第1章 The Old Man and the Sea 老人与海

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.”

“But 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 doubted.”

“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 ago.

“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 way.”

“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.“But 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 the eyes.”

“But you went turtle-ing for years off the Mosquito Coast and your eyes are good.”

“I am a strange old man.”

“But 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 box 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 shirt.

“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?”

“Of course.”

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 doorway?”

“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 Sox of Chicago.”

“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 eight-fifth day.”

“We can do that,”the boy said.“But what about the eighty-seven of your great record?”

“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 beg.”

“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 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 we eating?”

“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 for us.”

“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 the 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 understand.”

“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 the telephone.”

“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 great manager.”

“Who is the great manager, really, Luque or Mike Gonzalez?”

“I think they are equal.”

“And the best fisherman is you.”

“No. I know others better.”

“Qué 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 hard.”

“I can remember it,”the old man said.“I'll wake you in time.”

“I do not like for him to waken me. It is as though I were inferior.”

“I know.”

“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.”

“Qué 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 fishermen.

“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 years old.”

“I know it,”the boy said.“I'll be right back. Have another coffee. We have credit here.”

He walked off, barefooted on the coral rocks, to the ice house where the baits were stored.

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 the 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 because 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 a 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 this hour.

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 anymore. 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, he 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 low. 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 the water.

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 was 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 were 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 line 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 close beside the boat. It turned out 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 some 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 the 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,”he said aloud.“He'll make a beautiful bait. He'll weigh ten pounds.”

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 now 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 deep.

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 bright 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 sharply.

“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 he 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 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 back 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, bracing 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 traveled 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 traveling 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 do.

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. He was thirsty too and he got down on his knees and, being careful not to jerk on the line, moving 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 unstepped 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 he 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 more 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 sighting 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. He 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 am?

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 clubbing 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 term 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 cordel 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 the water.

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 had 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 friend.”

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 had not braced himself and given some line.

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 be 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 stern with the gaff and drew it toward him keeping it clear of the coiled lines. Holding the line with his left shoulder again, the bracing on his left hand and arm, he took the tuna off the gaff hook and put the gaff back in place. He put one 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 backbone down to the edge of the belly. When he had cut six strips he spread them out on the wood of the bow, wiped his knife on his trousers, and lifted the carcass of bonito by the tail and dropped it overboard.

“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 unpleasant.

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. I 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 wedge-shaped 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 boat and knew they were right in the months of sudden bad weather. But now they were in hurricane months and, when there are no hurricanes, 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 September sky.

“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 slowly upward.

“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 race out.

“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 more able.

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 all.

“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 thought.

“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 doing it.

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 sees.

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 Detroit.

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 sea.

“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 much?

“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 as 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 Campeón, 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.

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 because 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 them out?

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 taking 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 stern, 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 stern. 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 time. 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 he did.

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 stars 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 great dignity.

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 drag 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 had 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 he 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.

Back in the stern 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 stern. 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 stern. 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.

Back 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 steady.”

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 hand, 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 he 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 to his feet. He was ceding line but more slowly all the 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 is strange.

“You better be fearless and confident yourself, old man,”he said.“You're holding him again but you cannot get line. But 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 hold 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 though. 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 he 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 worried him.

“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, he 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 swam 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 eels.

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 close, 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 back was out but he was 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 alongside.

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 pull 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 slowly away.

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 clear. Keep your head clear and know how to suffer like a man. Or a fish, he thought.

“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 trail weaving in the air.

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 had just summoned, into the fish's side just behind the great chest fin that rose high in the air to the altitude for 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 laid his head on his hands.

“Keep my head clear,”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 work.”

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 are home.

“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 up onto 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 doubt rope and make 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 procession.

“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 south-west 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 believe it. 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 head clear. 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 Mako 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 comes.”

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 stingray 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 oars.”

So he did that with the tiller under his arm and the sheet of the sail under his foot.

