great favours, and if she did wild or wicked things it was because she
could not help them. The moon affects her as it does a woman, he thought.
He was rowing steadily and it was no effort for him since he kept well within
his speed and the surface of the ocean was flat except for the occasional swirls
of the current. He was letting the current do a third of the work and as it
started to be light he saw he was already further out than he had hoped to be at
I worked the deep wells for a week and did nothing, he thought. Today I'll work
out where the schools of bonito and albacore are and maybe there will be a big
one with them.
Before it was really light he had his baits out and was drifting with the
current. One bait was down forty fathoms. The second was at seventy-five and the
third and fourth were down in the blue water at one
hundred and one hundred and twenty-five fathoms. Each bait hung head down with
the shank of the hook inside the bait fish, tied and sewed solid and all the
projecting part of the hook, the curve and the point, was covered with fresh
sardines. Each sardine was hooked through both eyes so that they made a
half-garland on the projecting steel. There was no part of the hook that a great
fish could feel which was not sweet smelling and good tasting.
The boy had given him two fresh small tunas, or albacores, which hung on the two
deepest lines like plummets and, on the others, he had a big blue runner and a
yellow jack that had been used before; but they were in good condition still and
had the excellent sardines to give them scent and attractiveness. Each line, as
thick around as a big pencil, was looped onto a green-sapped stick so that any
pull or touch on the bait would make the stick dip and each line had two
forty-fathom coils which could be made fast to the other spare coils so that, if
it were necessary, a fish could take out over three hundred fathoms of line.
Now the man watched the dip of the three sticks over the side of the skiff and
rowed gently to keep the
lines straight up and down and at their proper depths. It was quite light and
any moment now the sun would rise.
The sun rose thinly from the sea and the old man could see the other boats, low
on the water and well in toward the shore, spread out across the current. Then
the sun was brighter and the glare came on the water and then, as it rose clear,
the flat sea sent it back at his eyes so that it hurt sharply and he rowed
without looking into it. He looked down into the water and watched the lines
that went straight down into the dark of the water. He kept them straighter than
anyone did, so that at each level in the darkness of the stream there would be a
bait waiting exactly where he wished it to be for any fish that swam there.
Others let them drift with the current and sometimes they were at sixty fathoms
when the fishermen thought they were at a hundred.
But, he thought, I keep them with precision. Only I have no luck any more. But
who knows? Maybe today. Every day is a new day. It is better to be lucky. But I
would rather be exact. Then when luck comes you are ready.
The sun was two hours higher now and it did not
hurt his eyes so much to look into the east. There were only three boats in
sight now and they showed very low and far inshore.
All my life the early sun has hurt my eyes, be thought. Yet they are still good.
In the evening I can look straight into it without getting the blackness. It has
more force in the evening too. But in the morning it is painful.
Just then he saw a man-of-war bird with his long black wings circling in the sky
ahead of him. He made a quick drop, slanting down on his back-swept wings, and
then circled again.
"He's got something," the old man said aloud. "He's not just looking."
He rowed slowly and steadily toward where the bird was circling. He did not
hurry and he kept his lines straight up and down. But he crowded the current a
little so that he was still fishing correctly though faster than he would have
fished if he was not trying to use the bird.
The bird went higher in the air and circled again, his wings motionless. Then he
dove suddenly and the old man saw flying fish spurt out of the water and sail
desperately over the surface.
"Dolphin," the old man said aloud. "Big dolphin."
He shipped his oars and brought a small line from under the bow. It had a wire
leader and a medium-sized hook and he baited it with one of the sardines. He let
it go over the side and then made it fast to a ring bolt in the stern. Then he
baited another line and left it coiled in the shade of the bow. He went back to
rowing and to watching the long-winged black bird who was working, now, low over
As he watched the bird dipped again slanting his wings for the dive and then
swinging them wildly and ineffectually as he followed the flying fish. The old
man could see the slight bulge in the water that the big dolphin raised as they
followed the escaping fish. The dolphin were cutting through the water below the
flight of the fish and would be in the water, driving at speed, when the fish
dropped. It is a big school of dolphin, he thought. They are widespread and the
flying fish have little chance. The bird has no chance. The flying fish are too
big for him and they go too fast.
He watched the flying fish burst out again and again and the ineffectual
movements of the bird. That school has gotten away from me, he thought. They are
moving out too fast and too far. But perhaps I will pick up
a stray and perhaps my big fish is around them. My big fish must be somewhere.
The clouds over the land now rose like mountains and the coast was only a long
green line with the gray blue hills behind it. The water was a dark blue now, so
dark that it was almost purple. As he looked down into it he saw the red sifting
of the plankton in the dark water and the strange light the sun made now. He
watched his lines to see them go straight down out of sight into the water and
he was happy to see so much plankton because it meant fish. The strange light
the sun made in the water, now that the sun was higher, meant good weather and
so did the shape of the clouds over the land. But the bird was almost out of
sight now and nothing showed on the surface of the water but some patches of
yellow, sun-bleached Sargasso weed and the purple, formalized, iridescent,
gelatinous bladder of a Portuguese man-of-war floating dose beside the boat. It
turned on its side and then righted itself. It floated cheerfully as a bubble
with its long deadly purple filaments trailing a yard behind it in the water.
"Agua mala," the man said. "You whore."
From where he swung lightly against his oars he looked down into the water and
saw the tiny fish that
were coloured like the trailing filaments and swam between them and under the
small shade the bubble made as it drifted. They were immune to its poison. But
men were not and when same of the filaments would catch on a line and rest there
slimy and purple while the old man was working a fish, he would have welts and
sores on his arms and hands of the sort that poison ivy or poison oak can give.
But these poisonings from the agua mala came quickly and struck like a whiplash.
The iridescent bubbles were beautiful. But they were the falsest thing in the
sea and the old man loved to see the big sea turtles eating them. The turtles
saw them, approached them from the front, then shut their eyes so they were
completely carapaced and ate them filaments and all. The old man loved to see
the turtles eat them and he loved to walk on them on the beach after a storm and
hear them pop when he stepped on them with the horny soles of his feet.
He loved green turtles and hawk-bills with their elegance and speed and their
great value and he had a friendly contempt for the huge, stupid loggerheads,
yellow in their armour-plating, strange in their love-
making, and happily eating the Portuguese men-of-war with their eyes shut.
He had no mysticism about turtles although he had gone in turtle boats for many
years. He was sorry for them all, even the great trunk backs that were as long
as the skiff and weighed a ton. Most people are heartless about turtles because
a turtle's heart will beat for hours after he has been cut up and butchered. But
the old man thought, I have such a heart too and my feet and hands are like
theirs. He ate the white eggs to give himself strength. He ate them all through
May to be strong in September and October for the truly big fish.
He also drank a cup of shark liver oil each day from the big drum in the shack
where many of the fishermen kept their gear. It was there for all fishermen who
wanted it. Most fishermen hated the taste. But it was no worse than getting up
at the hours that they rose and it was very good against all colds and grippes
and it was good for the eyes.
Now the old man looked up and saw that the bird was circling again.
"He's found fish," he said aloud. No flying fish broke the surface and there was
no scattering of bait
fish. But as the old man watched, a small tuna rose in the air, turned and
dropped head first into the water. The tuna shone silver in the sun and after he
had dropped back into the water another and another rose and they were jumping
in all directions, churning the water and leaping in long jumps after the bait.
They were circling it and driving it.
If they don't travel too fast I will get into them, the old man thought, and he
watched the school working the water white and the bird now dropping and dipping
into the bait fish that were forced to the surface in their panic.
"The bird is a great help," the old man said. Just then the stern line came taut
under his foot, where he had kept a loop of the line, and he dropped his oars
and felt tile weight of the small tuna's shivering pull as he held the line firm
and commenced to haul it in. The shivering increased as he pulled in and he
could see the blue back of the fish in the water and the gold of his sides
before he swung him over the side and into the boat. He lay in the stern in the
sun, compact and bullet shaped, his big, unintelligent eyes staring as he
thumped his life out against the planking of the boat with the quick shivering
strokes of his neat, fast-moving
tail. The old man hit him on the head for kindness and kicked him, his body
still shuddering, under the shade of the stern.
"Albacore," be said aloud. "He'll make a beautiful bait. He'll weigh ten
He did not remember when he had first started to talk aloud when he was by
himself. He had sung when he was by himself in the old days and he had sung at
night sometimes when he was alone steering on his watch in the smacks or in the
turtle boats. He had probably started to talk aloud, when alone, when the boy
had left. But he did not remember. When he and the boy fished together they
usually spoke only when it was necessary. They talked at night or when they were
storm-bound by bad weather. It was considered a virtue not to talk unnecessarily
at sea and the old man had always considered it so and respected it. But now he
said his thoughts aloud many times since there was no one that they could annoy.
"If the others heard me talking out loud they would think that I am crazy," he
said aloud. "But since I am not crazy, I do not care. And the rich have radios
to talk to them in their boats and to bring them the baseball."
Now is no time to think of baseball, he thought. Now is the time to think of
only one thing. That which I was born for. There might be a big one around that
school, he thought. I picked up only a straggler from the albacore that were
feeding. But they are working far Out and fast. Everything that shows on the
surface today travels very fast and to the north-east. Can that be the time of
day? Or is it some sign of weather that I do not know?
He could not see the green of the shore now but only the tops of the blue hills
that showed white as though they were snow-capped and the clouds that looked
like high snow mountains above them. The sea was very dark and the light made
prisms in the water. The myriad flecks of the plankton were annulled now by the
high sun and it was only the great deep prisms in the blue water that the old
man saw now with his lines going straight down into the water that was a mile
The tuna, the fishermen called all the fish of that species tuna and only
distinguished among them by their proper names when they came to sell them or to
trade them for baits, were down again. The sun was
hot now and the old man felt it on the back of his neck and felt the sweat
trickle down his back as he rowed.
I could just drift, he thought, and sleep and put a bight of line around my toe
to wake me. But today is eighty-five days and I should fish the day well.
Just then, watching his lines, he saw one of the projecting green sticks dip
"Yes," he said. "Yes," and shipped his oars without bumping the boat. He reached
out for the line and held it softly between the thumb and forefinger of his
right hand. He felt no strain nor weight and he held the line lightly. Then it
came again. This time it was a tentative pull, not solid nor heavy, and he knew
exactly what it was. One hundred fathoms down a marlin was eating the sardines
that covered the point and the shank of the hook where the hand-forged hook
projected from the head of the small tuna.
The old man held the line delicately, and softly, with his left hand, unleashed
it from the stick. Now he could let it run through his fingers without the fish
feeling any tension.
This far out, he must be huge in this month, he thought. Eat them, fish. Eat
them. Please eat them.
How fresh they are and you down there six hundred feet in that cold water in the
dark. Make another turn in the dark and come back and eat them.
He felt the light delicate pulling and then a harder pull when a sardine's head
must have been more difficult to break from the hook. Then there was nothing.
"Come on," the old man said aloud. "Make another turn. Just smell them. Aren't
they lovely? Eat them good now and then there is the tuna. Hard and cold and
lovely. Don't be shy, fish. Eat them."
He waited with the line between his thumb and his finger, watching it and the
other lines at the same time for the fish might have swum up or down. Then came
the same delicate pulling touch again.
