Old Man and the Sea (11 page)

  
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 luck yet.”

  
“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 get home.

  
The wind is our friend, anyway, he thought.
Then he 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 had
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 blanket 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 him.

  
“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 called.

  
“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.”

  
“Anything more?”

  
“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 glass.

  
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 head?”

  
“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.”

  
“Very good.”

  
“Now we fish together again.”

  
“No. I am 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.”