“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 sin to kill him. Or is it more?

“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 bad 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 hateful sharks, 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 could 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 shake 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 mirror 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 is.

“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 down 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 stern 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. The 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 thought.

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 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 could 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 how 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 shoulder 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 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.”

“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 again.

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 happened.

“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 sleep 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.

他是一位老人，独划小船，在墨西哥湾捕鱼。84天了，他连一条鱼也没有捕到。在最开始的40天还有一个男孩子跟随着他。可是，40天后还是没有捕到一条鱼。男孩子的父母就说，老人现在一定是salao[1]，也就是说，倒霉到了极点。于是，男孩子的父母命令离开他，上了另一条船，男孩子第一周就捕到了3条大鱼。男孩子见老人每天总是空船而归，心里非常难过，常常下岸帮老人，要么是拿盘好的钓线，要么是拿鱼钩和鱼叉，要么是拿缠绕在桅杆上的帆。船帆是用面粉袋片打着一块块补丁，卷起时看上去就像是一面永败之旗。

老人骨瘦如柴，后脖颈上皱纹很深，脸颊上因热带海面反射太阳光造成了良性皮肤癌，落下了密密麻麻的褐斑，顺着脸两侧蔓延而下；双手也因常拽绳索拉大鱼而留下了一道道深深的疤痕，而且这些伤疤没有一道是新的。它们就像无鱼可捕的沙漠中被侵蚀的地方那样古老。

除了那双眼睛之外，他浑身苍老，那双眼睛是大海般的颜色，神情愉悦，永不言败。

“圣地亚哥，”当他们俩从小船停泊的地方爬上岸时，男孩子对老人说，“我又能随你出海了。我们挣到了一些钱。”

老人教会了男孩子捕鱼，男孩子很爱他。

“不，”老人说，“你跟了一条交好运的船。还是跟着吧。”

“可是，别忘了，有一次咱们87天没有捕到一条鱼，后来我们一连3周每天都捕到了大鱼。”

“我记得，”老人说，“我知道，你不是因为怀疑才离开我。”

“是爸爸叫我离开的，我是孩子，必须听他的。”

“我明白，”老人说，“这很正常。”

“他没有多大信心。”

“是啊，”老人说，“可是，我们有信心，不是吗？”

“是，”男孩子说，“我请你到露台饭店喝杯啤酒，然后我们再把这些渔具拿回去，怎么样”

“有啥不行？”老人说，“都是打鱼人嘛。”

他们坐在露台饭店，好多渔夫跟老人开玩笑，老人并不生气。一些上了年纪的渔夫望着他，为他发愁，但没有流露出来，只是礼貌地聊着洋流，聊着他们把钓线送到海里有多深，聊着天气一向多好，聊着他们的见闻。当天有收获的渔夫都已返航，他们剖开枪鱼，半片半片地排在两块木板上，每块木板的末端都由两人抬着，摇摇晃晃地送到收鱼站，在那儿等冷藏车运往哈瓦那的市场。逮到鲨鱼的人们把鱼送到海湾另一头的鲨鱼加工厂，吊到复合滑车上。鱼已去肝，割鳍，剥皮，肉被切成了一条条，以备腌制。

刮东风时，隔着海湾，一股股鱼腥味也能从鲨鱼加工厂那边飘过来；可是，今天只有淡淡的气味，因为风向倒北，后来也逐渐平息，所以露台饭店阳光明媚，舒适惬意。

“圣地亚哥。”男孩子说。

“噢。”老人应道。他正握着酒杯，想着多年前的事儿。

“我去弄点沙丁鱼给你明天用吧？”

“不用了。你还是打棒球去吧。我还能划船，有罗吉略帮我撒网。”

“我是真想去。要是不能随你打鱼，我想为你做点什么。”

“你给我买了啤酒，”老人说，“你已经长大了。”

“你第一次带我上船出海时，我有多大？”