"He'll take it," the old man said aloud. "God help him to take it."
He did not take it though. He was gone and the old man felt nothing.
"He can't have gone," he said. "Christ knows he can't have gone. He's making a
turn. Maybe he has been hooked before and he remembers something of it.
Then he felt the gentle touch on the line and he was happy.
"It was only his turn," he said. "He'll take it."
He was happy feeling the gentle pulling and then he felt something hard and
unbelievably heavy. It was the weight of the fish and he let the line slip down,
down, down, unrolling off the first of the two reserve coils. As it went down,
slipping lightly through the old man's fingers, he still could feel the great
weight, though the pressure of his thumb and finger were almost imperceptible.
"What a fish," he said. "He has it sideways in his mouth now and he is moving
off with it."
Then he will turn and swallow it, he thought. He did not say that because he
knew that if you said a good thing it might not happen. He knew what a huge fish
this was and be thought of him moving away in the darkness with the tuna held
crosswise in his mouth. At that moment he felt him stop moving but the weight
was still there. Then the weight increased and he gave more line. He tightened
the pressure of his thumb and finger for a moment and the weight increased and
was going straight down.
"He's taken it," he said. "Now I'll let him eat it well."
He let the line slip through his fingers while he reached down with his left
hand and made fast the free end of the two reserve coils to the loop of the two
reserve coils of the next line. Now he was ready. He had three forty-fathom
coils of line in reserve now, as well as the coil he was using.
"Eat it a little more," he said. "Eat it well."
Eat it so that the point of the hook goes into your heart and kills you, he
thought. Come up easy and let me put the harpoon into you. All right. Are you
ready? Have you been long enough at table?
"Now!" he said aloud and struck hard with both hands, gained a yard of line and
then struck again and again, swinging with each arm alternately on the cord with
all the strength of his arms and the pivoted weight of his body.
Nothing happened. The fish just moved away slowly and the old man could not
raise him an inch. His line was strong and made for heavy fish and he held it
against his hack until it was so taut that beads of water were jumping from it.
Then it began to make a slow hissing sound in the water and he still held it,
himself against the thwart and leaning back against the pull. The boat began to
move slowly off toward the north-west.
The fish moved steadily and they travelled slowly on the calm water. The other
baits were still in the water but there was nothing to be done.
"I wish I had the boy" the old man said aloud. "I'm being towed by a fish and
I'm the towing bitt. I could make the line fast. But then he could break it. I
must hold him all I can and give him line when he must have it. Thank God he is
travelling and not going down."
What I will do if he decides to go down, I don't know. What I'll do if he sounds
and dies I don't know. But I'll do something. There are plenty of things I can
He held the line against his back and watched its slant in the water and the
skiff moving steadily to the north-west.
This will kill him, the old man thought. He can't do this forever. But four
hours later the fish was still swimming steadily out to sea, towing the skiff,
and the old man was still braced solidly with the line across his back.
"It was noon when I hooked him," he said. "And I have never seen him."
He had pushed his straw hat hard down on his head before he hooked the fish and
it was cutting his forehead. I-Ic was thirsty too and he got down on his knees
and, being careful not to jerk on the line, moved as far into the bow as he
could get and reached the water bottle with one hand. He opened it and drank a
little. Then he rested against the bow. He rested sitting on the un-stepped mast
and sail and tried not to think but only to endure.
Then he looked behind him and saw that no land was visible. That makes no
difference, he thought. I can always come in on the glow from Havana. There are
two more hours before the sun sets and maybe he will come up before that. If he
doesn't maybe he will come up with the moon. If he does not do that maybe he
will come up with the sunrise. I have no cramps and I feel strong. It is he that
has the hook in his mouth. But what a fish to pull like that. He must have his
mouth shut tight on the wire. I wish I could see him. I wish I could see him
only once to know what I have against me.
The fish never changed his course nor his direction
all that night as far as the man could tell from watching the stars. It was cold
after the sun went down and the old man's sweat dried cold on his back and his
arms and his old legs. During the day he had taken the sack that covered the
bait box and spread it in the sun to dry. After the sun went down he tied it
around his neck so that it hung down over his back and he cautiously worked it
down under the line that was across his shoulders now. The sack cushioned the
line and 4ie had found a way of leaning forward against the bow so that he was
almost comfortable. The position actually was only somewhat less intolerable;
but he thought of it as almost comfortable.
I can do nothing with him and he can do nothing with me, he thought. Not as long
as he keeps this up.
Once he stood up and urinated over the side of the skiff and looked at the stars
and checked his course. The line showed like a phosphorescent streak in the
water straight out from his shoulders. They were moving more slowly now and the
glow of Havana was not so strong, so that he knew the current must be carrying
them to the eastward. If I lose the glare of Havana we must be going more to the
eastward, he thought. For if the fish's course held true I must see it for many
hours. I wonder how the baseball came out in the grand leagues today, he
thought. It would be wonderful to do this with a radio. Then he thought, think
of it always. Think of what you are doing. You must do nothing stupid.
Then he said aloud, "I wish I had the boy. To help me and to see this."
No one should be alone in their old age, he thought. But it is unavoidable. I
must remember to eat the tuna before he spoils in order to keep strong.
Remember, no matter how little you want to, that you must eat him in the
morning. Remember, he said to himself.
During the night two porpoises came around the boat and he could hear them
rolling and blowing. He could tell the difference between the blowing noise the
male made and the sighing blow of the female.
'They are good," he said. 'They play and make jokes and love one another. They
are our brothers like the flying fish."
Then he began to pity the great fish that he had hooked. Lie is wonderful and
strange and who knows how old he is, he thought. Never have I had such a strong
fish nor one who acted so strangely. Perhaps he is too wise to jump. He could
ruin me by jumping or
by a wild rush. But perhaps he has been hooked many times before and he knows
that this is how he should make his fight. He cannot know that it is only one
man against him, nor that it is an old man. But what a great fish he is and what
will he bring in the market if the flesh is good. He took the bait like a male
and he pulls like a male and his fight has no panic in it. I wonder if he has
any plans or if he is just as desperate as I sin?
He remembered the time he had hooked one of a pair of marlin. The male fish
always let the female fish feed first and the hooked fish, the female, made a
wild, panic-stricken, despairing fight that soon exhausted her, and all the time
the male had stayed with her, crossing the line and circling with her on the
surface. He had stayed so close that the old man was afraid he would cut the
line with his tail which was sharp as a scythe and almost of that size and
shape. When the old man had gaffed her and clubbed her, holding the rapier bill
with its sandpaper edge and dubbing her across the top of her head until her
colour turned to a colour almost like the backing of mirrors, and then, with the
boy's aid, hoisted her aboard, the male fish had stayed by the side of the boat.
Then, while the old man was clearing the lines and preparing the harpoon,
the male fish jumped high into the air beside the boat to see where the female
was and then went down deep, his lavender wings, that were his pectoral fins,
spread wide and all his wide lavender stripes showing. He was beautiful, the old
man remembered, and he had stayed.
That was the saddest thing I ever saw with them, the old man thought. The boy
was sad too and we begged her pardon and butchered her promptly.
"I wish the boy was here," he said aloud and settled himself against the rounded
planks of the bow and felt the strength of the great fish through the line he
held across his shoulders moving steadily toward whatever he had chosen.
When once, through my treachery, it had been necessary to him to make a choice,
the old man thought.
His choice had been to stay in the deep dark water far out beyond all snares and
traps and treacheries. My choice was to go there to find him beyond all people.
Beyond all people in the world. Now we are joined together and have been since
noon. And no one to help either one of us.
Perhaps I should not have been a fisherman, he thought. But that was the thing
that I was born for. I must surely remember to eat the tuna after it gets light.
Some time before daylight something took one of the baits that were behind him.
He heard the stick break and the line begin to rush out over the gunwale of the
skiff. In the darkness he loosened his sheath knife and taking all the strain of
the fish on his left shoulder he leaned back and cut the line against the wood
of the gunwale. Then he cut the other line closest to him and in the dark made
the loose ends of the reserve coils fast. He worked skillfully with the one hand
and put his foot on the coils to hold them as he drew his knots tight. Now he
had six reserve coils of line. There were two from each bait he had severed and
the two from the bait the fish had taken and they were all connected.
After it is light, he thought, I will work back to the forty-fathom bait and cut
it away too and link up the reserve coils. I will have lost two hundred fathoms
of good Catalan cardel and the hooks and leaders. That can be replaced. But who
replaces this fish if I hook some fish and it cuts him off? I don't know what
that fish was that took the bait just now. It could have been a marlin or a
broadbill or a shark. I never felt him. I had to get rid of him too fast.
Aloud he said, "I wish I had the boy."
But you haven't got the boy, he thought. You have only yourself and you had
better work back to the last line now, in the dark or not in the dark, and cut
it away and hook up the two reserve coils.
So he did it. It was difficult in the dark and once the fish made a surge that
pulled him down on his face and made a cut below his eye. The blood ran down his
cheek a little way. But it coagulated and dried before it reached his chin and
he worked his way back to the bow and rested against the wood. He adjusted the
sack and carefully worked the line so that it came across a new part of his
shoulders and, holding it anchored with his shoulders, he carefully felt the
pull of the fish and then felt with his hand the progress of the skiff through
I wonder what he made that lurch for, he thought. The wire must have slipped on
the great hill of his back. Certainly his back cannot feel as badly as mine
does. But he cannot pull this skiff forever, no matter how great he is. Now
everything is cleared away that might make trouble and I have a big reserve of
line; all that a man can ask.
"Fish," he said softly, aloud, "I'll stay with you until I am dead."
He'll stay with me too, I suppose, the old man thought and he waited for it to
be light. It was cold now in the time before daylight and he pushed against the
wood to be warm. I can do it as long as he can, he thought. And in the first
light the line extended out and down into the water. The boat moved steadily and
when the first edge of the sun rose it was on the old man's right shoulder.
"He's headed north," the old man said. The current will have set us far to the
eastward, he thought. I wish he would turn with the current. That would show
that he was tiring.
When the sun had risen further the old man realized that the fish was not
tiring. There was only one favorable sign. The slant of the line showed he was
swimming at a lesser depth. That did not necessarily mean that he would jump.
But he might.
"God let him jump," the old man said. "I have enough line to handle him."
Maybe if I can increase the tension just a little it will hurt him and he will
jump, he thought. Now that it is daylight let him jump so that he'll fill the
sacks along his backbone with air and then he cannot go deep to die.
He tried to increase the tension, but the line had been taut up to the very edge
of the breaking point since he had hooked the fish and he felt the harshness as
he leaned back to pull and knew he could put no more strain on it. I must not
jerk it ever, he thought. Each jerk widens the cut the hook makes and then when
he does jump he might throw it. Anyway I feel better with the sun and for once I
do not-have to look into it.
There was yellow weed on the line but the old man knew that only made an added
drag and he was pleased. It was the yellow Gulf weed that bad made so much
phosphorescence in the night.
"Fish," he said, "I love you and respect you very much. But I will kill you dead
before this day ends."
Let us hope so, he thought.
A small bird came toward the skiff from the north. He was a warbler and flying
very low over the water. The old man could see that he was very tired.
The bird made the stern of the boat and rested there. Then he flew around the
old man's head and rested on the line where he was more comfortable.
