Old Man and the Sea
by Ernest Hemingway
Ernest Hemingway was born in 1899 in Illinois and began writing in high school. He never went to college, but first worked as a reporter for a newspaper in Kansas City. He had a major impact on American literature and was awarded the Nobel Prize in literature in 1954. Known for his most famous books, In Our Time, For Whom the Bell Tolls, and Farewell to Arms, his career started to fade until he published his final work, a short story of an elderly fisherman, his young boy protégé, and the tumultuous battle upon the sea, entitled, “The Old Man and the Sea.”
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Manolin (Spanish form for Manuel: “God with us.”)
Santiago (Hebrew and Spanish for “supplanter” or “substitute” and Latin for St. James, the patron saint of Spain)
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Beneath his frayed straw sombrero, the old man’s eyes shone brightly amidst his tanned and weather-worn face…an emblem of the many days he had spent upon the sea.
It was all Santiago had known, fishing upon the Gulf currents in his small skiff, bringing in the big marlin to be butchered and sold at the fish warehouse in nearby Havana. But it had been far too long since he had brought in a big fish…84 days. The younger fishermen, in their motorboats with radios, had begun to look upon him with pity and perhaps even some snickering because they said that he was “unlucky,” implying that he had lost his strength and skill.
The old man understood. Thin and gaunt, he was marked by the ravages of age; and he fished with the long-held traditions of the past in his little skiff with only his lines and bait, and harpoon. Even his sail told the story of age, being patched many times with pieces of worn flour bags. Since his wife had died years ago, he lived alone in his bare-floored shack and slept upon rusty bedsprings padded only with old newspapers. His desires were few, and his joys even fewer. One was the boy; and another was baseball.
The young boy’s name was Manolin (Spanish form for Manuel: “God with us). He had fished with the old man since he was five years old. The old man had taught him of the many creatures of the sea and the habits of the fish. But now the old man was regarded as “unlucky” they said, and even the boy’s father had forced the boy to fish with another boat. But the boy loved the old man like a grandfather and loved to fish with the old man. And the old man loved the boy. But now he fished alone.
In the evenings, the boy and the old man would sit and talk of their day fishing and always of baseball. Often, the boy would bring him some leftover rice and an old newspaper, and they would talk about baseball and the Great DiMaggio and his strength and skill. The Yankees were still the team to beat, insisted the old man, although the Detroit Tigers were becoming dangerous. Together the boy and the old man would discuss the stories of sport that the days-old papers had told. For the contests brought them both a small measure of hope and celebration with each victory.
Now and then the old man’s memories would then shift to when he had visited Africa as a small boy like Manolin; and the boy would love to hear the story again and again as the old man described seeing from aboard a square-rigged ship, the strong and fearless lions basking in the evening sun as their cubs would play upon the beach of yellow sand. And the old man would smile his special smile. Then, he would slowly walk back to his shack, usually to quickly fall asleep before another sunrise and another day upon the sea.
This day he arose from his pillow made of newspaper-stuffed worn pants with a bit of optimism. For as he prepared for another day upon the sea, he wondered how the Great DiMaggio would do today with the Yankees. The newspapers had said that he had been suffering with a heel spur, and the old man wondered how painful that might be as he ran the bases toward victory. But he was certain that any suffering would not slow the Great DiMaggio down. He would continue to win for the Yankees because of his strength and courage.
“Today will be my lucky day,” he thought as he gathered up his mast and patch-worked sail. The boy and he shared some coffee together in the remaining darkness of the morning, and the boy helped the old man take his harpoon, a bottle of water, line, and bait down to his small skiff. “Good luck old man,” the boy said. The old man replied, “good luck” and began to row out of the harbor to sail upon the sea once more. Today he would go farther out…and… he would go out alone.
Before long, the old man was upon the endless sea in his small skiff with the sail up, moving steadily upon the current of the Gulf. It would only be him and the sea. Today, he would go further out…further out than ever before…beyond the sight of land…out where he knew the big fish were stirring.
He had always thought of the sea as a female…la mar was the expression one used in Spanish if they loved her. But she could be as fickle as any, both giving and taking away at her pleasure. For in her nature was both a wildness and mysteriousness to be deeply respected and regarded with caution.
The old man set his bait of sardines as he watched the flying fish escape a school of dolphins. He enjoyed the beauty and agelessness of the sea. She was both the playground and the battlefield for her creatures. The sea turtles now lunched on a close-by poisonous Portuguese man-of-war without harm; and a group of tuna jumped playfully beneath the watchful eyes of a sea bird. But the old man’s sharp eyes were always on his lines running the deep depths as the current carried him further out.
He had been out all day without luck, but he was committed to return to his village victorious. He would stay upon the sea overnight if he had to. He had done that before, dozing with the line tied to his toe.
Later that day, with the sun preparing to set, a line suddenly tensed. A creature now nibbled on the baited sardines deep in the dark blue waters. With the line now held gently between his fingers, he could sense the resistance and weight of the big fish tasting the sardines. “Just a bit more,” he whispered. “Take it and swallow it.” In moments, the old man yanked suddenly upon his lines to set the hook, and he felt the tightened pressure between his thumb and finger. “What a fish,” the old man thought as the line streamed from his hands while the big fish circled, then dove deeply, swallowing the bait, yielding no line, and pulling the small skiff slowly further out with the force of its enormous strength.