“5岁，那天我把一条鱼拖上船，它活蹦乱跳，差点儿把船撞碎，你也险些丢了命，你还记得吗？”

“我记得鱼尾巴噼里啪啦一个劲拍打，船上的横座板都被打断了，还有棍棒的敲打声。我记得你把我向船头猛推，那儿放着湿漉漉的钓线卷，我感觉整条船都在摇晃，还听到你用棍子啪啪打鱼的声音，像在砍树似的，还记得我浑身上下有一股甜丝丝的血腥味。”

“你是真能记得那回事，还是我告诉你的？”

“我们第一次一起出海以来的事儿，我都记得。”

老人用慈爱的眼睛看着他。

“你要是我的儿子，我一定会带你出去赌一把，”他说，“可你是你爸妈的儿子，又搭上了走运的船。”

“我去弄些沙丁鱼来吧？我还知道上哪儿能弄到4条鱼饵。”

“不用了，今天我自己的还剩下有，放在盒子里腌着。”

“我给你弄4条新鲜的吧。”

“一条就行。”老人说。他的希望和信心从来没有消失过，这时候又像微风起时那样十足。

“两条吧。”男孩子说。

“就两条，”老人表示同意，“你不是偷的吧？”

“我本想去偷，”男孩子说，“不过，这些是我买来的。”

“谢谢你，”老人说。老人虽心地单纯，却不知自己是什么时候开始如此谦卑。可是，他知道他如此谦卑，明白这并不丢脸，也丝毫没有损害真正的自尊心。

“瞧这洋流，明天会是一个不错的日子。”他说。

“你打算上哪儿？”男孩子问。

“跑远些，等风向变了，再回来。我想不到天亮就出发。”

“我会尽力让船主也跑远些去捕鱼，”男孩子说，“这样，要是你真的钓到了大鱼，我们就能赶去帮你的忙。”

“他不喜欢跑太远去捕鱼。”

“是的，”男孩子说，“可是，我看见的，他看不见，比如我看见一只鸟儿在盘旋，我会说是鲯鳅，叫他赶紧去追。”

“他的眼神有那么差吗？”

“基本上什么也看不见。”

“奇怪，”老人说，“他从来没有捕过海龟。那玩意儿才伤眼力呢。”

“可是，你在莫斯基托海岸外捕了那么多年的海龟，你的眼力现在不是也挺好的嘛。”

“我是一个不同寻常的老头。”

“不过，你现在还足够强壮对付一条非常大的鱼吗？”

“我想是的。再说，我还有不少绝活呢。”

“我们把渔具拿回家，”男孩子说，“我好去取渔网逮沙丁鱼。”

他们从船上取回捕鱼的渔具。老人肩扛桅杆，男孩子手提木箱，里面有编得紧实的褐色钓线卷、鱼钩和带柄的鱼叉。盛鱼饵的盒子，连同在大鱼被拖到船边时用来收服它们的那根棍子，都撇在了小船船尾的下面，谁也不会来偷老人的东西，但还是把桅杆和沉重的钓线拿回家为好，因为露水会损伤这些东西；再说，即使老人深信当地不会有人来偷自己的东西，他也觉得，留鱼钩、鱼叉在船上的确是不必要的诱惑。

他们顺着路一起来到老人的小屋，从敞开的门走了进去。老人把绕着帆的桅杆靠到墙上，男孩子把木箱和其他渔具挨着它放下来。桅杆跟这小屋里的尺寸差不多一样长。

小屋是用大椰子树上叫作“海鸟粪”的坚韧苞壳盖成的，里面有一张床、一张桌子、一把椅子，泥土地面上还有一个用木炭烧饭的地方。在纤维结实、“海鸟粪”抚平、搭接而成的褐色墙壁上，有一幅彩色耶稣圣心图和另一幅科布莱圣母图，这是老人妻子的遗物。墙上曾挂了一幅他妻子的着色照，但他早已取掉了，因为他看了只会使自己越发感到孤单，它如今放在屋角隔板上他的一件干净衬衣的下面。