"How old are you?" the old man asked the bird. "Is this your first trip?"
The bird looked at him when he spoke. He was too tired even to examine the line
and he teetered on it as his delicate feet gripped it fast.
"It's steady," the old man told him. "It's too steady. You shouldn't be that
tired after a windless night. What are birds coming to?"
The hawks, he thought, that come out to sea to meet them. But he said nothing of
this to the bird who could not understand him anyway and who would learn about
the hawks soon enough.
'Take a good rest, small bird," he said. "Then go in and take your chance like
any man or bird or fish."
It encouraged him to talk because his back had stiffened in the night and it
hurt truly now.
"Stay at my house if you like, bird," he said. "I am sorry I cannot hoist the
sail and take you in with the small breeze that is rising. But I am with a
Just then the fish gave a sudden lurch that pulled the old man down onto the bow
and would have pulled him overboard if he bad not braced himself and given some
The bird had flown up when the line jerked and the old man had not even seen him
go. He felt the line
carefully with his right hand and noticed his hand was bleeding.
"Something hurt him then," he said aloud and pulled back on the line to see if
he could turn the fish. But when he was touching the breaking point he held
steady and settled back against the strain of the line.
"You're feeling it now, fish," he said. "And so, God knows, am I."
He looked around for the bird now because he would have liked him for company.
The bird was gone.
You did not stay long, the man thought. But it is rougher where you are going
until you make the shore. How did I let the fish cut me with that one quick pull
he made? I must be getting very stupid. Or perhaps I was looking at the small
bird and thinking of him. Now I will pay attention to my work and then I must
eat the tuna so that I will not have a failure of strength.
"I wish the boy were here and that I had some salt," he said aloud.
Shifting the weight of the line to his left shoulder and kneeling carefully he
washed his hand in the ocean and held it there, submerged, for more than a
minute watching the blood trail away and the steady movement of the water
against his hand as the boat moved.
"He has slowed much," he said.
The old man would have liked to keep his hand in the salt water longer but he
was afraid of another sudden lurch by the fish and he stood up and braced
himself and held his hand up against the sun. It was only a line burn that had
cut his flesh. But it was in the working part of his hand. He knew he would need
his hands before this was over and he did not like to be cut before it started.
"Now," he said, when his hand had dried, "I must eat the small tuna. I can reach
him with the gaff and eat him here in comfort."
He knelt down and found the tuna under the stem with the gaff and drew it toward
him keeping it clear of the coiled lines. Holding the line with his left
shoulder again, and bracing on his left hand and arm, he took the tuna off the
gaff hook and put the gaff back in place. He put ane knee on the fish and cut
strips of dark red meat longitudinally from the back of the head to the tail.
They were wedge-shaped strips and he cut
them from next to the back bone down to the edge of the belly. When he bad cut
six strips he spread them out on the wood of the bow, wiped his knife on his
trousers, and lifted the carcass of the bonito by the tail and dropped it
"I don't think I can eat an entire one," he said and drew his knife across one
of the strips. He could feel the steady hard pull of the line and his left hand
was cramped. It drew up tight on the heavy cord and he looked at it in disgust.
"What kind of a hand is that," he said. "Cramp then if you want. Make yourself
into a claw. It will do you no good."
Come on, he thought and looked down into the dark water at the slant of the
line. Eat it now and it will strengthen the hand. It is not the hand's fault and
you have been many hours with the fish. But you can stay with him forever. Eat
the bonito now.
He picked up a piece and put it in his mouth and chewed it slowly. It was not
Chew it well, he thought, and get all the juices. It would not be bad to eat
with a little lime or with lemon or with salt.
"How do you feel, hand?" he asked the cramped
hand that was almost as stiff as rigor mortis. "I'll eat some more for you.
He ate the other part of the piece that he had cut in two. He chewed it
carefully and then spat out the skin.
"How does it go, hand? Or is it too early to know?"
He took another full piece and chewed it.
"It is a strong full-blooded fish," he thought. "I was lucky to get him instead
of dolphin. Dolphin is too sweet. This is hardly sweet at all and all the
strength is still in it."
There is no sense in being anything but practical though, he thought. II wish I
had some salt. And I do not know whether the sun will rot or dry what is left,
so I had better eat it all although I am not hungry. The fish is calm and
steady. I will eat it all and then I will be ready.
"Be patient, hand," he said. "I do this for you."
I wish I could feed the fish, he thought. He is my brother. But I must kill him
and keep strong to do it. Slowly and conscientiously he ate all of the
wedgeshaped strips of fish.
He straightened up, wiping his hand on his trousers. "Now," he said. "You can
let the cord go, hand, and I will handle him with the right arm alone until you
stop that nonsense." He put his left foot on the heavy line that the left hand
had held and lay back against the pull against his back.
"God help me to have the cramp go," he said. "Because I do not know what the
fish is going to do."
But he seems calm, he thought, and following his plan. But what is his plan, he
thought. And what is mine? Mine I must improvise to his because of his great
size. If he will jump I can kill him. But he stays down forever. Then I will
stay down with him forever.
He rubbed the cramped hand against his trousers and tried to gentle the fingers.
But it would not open. Maybe it will open with the sun, he thought. Maybe it
will open when the strong raw tuna is digested. If I have to have it, I will
open it, cost whatever it costs. But I do not want to open it now by force. Let
it open by itself and come back of its own accord. After all I abused it much in
the night when it was necessary to free and untie the various lines.
He looked across the sea and knew how alone he was now. But he could see the
prisms in the deep dark water and the line stretching ahead and the strange
undulation of the calm. The clouds were building up now for the trade wind and
he looked ahead and saw a
flight of wild ducks etching themselves against the sky over the water, then
blurring, then etching again and he knew no man was ever alone on the sea.
He thought of how some men feared being out of sight of land in a small boar and
knew they were right in the months of sudden bad weather. But now they were in
hurricane months and, when there are no hum-canes, the weather of hurricane
months is the best of all the year.
If there is a hurricane you always see the signs of it in the sky for days
ahead, if you are at sea. They do not see it ashore because they do not know
what to look for, he thought. The land must make a difference too, in the shape
of the clouds. But we have no hurricane coming now.
He looked at the sky and saw the white cumulus built like friendly piles of ice
cream and high above were the thin feathers of the cirrus against the high
"Light brisa," he said. "Better weather for me than for you, fish."
His left hand was still cramped, but he was unknotting it slowly.
I hate a cramp, he thought. It is a treachery of one's
own body. It is humiliating before others to have a diarrhoea from ptomaine
poisoning or to vomit from it. But a cramp, he thought of it as a calambre,
humiliates oneself especially when one is alone.
If the boy were here he could rub it for me and loosen it down from the forearm,
he thought. But it will loosen up.
Then, with his right hand he felt the difference in the pull of the line before
he saw the slant change in the water. Then, as he leaned against the line and
slapped his left hand hard and fast against his thigh he saw the line slanting
"He's coming up," he said. "Come on hand. Please come on.
The line rose slowly and steadily and then the surface of the ocean bulged ahead
of the boat and the fish came out. He came out unendingly and water poured from
his sides. He was bright in the sun and his head and back were dark purple and
in the sun the stripes on his sides showed wide and a light lavender. His sword
was as long as a baseball bat and tapered like a rapier and he rose his full
length from the water and then re-entered it, smoothly, like a diver and the old
man saw the great scythe-blade of his tail go under and the line commenced to
"He is two feet longer than the skiff," the old man said. The line was going out
fast but steadily and the fish was not panicked. The old man was trying with
both hands to keep the line just inside of breaking strength. He knew that if he
could not slow the fish with a steady pressure the fish could take out all the
line and break it.
He is a great fish and I must convince him, he thought. I must never let him
learn his strength nor what he could do if he made his run. If I were him I
would put in everything now and go until something broke. But, thank God, they
are not as intelligent as we who kill them; although they are more noble and
The old man had seen many great fish. He had seen many that weighed more than a
thousand pounds and he had caught two of that size in his life, but never alone.
Now alone, and out of sight of land, he was fast to the biggest fish that he had
ever seen and bigger than he had ever heard of, and his left hand was still as
tight as the gripped claws of an eagle.
It will uncramp though, he thought. Surely it will uncramp to help my right
hand. There are three things that are brothers: the fish and my two hands. It
must uncramp. It is unworthy of it to be cramped. The fish had slowed again and
was going at his usual pace.
I wonder why he jumped, the old man thought. He jumped almost as though to show
me how big he was. I know now, anyway, he thought. I wish I could show him what
sort of man I am. But then he would see the cramped hand. Let him think I am
more man than I am and I will be so. I wish I was the fish, he thought, with
everything he has against only my will and my intelligence.
He settled comfortably against the wood and took his suffering as it came and
the fish swam steadily and the boat moved slowly through the dark water. There
was a small sea rising with the wind coming up from the east and at noon the old
man's left hand was uncramped.
"Bad news for you, fish," he said and shifted the line over the sacks that
covered his shoulders.
He was comfortable but suffering, although he did not admit the suffering at
"I am not religious," he said. "But I will say ten Our
Fathers and ten Hail Marys that I should catch this fish, and I promise to make
a pilgrimage to the Virgin of Cobre if I catch him. That is a promise."
He commenced to say his prayers mechanically. Sometimes he would be so tired
that he could not remember the prayer and then he would say them fast so that
they would come automatically. Hail Marys are easier to say than Our Fathers, he
"Hail Mary full of Grace the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and
blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us
sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen." Then he added, "Blessed Virgin,
pray for the death of this fish. Wonderful though he is."
With his prayers said, and feeling much better, but suffering exactly as much,
and perhaps a little more, he leaned against the wood of the bow and began,
mechanically, to work the fingers of his left hand.
The sun was hot now although the breeze was rising gently.
"I had better re-bait that little line out over the stern," he said. "If the
fish decides to stay another night I will need to eat again and the water is low
in the bottle. I don't think I can get anything but a dolphin
here. But if I eat him fresh enough he won't be bad. I wish a flying fish would
come on board tonight. But I have no light to attract them. A flying fish is
excellent to eat raw and I would not have to cut him up. I must save all my
strength now. Christ, I did not know he was so big."
"I'll kill him though," he said. "In all his greatness and his glory."
Although it is unjust, he thought. But I will show him what a man can do and
what a man endures.
"I told the boy I was a strange old man," he said.
"Now is when I must prove it."
The thousand times that he had proved it meant nothing. Now he was proving it
again. Each time was a new time and he never thought about the past when he was
I wish he'd sleep and I could sleep and dream about the lions, he thought. Why
are the lions the main thing that is left? Don't think, old man, he said to
himself, Rest gently now against the wood and think of nothing. He is working.
Work as little as you can.
It was getting into the afternoon and the boat still moved slowly and steadily.
But there was an added drag now from the easterly breeze and the old man
rode gently with the small sea and the hurt of the cord across his back came to
him easily and smoothly.
Once in the afternoon the line started to rise again. But the fish only
continued to swim at a slightly higher level. The sun was on the old man's left
arm and shoulder and on his back. So he knew the fish had turned east of north.
Now that he had seen him once, he could picture the fish swimming in the water
with his purple pectoral fins set wide as wings and the great erect tail slicing
through the dark. I wonder how much he sees at that depth, the old man thought.