The old man could no longer see the land, but he held the line tightly as the big fish pulled him deeper to sea throughout the remaining day and into the night. “I wish the boy were here,” he thought. “No one should be alone in their old age.” he said to himself as he thought of the boy. He ate some of the raw tuna that he had caught previously for strength, for what he knew would become a long battle. That night the big fish made a surge, and the line made a cut below the man’s eye and blood ran down his cheek. “Fish,” he said, “’I’ll stay with you until I am dead.” And he again wished the boy were there as the battle with the fish drew out, the skiff now being towed by the great fish still further out to the dark depths. The force upon the line ripped across his palms, tearing into the valleys of flesh remaining between his thick callouses. His right hand was now bleeding from the cut of the line, and his left hand was cramping from the lack of water and salt. Fatigue now wracked his entire body; but the old man’s resolve was stronger. Hours passed as he held the line tight, not wanting to allow the big fish any slack. Then suddenly, he felt the line go slack and the huge marlin, longer than his skiff, crested, dove deep again, and the line raced out. It was the biggest fish the man had ever seen or even heard of.
“He is a great fish,” the old man thought, “a noble one, but one that I must kill. I must show him in the battle what man is made of, what man can endure to prove his strength and courage upon the sea.” But the man was growing weak, and wished he could sleep and dream of the brave lions upon the beach.
A second day began with the man thinking of the Great DiMaggio and the pain he must have with a bone spur in his heel as he remained in the contest to earn a victory. While the hours dragged by, the line still tight, and his skiff still being dragged by the power of the great fish, the old man began to feel sorry for the huge marlin that he was determined to kill. A sense of pity and sorrow began to enter the old man’s thoughts as he found dignity in the marlin’s strength and courage, and he respected the creature of the deep sea…for the old man had never seen a more beautiful or noble fish.
Gradually the big fish began to tire and slowly circle the skiff from a distance. But the old man was tiring as well through lack of food and water and lack of sleep. He must reach deep for the battle to come. As his mind became clouded, he remembered his younger years, and his arm-wrestling match in a bar in Casablanca with the large black man. He was the strongest man he had ever wrestled. Back and forth, ebb and flow, the two men fought as those around them bet heavily upon who would win. After a full day and night, he had eventually won that match, and they had called him “The Champion.”
Another night was now upon him, and he ate some raw dolphin and a flying fish for some strength, hoping the huge marlin would soon tire so that he could gain some line and get the big fish near his skiff. Resting to preserve his stamina, the old man dozed, and dreamt of the lions’ strength and bravery. After hours more, the big fish had now spent its strength against the drag of the skiff and was circling ever closer, as the old man summoned his remaining strength to take in every inch of line he could. “One more turn,” he thought, “and I’ll have it close enough for my harpoon.” The old man was now both weak and faint; and his age told him that he only had one thrust of the harpoon to land the fish. As the great fish then approached the side, the old man stood and drove the harpoon deeply into the fish with all his remaining strength. Then suddenly the great marlin breached one last time, showing his beauty and power before finally lying still in the water against the skiff with the blood from his heart spreading throughout the surrounding water.
Quickly roping the huge marlin alongside his small skiff, the old man collapsed to take a sip of water and eat a few raw shrimps that he had caught. “This will be my fortune,” he thought. “It is two feet longer than my skiff … 1500 lbs. to be sold at the market in Havana. The Great DiMaggio would be proud of me.” For the old man had entered the contest with courage and resolve, he had rounded the bases in his ninth inning; and he had come home. He was again the Champion. He wished the boy were here.
He put up his worn sail and turned the skiff towards his unseen village to return victorious as champion once again for he would no longer be regarded as “unlucky.”
Then came the sharks drawn by the blood of the great marlin. Part of nature and the sea, too. For they were hers as well. And they attacked again and again, feeding their frenzy off the sweet meat of the marlin until it was nothing but bone. He tried to fight off their repeated attacks with his harpoon and later with his rudder once his harpoon was gone, until he felt a sudden pain in his chest and spit up something and became dizzy and lightheaded. It was over then. He had lost.
It was as though nature was saying, “you have gone too far old man. I am reclaiming that which is mine. You have ventured too far out and have taken too much.”
He arrived at his sleeping village late at night, with the marlin carcass still bound to his skiff. Carrying the mast of his skiff upon his shoulder, the beam now stained by his bloodied hands. With his broken chest in pain, he began to climb the steep hill to his awaiting bed. Several times he fell beneath the weight of his brokenness and the heavy beam before finally reaching his shack collapsing upon his bed, doubting whether he would ever arise again.
The next morning, the boy found the old man still in bed with shallow breath. “They beat me,” he told the boy, “They truly beat me.” As the boy hurried to the Terrace to get a cup of coffee for the old man, he noticed the many fishermen staring at the marlin carcass in amazement. Eighteen feet from nose to tail. “What a fish it was. There has never been such a fish,” the proprietor of the Terrace exclaimed as he handed Manolin the coffee. Returning to the shack, the boy and the old man talked bit about fishing together once more, before the old man fell asleep again upon his bed.
Nature had taken back that which was hers because he had gone too far and taken too much. But the sea had given him something in return. Perhaps something even more important than the flesh of the big fish. He would no longer be ridiculed or pitied by the other fishermen because he was old. Now they wore faces of respect and wonder. Yes, he had lost, but he had also won a more important victory. He was no longer unlucky. Now the boy could fish with him again, and he would once more teach him the skills of his trade, but more so, what it means to be a man. Once more, he was “the Champion.” Like the Great DiMaggio, his strength and skill had purchased back his respect and dignity. Like the lions of Africa, his bravery and courage had demonstrated his enduring character. He was old, but he was a man again.
Like the brave marlin, Nature would reclaim him too one day soon, but not quite yet. He would live to see another day. Sleep came swiftly to him then, as he fell asleep and dreamed of the lions on the beach.
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• The battle with the marlin
• The battle with nature, sea
• The ebb and flow, cycles of life
• The battle with age
• The battle for respect
• Courage: resiliency. DiMaggio and the Lions
• The Champion (once more)
• Are there times when we ask too much of nature? When we attempt to take too much?