“吃的有什么？”

“锅鱼煮黄米饭。要吃点吗？”

“不，我回家吃。要我给你生火吗？”

“不用，过一会儿我自己来。也许就吃冷饭。”

“我把渔网拿走可以吗？”

“当然可以。”

其实，根本不存在什么渔网，男孩子还记得他们卖掉渔网的那天。然而，他们每天要扯上这么一段。根本没有什么鱼煮黄米饭，这一点男孩子也知道。

“85是个吉利数，”老人说，“你有没有想过我逮回一条去掉下脚料还有1000多磅的鱼？”

“我拿渔网捞沙丁鱼去。你坐在门口晒晒太阳吧。”

“好。我有一张昨天的报纸，我来看看棒球新闻。”

男孩子不知道昨天的报纸是不是也是虚构的。不过，老人把它从床底下取了出来。

“是去杂货铺时，佩里科给我的。”他解释说。

“我弄到沙丁鱼就回来。我要把你的和我的一起冰镇，明天早上我们就能分着用了。我回来时，你就能给我聊聊棒球方面的新闻了。”

“洋基队不会输。”

“可是，我怕克利夫兰印第安人队会赢。”

“相信洋基队，孩子。想一想了不起的迪马乔。”

“我既担心克利夫兰印第安人队，也担心底特律老虎队。”

“当心，要不然连辛辛那提红队和芝加哥白短袜队，你都要怕了。”

“你好好看报，等我回来，给我讲讲。”

“你看我们去买一张尾数是85的彩票好吗？明天是第85天了。”

“这样做行，”男孩子说，“而你上次创下的纪录是87天，这咋说？”

“这种事儿不会再发生了。你看能弄到一张尾数是85的吗？”

“我去订一张。”

“就一张。两块五一张。我们向谁借这笔钱呢？”

“这个容易。两块五，我总能借到吧。”

“我看说不定我也能借到。可我不想借钱。先借钱，后讨饭。”

“老伙计，穿暖和点儿，”男孩子说，“别忘了，现在是9月。”

“正是大鱼光顾的月份，”老人说，“5月份，任何人都可能是好渔夫。”

“现在我去弄沙丁鱼。”男孩子说。

等男孩子回来时，老人在椅子上睡着了，太阳已经落下。男孩子从床上拿起一条旧军毯，抻开，搭过椅背，盖住了老人的双肩。

这是一双非同寻常的肩膀，尽管老人上了年纪，但依然强健，脖子也还硬实。老人睡着了，脑袋向前耷拉着，脖子上的皱纹也不那么明显了。他的衬衣上不知打了多少次补丁，弄得像他那张帆一样，补丁被太阳晒得褪成了深浅不一的多种颜色。不过，老人满脸苍老，眼一合上，脸上一点生机都没有。报纸横放在他的膝盖上，幸好他的一条胳膊压在上面才没有被晚风吹走。他光着脚。

男孩子撇下他，走开了，等他再回来时，老人还在睡着。

“老伙计，醒一醒。”说着，男孩子把手放到老人的一个膝盖上。

老人睁开眼，一时仿佛在从遥远的地方回过神来。随后，他微微一笑。

“你弄到了什么？”他问。

“晚饭，”男孩子说，“我们来吃晚饭吧。”

“我不太饿。”

“得了，吃吧。你不能光捕鱼，不吃饭。”

“我曾这样干过。”说着，老人站起身，拿起报纸，折叠好，接着就要去叠毯子。

“毯子就披身上吧，”男孩子说，“只要我活着，你就不会不吃饭去捕鱼。”

“这么说，祝你长命百岁，多保重。”老人说，“我们吃什么？”

“黑豆米饭、油炸香蕉，还有些炖菜。”