His eye is huge and a horse, with much less eye, can see in the dark. Once I
could see quite well in the dark. Not in the absolute dark. But almost as a cat
The sun and his steady movement of his fingers had uncramped his left hand now
completely and he began to shift more of the strain to it and he shrugged the
muscles of his back to shift the hurt of the cord a little.
"If you're not tired, fish," he said aloud, "you must be very strange.
He felt very tired now and he knew the night would come soon and he tried to
think of other things. He thought of the Big Leagues, to him they were the Gran
Ligas, and he knew that the Yankees of New York were playing the Tigres of
This is the second day now that I do not know the result of the juegos, he
thought. But I must have confidence and I must be worthy of the great DiMaggio
who does all things perfectly even with the pain of the bone spur in his heel.
What is a bone spur? he asked himself. Un espuela de hueso. We do not have them.
Can it be as painful as the spur of a fighting cock in one's heel? I do not
think I could endure that or the loss of the eye and of both eyes and continue
to fight as the fighting cocks do. Man is not much beside the great birds and
beasts. Still I would rather be that beast down there in the darkness of the
"Unless sharks come," he said aloud. "If sharks come, God pity him and me."
Do you believe the great DiMaggio would stay with a fish as long as I will stay
with this one? he thought. I am sure he would and more since he is young and
strong. Also his father was a fisherman. But would the bone spur hurt him too
"I do not know," he said aloud. "I never had a bone spur.
As the sun set he remembered, to give himself more
confidence, the time in the tavern at Casablanca when he had played the hand
game with the great negro from Cienfuegos who was the strongest man on the
docks. They had gone one day and one night with their elbows on a chalk line on
the table and their forearms straight up and their hands gripped tight. Each one
was trying to force the other's hand down onto the table. There was much betting
and people went in and out of the room under the kerosene lights and he had
looked at the arm and hand of the negro and at the negro's face. They changed
the referees every four hours after the first eight so that the referees could
sleep. Blood came out from under the fingernails of both his and the negro's
hands and they looked each
other in the eye and at their hands and forearms and the bettors went in and out
of the room and sat on high chairs against the wall and watched. The walls were
painted bright blue and were of wood and the lamps
threw their shadows against them. The negro's shadow was huge and it moved on
the wall as the breeze moved the lamps.
The odds would change back and forth all night and they fed the negro rum and
lighted cigarettes for him.
Then the negro, after the rum, would try for a tremendous
effort and once he had the old man, who was not an old man then but was Santiago
El Campeon, nearly three inches off balance. But the old man had raised his hand
up to dead even again. He was sure then that he had the negro, who was a fine
man and a great athlete, beaten. And at daylight when the bettors were asking
that it be called a draw and the referee was shaking his head, he had unleashed
his effort and forced the hand of the negro down and down until it rested on the
wood. The match had started on a Sunday morning and ended on a Monday morning.
Many of the bettors had asked for a draw because they had to go to work on the
docks loading sacks of sugar or at the Havana Coal Company. Otherwise everyone
would have wanted it to go to a finish. But he had finished it anyway and before
anyone had to go to work.
For a long time after that everyone had called him The Champion and there had
been a return match in the spring. But not much money was bet and he had won it
quite easily since he had broken the confidence of the negro from Cienfuegos in
the first match. After that he had a few matches and then no more. He decided
that he could beat anyone if he wanted to badly enough and he decided that it
was bad for his right
hand for fishing. He had tried a few practice matches with his left hand. But
his left hand had always been a traitor and would not do what he called on it to
do and he did not trust it.
The sun will bake it out well now, he thought. It should not cramp on me again
unless it gets too cold in the night. I wonder what this night will bring.
An airplane passed overhead on its course to Miami and he watched its shadow
scaring up the schools of flying fish.
"With so much flying fish there should be dolphin," he said, and leaned back on
the line to see if it was possible to gain any on his fish. But he could not and
it stayed at the hardness and water-drop shivering that preceded breaking. The
boat moved ahead slowly and he watched the airplane until he could no longer see
It must be very strange in an airplane, he thought. I wonder what the sea looks
like from that height? They should be able to see the fish well if they do not
fly too high. I would like to fly very slowly at two hundred fathoms high and
see the fish from above. In the turtle boats I was in the cross-trees of the
mast-head and even at that height I saw much. The dolphin look greener from
there and you can see their stripes and their purple
spots and you can see all of the school as they swim. Why is it that all the
fast-moving fish of the dark current have purple backs and usually purple
stripes or spots? The dolphin looks green of course be-cause he is really
golden. But when he comes to feed, truly hungry, purple stripes show on his
sides as on a marlin. Can it be anger, or the greater speed he makes that brings
Just before it was dark, as they passed a great island of Sargasso weed that
heaved and swung in the light sea as though the ocean were making love with
something under a yellow blanket, his small line was taken by a dolphin. He saw
it first when it jumped in the air, true gold in the last of the sun and bending
and flapping wildly in the air. It jumped again and again in the acrobatics of
its fear and he worked his way back to the stern and crouching and holding the
big line with his right hand and arm, he pulled the dolphin in with his left
hand, stepping on the gained line each time with his bare left foot. When the
fish was at the stem, plunging and cutting from side to side in desperation, the
old man leaned over the stern and lifted the burnished gold fish with its purple
spots over the stem. Its jaws were working convulsively in quick bites against
the hook and it pounded the bottom of the skiff with its long flat body, its
tail and its head until he clubbed it across the shining golden head until it
shivered and was still.
The old man unhooked the fish, re-baited the line with another sardine and
tossed it over. Then he worked his way slowly back to the bow. He washed his
left hand and wiped it on his trousers. Then he shifted the heavy line from his
right hand to his left and washed his right hand in the sea while he watched the
sun go into the ocean and the slant of the big cord.
"He hasn't changed at all," he said. But watching the movement of the water
against his hand he noted that it was perceptibly slower.
"I'll lash the two oars together across the stern and that will slow him in the
night," he said. "He's good for the night and so am I."
It would be better to gut the dolphin a little later to save the blood in the
meat, he thought. I can do that a little later and lash the oars to make a drag
at the same tune. I had better keep the fish quiet now and not disturb him too
much at sunset. The setting of the sun is a difficult time for all fish. He let
his hand dry in the air then grasped the line
with it and eased himself as much as he could and allowed himself to be pulled
forward against the wood so that the boat took the strain as much, or more, than
I'm learning how to do it, he thought. This part of it anyway. Then too,
remember he hasn't eaten since he took the bait and he is huge and needs much
food. I have eaten the whole bonito. Tomorrow I will eat the dolphin. He called
it dorado. Perhaps I should eat some of it when I clean it. It will be harder to
eat than the bonito. But, then, nothing is easy.
"How do you feel, fish?" he asked aloud. "I feel good and my left hand is better
and I have food for a night and a day. Pull the boat, fish."
He did not truly feel good because the pain from the cord across his back had
almost passed pain and gone into a dullness that he mistrusted. But I have had
worse things than that, he thought. My hand is only cut a little and the cramp
is gone from the other. My legs are all right. Also now I have gained on him in
the question of sustenance.
It was dark now as it becomes dark quickly after the sun sets in September. He
lay against the worn wood of the bow and rested all that he could. The first
were out. He did not know the name of Rigel but he saw it and knew soon they
would all be out and he would have all his distant friends.
'The fish is my friend too," he said aloud. "I have never seen or heard of such
a fish. But I must kill him. I am glad we do not have to try to kill the stars.
Imagine if each day a man must try to kill the moon, he thought. The moon runs
away. But imagine if a man each day should have to try to kill the sun? We were
born lucky, he thought.
Then he was sorry for the great fish that had nothing to eat and his
determination to kill him never relaxed in his sorrow for him. How many people
will he feed, he thought. But are they worthy to eat him? No, of course not.
There is no one worthy of eating him from the manner of his behaviour and his
I do not understand these things, he thought. But it is good that we do not have
to try to kill the sun or the moon or the stars. It is enough to live on the sea
and kill our true brothers.
Now, he thought, I must think about the drag. It has its perils and its merits.
I may lose so much line that I will lose him, if he makes his effort and the
made by the oars is in place and the boat loses all her lightness. Her lightness
prolongs both our suffering but it is my safety since he has great speed that he
has never yet employed. No matter what passes I must gut the dolphin so he does
not spoil and eat some of him to be strong.
Now I will rest an hour more and feel that he is solid and steady before I move
back to the stern to do the work and make the decision. In the meantime I can
see how he acts and if he shows any changes. The oars are a good trick; but it
has reached the time to play for safety. He is much fish still and I saw that
the hook was in the corner of his mouth and he has kept his mouth tight shut.
The punishment of the hook is nothing. The punishment of hunger, and that he is
against something that he does not comprehend, is everything. Rest now, old man,
and let him work until your next duty comes.
He rested for what he believed to be two hours. The moon did not rise now until
late and he had no way of judging the time. Nor was he really resting except
comparatively. He was still bearing the pull of the fish across his shoulders
but be placed his left hand on the
gunwale of the bow and confided more and more of the resistance to the fish to
the skiff itself.
How simple it would be if I could make the line fast, he thought. But with one
small lurch he could break it. I must cushion the pull of the line with my body
and at all times be ready to give line with both hands.
"But you have not slept yet, old man," he said aloud. "It is half a day and a
night and now another day and you have not slept. You must devise a way so that
you sleep a little if he is quiet and steady. If you do not sleep you might
become unclear in the head."
I'm clear enough in the head, he thought. Too clear. I am as clear as the stars
that are my brothers. Still I must sleep. They sleep and the moon and the sun
sleep and even the ocean sleeps sometimes on certain days when there is no
current and a flat calm.
But remember to sleep, he thought. Make yourself do it and devise some simple
and sure way about the lines. Now go back and prepare the dolphin. It is too
dangerous to rig the oars as a drag if you must sleep.
I could go without sleeping, he told himself. But it would be too dangerous.
He started to work his way back to the stern on his hands and knees, being
careful not to jerk against the fish. He may be half asleep himself, he thought.
But I do not want him to rest. He must pull until he dies.
Rack in the stem he turned so that his left hand held the strain of the line
across his shoulders and drew his knife from its sheath with his right hand. The
stars were bright now and he saw the dolphin clearly and he pushed the blade of
his knife into his head and drew him out from under the stem. He put one of his
feet on the fish and slit him quickly from the vent up to the tip of his lower
jaw. Then he put his knife down and gutted him with his right hand, scooping him
clean and pulling the gills clear.
He felt the maw heavy and slippery in his hands and he slit it open. There were
two flying fish inside. They were fresh and hard and he laid them side by side
and dropped the guts and the gills over the stem. They sank leaving a trail of
phosphorescence in the water. The dolphin was cold and a leprous gray-white now
in the starlight and the old man skinned one side of him while he held his right
foot on the fish's head. Then he turned him over and skinned the other side and
cut each side off from the head down to the tail.
He slid the carcass overboard and looked to see if there was any swirl in the
water. But there was only the light of its slow descent. He turned then and
placed the two flying fish inside the two fillets of fish and putting his knife
back in its sheath, he worked his way slowly back to the bow. His back was bent
with the weight of the line across it and he carried the fish in his right hand.
Rack in the bow he laid the two fillets of fish out on the wood with the flying
fish beside them. After that he settled the line across his shoulders in a new
place and held it again with his left hand resting on the gunwale. Then he
leaned over the side and washed the flying fish in the water, noting the speed
of the water against his hand. His hand was phosphorescent from skinning the
fish and he watched the flow of the water against it. The flow was less strong
and as he rubbed the side of his hand against the planking of the skiff,
particles of phosphorus floated off and drifted slowly astern.
"He is tiring or he is resting," the old man said. "Now let me get through the
eating of this dolphin and get some rest and a little sleep."
Under the stars and with the night colder all the
time he ate half of one of the dolphin fillets and one of the flying fish,
gutted and with its head cut off.
"What an excellent fish dolphin is to eat cooked," he said. "And what a
miserable fish raw. I will never go in a boat again without salt or limes."
If I had brains I would have splashed water on the bow all day and drying, it
would have made salt, he thought. But then I did not hook the dolphin until
almost sunset. Still it was a lack of preparation. But I have chewed it all well
and I am not nauseated.
The sky was clouding over to the east and one after another the stars he knew
were gone. It looked now as though he were moving into a great canyon of clouds
and the wind had dropped.
"There will be bad weather in three or four days," he said. "But not tonight and
not tomorrow. Rig now to get some sleep, old man, while the fish is calm and
He held the line tight in his right hand and then pushed his thigh against his
right hand as he leaned all his weight against the wood of the bow. Then he
passed the line a little lower on his shoulders and braced his left hand on it.
My right hand can hold it as long as it is braced, he
thought If it relaxes in sleep my left hand will wake me as the line goes out.
It is hard on the right hand. But he is used to punishment Even if I sleep
twenty minutes or a half an hour it is good. He lay forward cramping himself
against the line with all of his body, putting all his weight onto his right
band, and he was asleep.
He did not dream of the lions but instead of a vast school of porpoises that
stretched for eight or ten miles and it was in the time of their mating and they
would leap high into the air and return into the same hole they had made in the
water when they leaped.
Then be dreamed that he was in the village on his bed and there was a norther
and he was very cold and his right arm was asleep because his head had rested on
it instead of a pillow.
After that he began to dream of the long yellow beach and he saw the first of
the lions come down onto it in the early dark and then the other lions came and
he rested his chin on the wood of the bows where the ship lay anchored with the
evening off-shore breeze and he waited to see if there would be more lions and
he was happy.
The moon had been up for a long time but he slept
on and the fish pulled on steadily and the boat moved into the tunnel of clouds.
He woke with the jerk of his right fist coming up against his face and the line
burning out through his right hand. He had no feeling of his left hand but he
braked all he could with his right and the line rushed out. Finally his left
hand found the line and he leaned back against the line and now it burned his
back and his left hand, and his left hand was taking all the strain and cutting
badly. He looked back at the coils of line and they were feeding smoothly. Just
then the fish jumped making a great bursting of the ocean and then a heavy fall.
Then he jumped again and again and the boat was going fast although line was
still racing out and the old man was raising the strain to breaking point and
raising it to breaking point again and again. He had been pulled down tight onto
the bow and his face was in the cut slice of dolphin and he could not move.
This is what we waited for, he thought. So now let us take it. Make him pay for
the line, he thought. Make him pay for it.
He could not see the fish's jumps but only heard the
breaking of the ocean and the heavy splash as he fell. The speed of the line was
cutting his hands badly but he had always known this would happen and he tried
to keep the cutting across the calloused parts and not let the line slip into
the palm nor cut the fingers.
If the boy was here he would wet the coils of line, he thought. Yes. If the boy
were here. If the boy were here.
The line went out and out and out but it was slowing now and he was making the
fish earn each inch of it. Now he got his head up from the wood and out of the
slice of fish that his cheek had crushed. Then he was on his knees and then he
rose slowly to his feet. He was ceding line but more slowly all he time. He
worked back to where he could feel with his foot the coils of line that he could
not see. There was plenty of line still and now the fish had to pull the
friction of all that new line through the water.
Yes, he thought. And now he has jumped more than a dozen times and filled the
sacks along his back with air and he cannot go down deep to die where I cannot
bring him up. He will start circling soon and then I must work on him. I wonder
what started him so suddenly? Could it have been hunger that made him desperate,
or was he frightened by something in the night? Maybe he suddenly felt fear. But
he was such a calm, strong fish and he seemed so fearless and so confident. It
"You better he fearless and confident yourself, old man," he said. "You're
holding him again but you cannot get line. Rut soon he has to circle."
The old man held him with his left hand and his shoulders now and stooped down
and scooped up water in his right hand to get the crushed dolphin flesh off of
his face. He was afraid that it might nauseate him and he would vomit and lose
his strength. 'When his face was cleaned he washed his right hand in the water
over the side and then let it stay in the salt water while he watched the first
light come before the sunrise. He's headed almost east, he thought. That means
he is tired and going with the current. Soon he will have to circle. Then our
true work begins.
After he judged that his right hand had been in the water long enough he took it
out and looked at it.
"It is not bad," he said. "And pain does not matter to a man.
He took bold of the line carefully so that it did not fit into any of the fresh
line cuts and shifted his weight
so that he could put his left hand into the sea on the other side of the skiff.
"You did not do so badly for something worthless," he said to his left hand.
"But there was a moment when I could not find you."
Why was I not born with two good hands? he thought. Perhaps it was my fault in
not training that one properly. But God knows he has had enough chances to
learn. He did not do so badly in the night, though, and he has only cramped
once. If he cramps again let the line cut him off.
When he thought that he knew that he was not being clear-headed and he thought
he should chew some more of the dolphin. But I can't, he told himself. It is
better to be light-headed than to lose your strength from nausea. And I know I
cannot keep it if I eat it since my face was in it. I will keep it for an
emergency until it goes bad. But it is too late to try for strength now through
nourishment. You're stupid, he told himself. Eat the other flying fish.
It was there, cleaned and ready, and he picked it up with his left hand and ate
it chewing the bones carefully and eating all of it down to the tail.
It has more nourishment than almost any fish, he
thought. At least the kind of strength that I need. Now I have done what I can,
he thought. Let him begin to circle and let the fight come.
The sun was rising for the third time since he had put to sea when the fish
started to circle.
He could not see by the slant of the line that the fish was circling. It was too
early for that. He just felt a faint slackening of the pressure of the line and
be commenced to pull on it gently with his right hand. It tightened, as always,
but just when he reached the point where it would break, line began to come in.
He slipped his shoulders and head from under the line and began to pull in line
steadily and gently. He used both of his hands in a swinging motion and tried to
do the pulling as much as he could with his body and his legs. His old legs and
shoulders pivoted with the swinging of the pulling.
"It is a very big circle," he said. "But he is circling." Then the line would
not come in any more and he held it until he saw the drops jumping from it in
the sun. Then it started out and the old man knelt down and let it go grudgingly
back into the dark water.
"He is making the far part of his circle now," he said. I must hold all I can,
he thought. The strain will
shorten his circle each time. Perhaps in an hour I will see him. Now I must
convince him and then I must kill him.
But the fish kept on circling slowly and the old man was wet with sweat and
tired deep into his bones two hours later. But the circles were much shorter now
and from the way the line slanted he could tell the fish had risen steadily
while he swam.
For an hour the old man had been seeing black spots before his eyes and the
sweat salted his eyes and salted the cut over his eye and on his forehead. He
was not afraid of the black spots. They were normal at the tension that he was
pulling on the line. Twice, though, he had felt faint and dizzy and that had
"I could not fail myself and die on a fish like this," he said. "Now that I have
him coming so beautifully, God help me endure. I'll say a hundred Our Fathers
and a hundred Hail Marys. But I cannot say them now.
Consider them said, he thought. I'll say them later. Just then he felt a sudden
banging and jerking on the line he held with his two hands. It was sharp and
hard-feeling and heavy.
He is hitting the wire leader with his spear, be
thought. That was bound to come. He had to do that. It may make him jump though
and I would rather he stayed circling now. The jumps were necessary for him to
take air. But after that each one can widen the opening of the hook wound and he
can throw the hook.
"Don't jump, fish," he said. "Don't jump."
The fish hit the wire several times more and each time he shook his head the old
man gave up a little line.
I must hold his pain where it is, he thought. Mine does not matter. I can
control mine. But his pain could drive him mad.
After a while the fish stopped beating at the wire and started circling slowly
again. The old man was gaining line steadily now. But he felt faint again. He
lifted some sea water with his left hand and put it on his head. Then he put
more on and rubbed the back of his neck.
"I have no cramps," he said. "He'll be up soon and I can last. You have to last.
Don't even speak of it."
He kneeled against the bow and, for a moment, slipped the line over his back
again. I'll rest now while he goes out on the circle and then stand up and work
on him when he comes in, he decided.
It was a great temptation to rest in the bow and let the fish make one circle by
himself without recovering any line. But when the strain showed the fish had
turned to come toward the boat, the old man rose to his feet and started the
pivoting and the weaving pulling that brought in all the line he gained.
I'm tireder than I have ever been, he thought, and now the trade wind is rising.
But that will be good to take him in with. I need that badly.
"I'll rest on the next turn as he goes out," he said. "I feel much better. Then
in two or three turns more I will have him."
His straw hat was far on the back of his head and he sank down into the bow with
the pull of the line as he felt the fish turn.
You work now, fish, he thought. I'll take you at the turn.
The sea had risen considerably. But it was a fair-weather breeze and he had to
have it to get home.
"I'll just steer south and west," he said. "A man is never lost at sea and it is
a long island."
It was on the third turn that he saw the fish first.
He saw him first as a dark shadow that took so long
to pass under the boat that he could not believe its length.
"No," he said. "He can't be that big."
But he was that big and at the end of this circle he came to the surface only
thirty yards away and the man saw his tail out of water. It was higher than a
big scythe blade and a very pale lavender above the dark blue water. It raked
back and as the fish swam just below the surface the old man could see his huge
bulk and the purple stripes that banded him. His dorsal fin was down and his
huge pectorals were spread wide.
On this circle the old man could see the fish's eye and the two gray sucking
fish that swain around him. Sometimes they attached themselves to him. Sometimes
they darted off. Sometimes they would swim easily in his shadow. They were each
over three feet long and when they swam fast they lashed their whole bodies like
The old man was sweating now but from something else besides the sun. On each
calm placid turn the fish made he was gaining line and he was sure that in two
turns more he would have a chance to get the harpoon in.
But I must get him dose, close, close, he thought. I mustn't try for the head. I
must get the heart
"Be calm and strong, old man," he said.
On the next circle the fish's beck was out but he was a little too far from the
boat. On the next circle he was still too far away but he was higher out of
water and the old man was sure that by gaining some more line he could have him
He had rigged his harpoon long before and its coil of light rope was in a round
basket and the end was made fast to the bitt in the bow.
The fish was coming in on his circle now calm and beautiful looking and only his
great tail moving. The old man pulled on him all that he could to bring him
closer. For just a moment the fish turned a little on his side. Then he
straightened himself and began another circle.
"I moved him," the old man said. "I moved him then."
He felt faint again now but he held on the great fish all the strain that he
could. I moved him, he thought. Maybe this time I can get him over. Pull, hands,
he thought. Hold up, legs. Last for me, head. Last for me. You never went This
time I'll pull him over.