男孩子是把饭菜放在双层饭盒里从露台饭店拿来的。两副刀叉、汤匙，每副用餐巾纸包着，放在口袋里，捎过来。

“这是谁给你的？”

“马丁。饭店的老板。”

“我得去谢谢他。”

“我已经谢过他了，”男孩子说，“你用不着再谢他了。”

“我要把大鱼肚子上的肉送给他，”老人说，“他已经不止一次这样帮我们了吧？”

“我想是的。”

“这样的话，除了鱼肚子肉以外，我一定要再送他一个什么东西。他真关心我们。”

“他还送了两份啤酒。”

“我最喜欢罐装啤酒。”

“我知道。不过，这是瓶装的，阿图埃牌啤酒，喝完我还要把瓶子送回去。”

“你真好，”老人说，“我们吃吧？”

“我一直都在催你吃饭呢，”男孩子温和地告诉他，“等你准备好，我才愿意打开饭盒。”

“现在我准备好了，”老人说，“只需要点时间洗把脸。”

你上哪儿洗？男孩子想。村里的水龙头在沿大路穿过两条街的地方。男孩子想，我该弄些水、肥皂和一条干净毛巾让他用。我怎么这样粗心大意？我必须再弄件衬衣和夹克，让他过冬用，还有一双鞋子、一条毯子。

“这菜炖得棒极了。”老人说。

“给我讲讲棒球赛吧。”男孩子请求他说。

“我说过，美国联赛，总是洋基队的天下。”老人兴高采烈地说。

“他们今天输了。”男孩子告诉他。

“这算不上什么，了不起的迪马乔又恢复了状态。”

“洋基队还有其他人咧。”

“这还用说。不过，他最重要。另一场联赛时，布鲁克林队和费拉德尔菲亚队之间，我一定选择布鲁克林队。可是，话说回来，我又想起了迪克·西斯勒和他在老公园里打出的那些好球。”

“从来没有人打过那么好的球。就我所见，数他打得最远。”

“你还记得过去他常来露台饭店吗？我想带他出海捕鱼，可我太胆小，不敢对他开口。后来，我要你去对他讲，可你也不敢。”

“记得。那是一个极大的失误。要不然，说不定他已经随我们一起出海了。然后，我们就可以回味一辈子了。”

“我很想带了不起的迪马乔去捕鱼，”老人说，“听说他父亲也是个渔夫。说不定他当初也像我们现在这样穷，会理解我们。”

“了不起的西斯勒的爸爸从来没有穷过，他爸爸像我这样年纪时就在大联赛里打球了。”

“像你这样年纪时，我就在一条去非洲的方帆船上当普通水手了，我还在夜晚的海滩上看见过狮子呢。”

“我知道。你跟我讲过。”

“我们是来谈非洲还是棒球？”

“我看还是谈棒球吧，”男孩子说，“给我讲讲了不起的约翰.J.麦格劳。”他把Jota（何塔）说成了J。

“早些年，他也常来露台饭店。可是，他一喝酒，就脾气粗暴，出口伤人，难以相处。他的脑子里，除了棒球之外，就是赛马。至少他口袋里总是揣着赛马的名单，电话里常提到一些马的名字。”

“他曾是一个了不起的经理，”男孩子说，“我爸爸认为他最了不起。”

“这是因为他来这儿的次数最多，”老人说，“要是多罗彻每年来这儿，你爸爸就会认为他才是了不起的经理。”

“说真的，谁才是了不起的经理，是卢克还是迈克·冈萨雷斯？”

“我认为他们不相上下。”

“而最了不起的渔夫就是你。”

“不，我知道有不少比我强。”

“怎么会，”男孩子说，“优秀的渔夫是有很多的，了不起的也有一些。可是，最好的只有你。”

“谢谢你。你说得叫我高兴。我可不希望遇到一条对付不了的大鱼，那就会证明你说错了。”

“只要你还像你说的那样强壮，就不会有这样的鱼存在。”