But when he put all of his effort on, starting it well out before the fish came
alongside and pulling with all his strength, the fish pulled part way over and
then righted himself and swam away.
"Fish," the old man said. "Fish, you are going to have to die anyway. Do you
have to kill me too?"
That way nothing is accomplished, he thought. His mouth was too dry to speak but
he could not reach for the water now. I must get him alongside this time, he
thought. I am not good for many more turns. Yes you are, he told himself. You're
good for ever.
On the next turn, he nearly had him. But again the fish righted himself and swam
You are killing me, fish, the old man thought. But you have a right to. Never
have I seen a greater, or more beautiful, or a calmer or more noble thing than
you, brother. Come on and kill me. I do not care who kills who.
Now you are getting confused in the head, he thought. You must keep your head
dear. Keep your head clear and know how to suffer like a man. Or a fish, he
"Clear up, head," he said in a voice he could hardly hear. "Clear up."
Twice more it was the same on the turns.
I do not know, the old man thought. He had been on the point of feeling himself
go each time. I do not know. But I will try it once more.
He tried it once more and he felt himself going when he turned the fish. The
fish righted himself and swam off again slowly with the great tail weaving in
I'll try it again, the old man promised, although his hands were mushy now and
he could only see well in flashes.
He tried it again and it was the same. So he thought, and he felt himself going
before he started; I will try it once again.
He took all his pain and what was left of his strength and his long gone pride
and he put it against the fish's agony and the fish came over onto his side and
swam gently on his side, his bill almost touching the planking of the skiff and
started to pass the boat, long, deep, wide, silver and barred with purple and
interminable in the water.
The old man dropped the line and put his foot on it and lifted the harpoon as
high as he could and drove it down with all his strength, and more strength he
just summoned, into the fish's side just behind the great chest fin that rose
high in the air to the altitude of the man's chest. He felt the iron go in and
he leaned on it and drove it further and then pushed all his weight after it.
Then the fish came alive, with his death in him, and rose high out of the water
showing all his great length and width and all his power and his beauty. He
seemed to hang in the air above the old man in the skiff. Then he fell into the
water with a crash that sent spray over the old man and over all of the skiff.
The old man felt faint and sick and he could not see well. But he cleared the
harpoon line and let it run slowly through his raw hands and, when he could see,
he saw the fish was on his back with his silver belly up. The shaft of the
harpoon was projecting at an angle from the fish's shoulder and the sea was
discolouring with the red of the blood from his heart. First it was dark as a
shoal in the blue water that was more than a mile deep. Then it spread like a
cloud. The fish was silvery and still and floated with the waves.
The old man looked carefully in the glimpse of vision that he had. Then he took
two turns of the harpoon
line around the bitt in the bow and hid his head on his hands.
"Keep my head dear," he said against the wood of the bow. "I am a tired old man.
But I have killed this fish which is my brother and now I must do the slave
Now I must prepare the nooses and the rope to lash him alongside, he thought.
Even if we were two and swamped her to load him and bailed her out, this skiff
would never hold him. I must prepare everything, then bring him in and lash him
well and step the mast and set sail for home.
He started to pull the fish in to have him alongside so that he could pass a
line through his gills and out his mouth and make his head fast alongside the
bow. I want to see him, he thought, and to touch and to feel him. He is my
fortune, he thought. But that is not why I wish to feel him. I think I felt his
heart, he thought. When I pushed on the harpoon shaft the second time. Bring him
in now and make him fast and get the noose around his tail and another around
his middle to bind him to the skiff.
"Get to work, old man," he said. He took a very
small drink of the water. "There is very much slave work to be done now that the
fight is over."
He looked up at the sky and then out to his fish. He looked at the sun
carefully. It is not much more than noon, he thought. And the trade wind is
rising. The lines all mean nothing now. The boy and I will splice them when we
"Come on, fish," he said. But the fish did not come.
Instead he lay there wallowing now in the seas and the old man pulled the skiff
upon to him.
When he was even with him and had the fish's head against the bow he could not
believe his size. But he untied the harpoon rope from the bitt, passed it
through the fish's gills and out his jaws, made a turn around his sword then
passed the rope through the other gill, made another turn around the bill and
knotted the double rope and made it fast to the bitt in the bow. He cut the rope
then and went astern to noose the tail. The fish had turned silver from his
original purple and silver, and the stripes showed the same pale violet colour
as his tail. They were wider than a man's hand with his fingers spread and the
fish's eye looked as detached as the mirrors in a periscope or as a saint in a
"It was the only way to kill him," the old man said. He was feeling better since
the water and he knew he would not go away and his head was clear. He's over
fifteen hundred pounds the way he is, he thought. Maybe much more. If he dresses
out two-thirds of that at thirty cents a pound?
"I need a pencil for that," he said. "My head is not that clear. But I think the
great DiMaggio would be proud of me today. I had no bone spurs. But the hands
and the back hurt truly." I wonder what a bone spur is, he thought. Maybe we
have them without knowing of it.
He made the fish fast to bow and stern and to the middle thwart. He was so big
it was like lashing a much bigger skiff alongside. He cut a piece of line and
tied the fish's lower jaw against his bill so his mouth would not open and they
would sail as cleanly as possible. Then he stepped the mast and, with the stick
that was his gaff and with his boom rigged, the patched sail drew, the boat
began to move, and half lying in the stern he sailed south-west.
He did not need a compass to tell him where southwest was. He only needed the
feel of the trade wind and the drawing of the sail. I better put a small line
out with a spoon on it and try and get something to eat and drink for the
moisture. But he could not find a spoon and his sardines were rotten. So he
hooked a patch of yellow Gulf weed with the gaff as they passed and shook it so
that the small shrimps that were in it fell onto the planking of the skiff.
There were more than a dozen of them and they jumped and kicked like sand fleas.
The old man pinched their heads off with his thumb and forefinger and ate them
chewing up the shells and the tails. They were very tiny but he knew they were
nourishing and they tasted good.
The old man still had two drinks of water in the bottle and he used half of one
after he had eaten the shrimps. The skiff was sailing well considering the
handicaps and he steered with the tiller under his arm. He could see the fish
and he had only to look at his hands and feel his back against the stern to know
that this had truly happened and was not a dream. At one time when he was
feeling so badly toward the end, he had thought perhaps it was a dream. Then
when he had seen the fish come out of the water and hang motionless in the sky
before he fell, he was sure there was some great strangeness and he could not
Then he could not see well, although now he saw as well as ever. Now he knew
there was the fish and his hands and back were no dream. The hands cure quickly,
he thought. I bled them clean and the salt water will heal them. The dark water
of the true gulf is the greatest healer that there is. All I must do is keep the
head clear. The hands have done their work and we sail well. With his mouth shut
and his tail straight up and down we sail like brothers. Then his head started
to become a little unclear and he thought, is he bringing me in or am I bringing
him in? If I were towing him behind there would be no question. Nor if the fish
were in the skiff, with all dignity gone, there would be no question either. But
they were sailing together lashed side by side and the old man thought, let him
bring me in if it pleases him. I am only better than him through trickery and he
meant me no harm.
They sailed well and the old man soaked his hands in the salt water and tried to
keep his bead dear. There were high cumulus clouds and enough cirrus above them
so that the old man knew the breeze would last all night. The old man looked at
the fish constantly
to make sure it was true. It was an hour before the first shark hit him.
The shark was not an accident. He had come up from deep down in the water as the
dark cloud of blood had settled and dispersed in the mile deep sea. He had come
up so fast and absolutely without caution that he broke the surface of the blue
water and was in the sun. Then he fell back into the sea and picked up the scent
and started swimming on the course the skiff and the fish had taken.
Sometimes he lost the scent. But he would pick it up again, or have just a trace
of it, and he swam fast and hard on the course. He was a very big Make shark
built to swim as fast as the fastest fish in the sea and everything about him
was beautiful except his jaws. His back was as blue as a sword fish's and his
belly was silver and his hide was smooth and handsome. He was built as a sword
fish except for his huge jaws which were tight shut now as he swam fast, just
under the surface with his high dorsal fin knifing through the water without
wavering. Inside the closed double lip of his jaws all of his eight rows of
teeth were slanted inwards. They were not the ordinary pyramid-shaped teeth of
most sharks. They were shaped like a man's
fingers when they are crisped like claws. They were nearly as long as the
fingers of the old man and they had razor-sharp cutting edges on both sides.
This was a fish built to feed on all the fishes in the sea, that were so fast
and strong and well armed that they had no other enemy. Now he speeded up as he
smelled the fresher scent and his blue dorsal fin cut the water.
When the old man saw him coming he knew that this was a shark that had no fear
at all and would do exactly what he wished. He prepared the harpoon and made the
rope fast while he watched the shark come on. The rope was short as it lacked
what he had cut away to lash the fish.
The old man's head was clear and good now and he was full of resolution but he
had little hope. It was too good to last, he thought. He took one look at the
great fish as he watched the shark close in. It might as well have been a dream,
he thought. I cannot keep him from hitting me but maybe I can get him. Dentuso,
he thought. Bad luck to your mother.
The shark closed fast astern and when he hit the fish the old man saw his mouth
open and his strange eyes and the clicking chop of the teeth as he drove forward
in the meat just above the tail. The shark's head
was out of water and his back was coming out and the old man could hear the
noise of skin and flesh ripping on the big fish when he rammed the harpoon down
onto the shark's head at a spot where the line between his eyes intersected with
the line that ran straight back from his nose. There were no such lines. There
was only the heavy sharp blue head and the big eyes and the clicking, thrusting
all-swallowing jaws. But that was the location of the brain and the old man hit
it. He hit it with his blood mushed hands driving a good harpoon with all his
strength. He hit it without hope but with resolution and complete malignancy.
The shark swung over and the old man saw his eye was not alive and then he swung
over once again, wrapping himself in two loops of the rope. The old man knew
that he was dead but the shark would not accept it. Then, on his back, with his
tail lashing and his jaws clicking, the shark plowed over the water as a
speedboat does. The water was white where his tail beat it and three-quarters of
his body was clear above the water when the rope came taut, shivered, and then
snapped. The shark lay quietly for a little while on the surface and the old man
watched him. Then he went down very slowly.
"He took about forty pounds," the old man said aloud. He took my harpoon too and
all the rope, he thought, and now my fish bleeds again and there will be others.
He did not like to look at the fish anymore since he had been mutilated. When
the fish had been hit it was as though he himself were hit.
But I killed the shark that hit my fish, he thought. And he was the biggest
dentuso that I have ever seen. And God knows that I have seen big ones.
It was too good to last, he thought. I wish it had been a dream now and that I
had never hooked the fish and was alone in bed on the newspapers.
"But man is not made for defeat," he said. "A man can be destroyed but not
defeated." I am sorry that I killed the fish though, he thought. Now the bad
time is coming and I do not even have the harpoon. The dentuso is cruel and able
and strong and intelligent. But I was more intelligent than he was. Perhaps
not,, he thought. Perhaps I was only better armed.
"Don't think, old man," he said aloud. "Sail on this course and take it when it
But I must think, he thought. Because it is all I have left. That and baseball.
I wonder how the great
DiMaggio would have liked the way I hit him in the brain? It was no great thing,
he thought. Any man could do it. But do you think my hands were as great a
handicap as the bone spurs? I cannot know. I never had anything wrong with my
heel except the time the sting ray stung it when I stepped on him when swimming
and paralyzed the lower leg and made the unbearable pain.
"Think about something cheerful, old man," he said. "Every minute now you are
closer to home. You sail lighter for the loss of forty pounds."
He knew quite well the pattern of what could happen when he reached the inner
part of the current. But there was nothing to be done now.
"Yes there is," he said aloud. "I can lash my knife to the butt of one of the
So he did that with the tiller under his arm and the sheet of the sail under his
"Now," he said. "I am still an old man. But I am not unarmed."
The breeze was fresh now and he sailed on well. He watched only the forward part
of the fish and some of his hope returned.
It is silly not to hope, he thought. Besides I believe
it is a sin. Do not think about sin, he thought. There are enough problems now
without sin. Also I have no understanding of it.
I have no understanding of it and I am not sure that I believe in it. Perhaps it
was a sin to kill the fish. I suppose it was even though I did it to keep me
alive and feed many people. But then everything is a sin. Do not think about
sin. It is much too late for that and there are people who are paid to do it.
Let them think about it. You were born to be a fisherman as the fish was born to
be a fish. San Pedro was a fisherman as was the father of the great DiMaggio.
But he liked to think about all things that he was involved in and since there
was nothing to read and he did not have a radio, he thought much and he kept on
thinking about sin. You did not kill the fish only to keep alive and to sell for
food, he thought. You killed him for pride and because you are a fisherman. You
loved him when he was alive and you loved him after. If you love him, it is not
a sin to kill him. Or is it
"You think too much, old man," he said aloud.
But you enjoyed killing the dentuso, he thought. He lives on the live fish as
you do. He is not a scavenger
nor just a moving appetite as some sharks are. He is beautiful and noble and
knows no fear of anything.
"I killed him in self-defense," the old man said aloud. "And I killed him well."
Besides, he thought, everything kills everything else in some way. Fishing kills
me exactly as it keeps me alive. The boy keeps me alive, he thought. I must not
deceive myself too much.
He leaned over the side and pulled loose a piece of the meat of the fish where
the shark had cut him. He chewed it and noted its quality and its good taste. It
was firm and juicy, like meat, but it was not red. There was no stringiness in
it and he knew that it would bring the highest price In the market. But there
was no way to keep its scent out of the water and the old man knew that a very
had time was coming.
The breeze was steady. It had backed a little further into the north-east and he
knew that meant that it would not fall off. The old man looked ahead of him but
he could see no sails nor could he see the hull nor the smoke of any ship. There
were only the flying fish that went up from his bow sailing away to either side
and the yellow patches of Gulf weed. He could not even see a bird.
He had sailed for two hours, resting in the stern and sometimes chewing a bit of
the meat from the marlin, trying to rest and to be strong, when he saw the first
of the two sharks.
"Ay," he said aloud. There is no translation for this word and perhaps it is
just a noise such as a man might make, involuntarily, feeling the nail go
through his hands and into the wood.
"Galanos," he said aloud. He had seen the second fin now coming up behind the
first and had identified them as shovel-nosed sharks by the brown, triangular
fin and the sweeping movements of the tail. They had the scent and were excited
and in the stupidity of their great hunger they were losing and finding the
scent in their excitement. But they were closing all the time.
The old man made the sheet fast and jammed the tiller. Then he took up the oar
with the knife lashed to it. He lifted it as lightly as he could because his
hands rebelled at the pain. Then he opened and closed them on it lightly to
loosen them. He closed them firmly so they would take the pain now and would not
flinch and watched the sharks come. He could see their wide, flattened,
shovel-pointed heads now and their white tipped wide pectoral fins. They were
bad smelling, scavengers as well as killers, and when they were hungry they
would bite at an oar or the rudder of a boat. It was these sharks that would cut
the turtles' legs and flippers off when the turtles were asleep on the surface,
and they would hit a man in the water, if they were hungry, even if the man had
no smell of fish blood nor of fish slime on him.
"Ay," the old man said. "Galanos. Come on galanos."
They came. But they did not come as the Mako had come. One turned and went out
of sight under the skiff and the old man could feel the skiff shake as he jerked
and pulled on the fish. The other watched the old man with his slitted yellow
eyes and then came in fast with his half circle of jaws wide to hit the fish
where he had already been bitten. The line showed clearly on the top of his
brown head and back where the brain joined the spinal cord and the old man drove
the knife on the oar into the juncture, withdrew it, and drove it in again into
the shark's yellow cat-like eyes. The shark let go of the fish and slid down,
swallowing what he had taken as he died.
The skiff was still shaking with the destruction the other shark was doing to
the fish and the old man let
go the sheet so that the skiff would swing broadside and bring the shark out
from under. When he saw the shark he leaned over the side and punched at him. He
hit only meat and the hide was set hard and he barely got the knife in. The blow
hurt not only his hands but his shoulder too. But the shark came up fast with
his head out and the old man hit him squarely in the center of his flat-topped
head as his nose came out of water and lay against the fish. The old man
withdrew the blade and punched the shark exactly in the same spot again. He
still hung to the fish with his jaws hooked and the old man stabbed him in his
left eye. The shark still hung there.
"No?" the old man said and he drove the blade between the vertebrae and the
brain. It was an easy shot now and he felt the cartilage sever. The old man
reversed the oar and put the blade between the shark's jaws to open them. He
twisted the blade and as the shark slid loose he said, "Go on, galano. Slide
down a mile deep. Go see your friend, or maybe it's your mother."
The old man wiped the blade of his knife and laid down the oar. Then he found
the sheet and the sail filled and he brought the skiff onto her course.
"They must have taken a quarter of him and of the best meat," he said aloud. "I
wish it were a dream and that I had never hooked him. I'm sorry about it, fish.
It makes everything wrong." He stopped and he did not want to look at the fish
now. Drained of blood and awash he looked the colour of the silver backing of a
minor and his stripes still showed.
"I shouldn't have gone out so far, fish," he said. "Neither for you nor for me.
I'm sorry, fish."
Now, he said to himself. Look to the lashing on the knife and see if it has been
cut. Then get your hand in order because there still is more to come.
"I wish I had a stone for the knife," the old man said after he had checked the
lashing on the oar butt. "I should have brought a stone." You should have
brought many things, he thought. But you did not bring them, old man. Now is no
time to think of what you do not have. Think of what you can do with what there
"You give me much good counsel," he said aloud. "I'm tired of it."
He held the tiller under his arm and soaked both his hands in the water as the
skiff drove forward.
"God knows how much that last one took," he said.
"But she's much lighter now." He did not want to think of the mutilated
under-side of the fish. He knew that each of the jerking bumps of the shark had
been meat torn away and that the fish now made a trail for all sharks as wide as
a highway through the sea.
He was a fish to keep a man all winter, he thought Don't think of that. Just
rest and try to get your hands in shape to defend what is left of him. The blood
smell from my hands means nothing now with all that scent in the water. Besides
they do not bleed much. There is nothing cut that means anything. The bleeding
may keep the left from cramping.
What can I think of now? he thought. Nothing. I must think of nothing and wait
for the next ones. I wish it had really been a dream, he thought. But who knows?
It might have turned out well.
The next shark that came was a single shovelnose. He came like a pig to the
trough if a pig had a mouth so wide that you could put your head in it. The old
man let him hit the fish and then drove the knife on the oar don into his brain.
But the shark jerked backwards as he rolled and the knife blade snapped.
The old man settled himself to steer. He did not even watch the big shark
sinking slowly in the water,
showing first life-size, then small, then tiny. That always fascinated the old
man. But he did not even watch it now.
"I have the gaff now," he said. "But it will do no good. I have the two oars and
the tiller and the short club."
Now they have beaten me, he thought. I am too old to club sharks to death. But I
will try it as long as I have the oars and the short club and the tiller.
He put his hands in the water again to soak them. It was getting late in the
afternoon and he saw nothing but the sea and the sky. There was more wind in the
sky than there had been, and soon he hoped that he would see land.
"You're tired, old man," he said. "You're tired inside."
The sharks did not hit him again until just before sunset.
The old man saw the brown fins coming along the wide trail the fish must make in
the water. They were not even quartering on the scent. They were headed straight
for the skiff swimming side by side.
He jammed the tiller, made the sheet fast and reached under the stem for the
club. It was an oar handle
from a broken oar sawed off to about two and a half feet in length. He could
only use it effectively with one hand because of the grip of the handle and he
took good hold of it with his right hand, flexing his hand on it, as he watched
the sharks come. They were both galanos.
I must let the first one get a good hold and hit him on the point of the nose or
straight across the top of the head, he thought.
The two sharks closed together and as he saw the one nearest him open his jaws
and sink them into the silver side of the fish, he raised the club high and
brought it down heavy and slamming onto the top of the shark's broad head. He
felt the rubbery solidity as the club came down. But he felt the rigidity of
bone too and he struck the shark once more hard across the point of the nose as
he slid down from the fish.
The other shark had been in and out and now came in again with his jaws wide.
The old man could see pieces of the meat of the fish spilling white from the
corner of his jaws as he bumped the fish and closed his jaws. He swung at him
and hit only the head and the shark looked at him and wrenched the meat loose.
old man swung the club down on him again as he slipped away to swallow and hit
only the heavy solid rubberiness.
"Come on, galano," the old man said. "Come in again."
The shark came in a rush and the old man hit him as he shut his jaws. He hit him
solidly and from as high up as he could raise the club. This time he felt the
bone at the base of the brain and he hit him again in the same place while the
shark tore the meat loose sluggishly and slid down from the fish.
The old man watched for him to come again but neither shark showed. Then he saw
one on the surface swimming in circles. He did not see the fin of the other.
I could not expect to kill them, he thought. I could have in my time. But I have
hurt them both badly and neither one can feel very good. If I could have used a
bat with two hands I could have killed the first one surely. Even now, he
He did not want to look at the fish. He knew that half of him had been
destroyed. The sun had gone down while he had been in the fight with the sharks.
"It will be dark soon," he said. "Then I should see
the glow of Havana.. If I am too far to the eastward I will see the lights of
one of the new beaches."
I cannot be too far out now, he thought. I hope no one has been too worried.
There is only the boy to worry, of course. But I am sure he would have
confidence. Many of the older fishermen will worry. Many others too, he thought.
I live in a good town.
He could not talk to the fish anymore because the fish had been ruined too
badly. Then something came into his head.
"Half fish," he said. "Fish that you were. I am sorry that I went too far out. I
ruined us both. But we have killed many sharks, you and I, and ruined many
others. How many did you ever kill, old fish? You do not have that spear on your
head for nothing."
He liked to think of the fish and what he could do to a shark if he were
swimming free. I should have chopped the bill off to fight them with, he
thought. But there was no hatchet and then there was no knife.
But if I had, and could have lashed it to an oar butt, what a weapon. Then we
might have fought them together. What will you do now if they come in the night?
What can you do?
"Fight them," he said. "I'll fight them until I die."
But in the dark now and no glow showing and no lights and only the wind and the
steady pull of the sail he felt that perhaps he was already dead. He put his two
hands together and felt the palms. They were not dead and he could bring the
pain of life by simply opening and closing them. He leaned his back against the
stern and knew he was not dead. His shoulders told him.
I have all those prayers I promised if I caught the fish, he thought. But I am
too tired to say them now. I better get the sack and put it over my shoulders.
He lay in the stern and steered and watched for the glow to come in the sky. I
have half of him, he thought. Maybe I'll have the luck to bring the forward half
in. I should have some luck. No, he said. You violated your luck when you went
too far outside.
"Don't be silly," he said aloud. "And keep awake and steer. You may have much
"I'd like to buy some if there's any place they sell it," he said.
What could I buy it with? he asked himself. Could I buy it with a lost harpoon
and a broken knife and two bad hands?
"You might," he said. "You tried to buy it with
eighty-four days at sea. They nearly sold it to you too.
I must not think nonsense, he thought. Luck is a thing that comes in many forms
and who can recognize her? I would take some though in any form and pay what
they asked. I wish I could see the glow from the lights, he thought. I wish too
many things. But that is the thing I wish for now. He tried to settle more
comfortably to steer and from his pain he knew he was not dead.
He saw the reflected glare of the lights of the city at what must have been
around ten o'clock at night. They were only perceptible at first as the light is
in the sky before the moon rises. Then they were steady to see across the ocean
which was rough now with the increasing breeze. He steered inside of the glow
and he thought that now, soon, he must hit the edge of the stream.
Now it is over, he thought. They will probably hit me again. But what can a man
do against them in the dark without a weapon?
He was stiff and sore now and his wounds and all of the strained parts of his
body hurt with the cold of the night. I hope I do not have to fight again, he
thought. I hope so much I do not have to fight again.
But by midnight he fought and this time he knew the fight was useless. They came
in a pack and he could only see the lines in the water that their fins made and
their phosphorescence as they threw themselves on the fish. He clubbed at heads
and heard the jaws chop and the shaking of the skiff as they took hold below. He
clubbed desperately at what he could only feel and hear and he felt something
seize the club and it was gone.
He jerked the tiller free from the rudder and beat and chopped with it, holding
it in both hands and driving it down again and again. But they were up to the
bow now and driving in one after the other and together, tearing off the pieces
of meat that showed glowing below the sea as they turned to come once more.
One came, finally, against the head itself and he knew that it was over. He
swung the tiller across the shark's head where the jaws were caught in the
heaviness of the fish's head which would not tear. He swung it once and twice
and again. He heard the tiller break and he lunged at the shark with the
splintered butt. He felt it go in and knowing it was sharp he drove it in again.
The shark let go and rolled away. That was the
last shark of the pack that came. There was nothing more for them to eat.
The old man could hardly breathe now and he felt a strange taste in his mouth.
It was coppery and sweet and he was afraid of it for a moment. But there was not
much of it.
He spat into the ocean and said, "Eat that, galanos. And make a dream you've
killed a man."
He knew he was beaten now finally and without remedy and he went back to the
stern and found the jagged end of the tiller would fit in the slot of the rudder
well enough for him to steer. He settled the sack around his shoulders and put
the skiff on her course. He sailed lightly now and he had no thoughts nor any
feelings of any kind. He was past everything now and he sailed the skiff to make
his home port as well and as intelligently as he could. In the night sharks hit
the carcass as someone might pick up crumbs from the table. The old man paid no
attention to them and did not pay any attention to anything except steering. He
only noticed how lightly and bow well the skiff sailed now there was no great
weight beside her.
She's good, he thought. She is sound and not harmed in any way except for the
tiller. That is easily replaced.
He could feel he was inside the current now and he could see the lights of the
beach colonies along the shore. He knew where he was now and it was nothing to
The wind is our friend, anyway, he thought. Then be added, sometimes. And the
great sea with our friends and our enemies. And bed, he thought. Bed is my
friend. Just bed, he thought. Bed will be a great thing. It is easy when you are
beaten, he thought. I never knew how easy it was. And what beat you, he thought.
"Nothing," he said aloud. "I went out too far."
When he sailed into the little harbour the lights of the Terrace were out and he
knew everyone was in bed. The breeze bad risen steadily and was blowing strongly
now. It was quiet in the harbour though and he sailed up onto the little patch
of shingle below the rocks. There was no one to help him so he pulled the boat
up as far as he could. Then he stepped out and made her fast to a rock.
He unstepped the mast and furled the sail and tied it. Then he shouldered the
mast and started to climb. It was then he knew the depth of his tiredness. He
stopped for a moment and looked back and saw in the reflection from the street
light the great tail of the fish standing up well behind the skiff's stern. He
saw the white naked line of his backbone and the dark mass of the head with the
projecting bill and all the nakedness between.
He started to climb again and at the top he fell and lay for some time with the
mast across his shoulder. He tried to get up. But it was too difficult and he
sat there with the mast on his shoulder and looked at the road. A cat passed on
the far side going about its business and the old man watched it. Then he just
watched the road.
Finally he put the mast down and stood up. He picked the mast up and put it on
his shoulder and started up the road. He had to sit down five times before he
reached his shack.
Inside the shack he leaned the mast against the wall. In the dark he found a
water bottle and took a drink. Then he lay down on the bed. He pulled the
over his shoulders and then over his back and legs and he slept face down on the
newspapers with his arms out straight and the palms of his hands up.
He was asleep when the boy looked in the door in the morning. It was blowing so
hard that the drifting-boats would not be going out and the boy had slept late
and then come to the old man's shack as he had come each morning. The boy saw
that the old man was breathing and then he saw the old man's hands and he
started to cry. He went out very quietly to go to bring some coffee and all the
way down the road he was crying.
Many fishermen were around the skiff looking at what was lashed beside it and
one was in the water, his trousers rolled up, measuring the skeleton with a
length of line.
The boy did not go down. He had been there before and one of the fishermen was
looking after the skiff for bun.
"How is he?" one of the fishermen shouted.
"Sleeping," the boy called. He did not care that they saw him crying. "Let no
one disturb him."
"He was eighteen feet from nose to tail," the fisherman who was measuring him
"I believe it," the boy said.
He went into the Terrace and asked for a can of coffee.
"Hot and with plenty of milk and sugar in It.
"No. Afterwards I will see what he can eat."
"What a fish it was," the proprietor said. "There has never been such a fish.
Those were two fine fish you took yesterday too."
"Damn my fish," the boy said and he started to cry again.
"Do you want a drink of any kind?" the proprietor asked.
"No," the boy said. "Tell them not to bother Santiago. I'll be back."
"Tell him how sorry I am."
"Thanks," the boy said.
The boy carried the hot can of coffee up to the old man's shack and sat by him
until he woke. Once it looked as though he were waking. But he had gone back
into heavy sleep and the boy had gone across the road to borrow some wood to
heat the coffee.
Finally the old man woke.
"Don't sit up," the boy said. "Drink this." He poured some of the coffee in a
The old man took it and drank it.
"They beat me, Manolin," he said. "They truly beat me.
"He didn't beat you. Not the fish."
"No. Truly. It was afterwards."
"Pedrico is looking after the skiff and the gear. What do you want done with the
"Let Pedrico chop it up to use in fish traps."
"And the spear?"
"You keep it if you want it."
"I want it," the boy said. "Now we must make our plans about the other things."
"Did they search for me?"
"Of course. With coast guard and with planes."
"The ocean is very big and a skiff is small and hard to see," the old man said.
He noticed how pleasant it was to have someone to talk to instead of speaking
only to himself and to the sea. "I missed you," he said. "What did you catch?"
"One the first day. One the second and two the third."
"Now we fish together again."
"No. lam not lucky. I am not lucky anymore."
'The hell with luck," the boy said. "I'll bring the luck with me."
"What will your family say?"
"I do not care. I caught two yesterday. But we will fish together now for I
still have much to learn."
"We must get a good killing lance and always have it on board. You can make the
blade from a spring leaf from an old Ford. We can grind it in Guanabacoa. It
should be sharp and not tempered so it will break. My knife broke."
"I'll get another knife and have the spring ground.
How many days of heavy brisa have we?"
"Maybe three. Maybe more."
"I will have everything in order," the boy said. "You
get your hands well old man."
"I know how to care for them. In the night I spat something strange and felt
something in my chest was broken."
"Get that well too," the boy said. "Lie down, old man, and I will bring you your
clean shirt. And something to eat."
"Bring any of the papers of the time that I was gone," the old man said.
"You must get well fast for there is much that I can learn and you can teach me
everything. How much did you suffer?"
"Plenty," the old man said.
"I'll bring the food and the papers," the boy said. "Rest well, old man. I will
bring stuff from the drugstore for your hands."
"Don't forget to tell Pedrico the head is his."
"No. I will remember."
As the boy went out the door and down the worn coral rock road he was crying
That afternoon there was a party of tourists at the Terrace and looking down in
the water among the empty beer cans and dead barracudas a woman saw a great long
white spine with a huge tail at the end that lifted and swung with the tide
while the east wind blew a heavy steady sea outside the entrance to the harbour.
"What's that?" she asked a waiter and pointed to the long backbone of the great
fish that was now just garbage waiting to go out with the tide.
"Tiburon," the waiter said. "Eshark." He was meaning to explain what had
"I didn't know sharks had such handsome, beautifully formed tails."
"I didn't either," her male companion said.
Up the road, in his shack, the old man was sleeping again. He was still sleeping
on his face and the boy was sitting by him watching him. The old man was
dreaming about the lions.
About the Author
Ernest Hemingway was horn in Oak Park, Illinois, in 1899, and began his writing
career for The Kansas City Star in 1917. During the First World War he
volunteered as an ambulance driver on the Italian front but was invalided home,
having been seriously wounded while serving with the infantry In 1921 Hemingway
settled in Paris, where he became part of the American expatriate circle of
Gertrude Stein, E Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound, and Ford Madox Ford. His first
book, Three Stories and Ten Poems, was published in Paris in 1923 and was
followed by the short story selection In Our Time, which marked his American
debut in 1925. With the appearance of The Sun Also Rises in 1926, Hemingway
became not only the voice of the "lost generation" but the preeminent writer of
his time. This was followed by Men Without Women in 1927, when Hemingway
returned to the United States, and his novel of the Italian front, A Farewell to
Arms (1929). In the 1930s, Hemingway settled in Key West, and later in Cuba, but
he traveled widely-to Spain, Florida, Italy and Africa-and wrote about his
experiences in Death in the Afternoon (1932), his classic treatise on
bullfighting, and Green Hills of Africa (1935), an account of big-game hunting
in Africa. Later he reported on the Spanish Civil War, which became the
background for his brilliant war novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls (1939), hunted
U-boats in the Caribbean, and covered the European front during the Second World
War. Hemingway s most popular work, The 014 Man and the Sea, was awarded the
Pulitzer Prize in 1953, and in 1954 Hemingway won the Nobel Prize in Literature
"for his powerful, style-forming mastery of the art of narration." One of the
most important influences on the development of the short story and novel in
American fiction, Hemingway has seized the imagination of the American public
like no other twentieth-century author. He died, by suicide, in Ketchum, Idaho,
in 1961. His other works include The Torrents of Spring (1926), H4nner Take
Nothing (1933), To Have and Have Not (1937), The Fifth Column and the First
Forty-Nine Stories (1938), Across The River and Into the Trees (1950), and
posthumously A Moveable Feast (1964), Islands in the Stream (1970), The
Dangerous Summer (1985), and The Garden of Eden (1986).