“我也许不像我自以为的那样强壮了，”老人说，“但我掌握了不少绝活，而且我有决心。”

“你该去睡觉了，这样早上醒来才会精神饱满。我要把这些东西送回露台饭店。”

“那就晚安吧！早上我去叫醒你。”

“你是我的闹钟。”男孩子说。

“年龄是我的闹钟，”老人说，“为什么老人都醒那么早？难道是要让白天变得长些吗？”

“我不知道，”男孩子说，“我只知道年轻人睡得深、起得晚。”

“我记住了，”老人说，“到时候我会去叫你。”

“我不愿船主叫我。这样似乎我比他差劲。”

“我知道。”

“睡个好觉，老伙计。”

男孩子走了出去。他们刚才吃饭时，桌子上没有点灯，老人脱了长裤，摸黑上了床。他把长裤卷起来当枕头，把那张报纸塞进里面，再用毯子裹住身子，在弹簧垫上铺着的其他旧报纸上睡下了。

他很快就睡着了。他梦到了小时候见到的非洲，那里有绵绵不断的金色海滩，以及白色海滩，白得耀眼，还有高耸的海岬和褐色的大山。他现在每天晚上都生活在那道海岸边，在梦中听见了海浪拍岸的隆隆声，看见了土著驾船穿浪而行。他睡时闻到了甲板上柏油和填絮的气味，还闻到了早上那片陆地上的风带来的非洲气息。

通常，他一闻到那片陆地上刮来的风，就醒了，他穿上衣服去叫醒男孩子。但是，今夜陆地上风的气息来得很早，他在梦中知道时间还早，就继续把梦做了下去，他看见群岛的白色顶峰从海面上升起，然后又梦到了加那利群岛的各个港湾和锚泊地。

他不再梦见风暴，不再梦见女人，不再梦见伟大的事件，不再梦见大鱼，不再梦见打斗，不再梦见角力，不再梦见妻子。他如今只梦见一些地方和那片海滩上的狮子。它们在暮色中像小猫一样嬉耍着，他爱它们，如同爱这男孩子一样。他从来没有梦到过这男孩子。他就这么醒来，望望敞开的门外的月亮，撑开长裤穿上去。他在小屋外撒过尿后，顺着大路过去叫男孩子。清晨的寒气冻得他直打哆嗦。可是，他知道，哆嗦一会儿，就暖和了，而且知道，很快他就要去划船。

男孩子住的那个房子的门没有上锁，他推开门，光脚悄无声息地走了进去。男孩子在外间的一张帆布床上睡着，老人借着外面残月射进来的光亮，能清楚地看见他。他轻轻地握住男孩子的一只脚，直到男孩子醒来，转过身看见他。老人点点头，男孩子从床边椅子上拿起他的长裤，坐在床边穿上裤子。

老人走出门，男孩子跟在后面，昏昏欲睡的样子，老人伸出胳膊，搂住他的肩膀说：“对不起。”

“Qué va[2]!”男孩子说，“男子汉必须这么干。”

他们顺着大路向老人的小屋走去，一路上光着脚的男人们在黑暗中移动，扛着他们船上的桅杆。

他们走进老人的小屋，男孩子拿起装在篮子里的钓线卷，还有鱼叉和鱼钩，老人把卷着帆的桅杆扛到肩上。

“您想来点咖啡吗？”男孩子问。

“我们先把渔具放到船上，然后去喝。”

他们在一家服务渔夫、一早就营业的小吃店喝着盛在炼乳听里的咖啡。

“你睡得怎么样，老伙计？”男孩子问。此刻，他已清醒，尽管要他完全摆脱睡意依旧困难。

“马诺林，我睡得很好，”老人说，“我今天感到信心满满。”

“我也是，”男孩子说，“现在我必须去取沙丁鱼，还有给你的新鲜鱼饵。那条船上的渔具总是船主自己拿着。他从来不要旁人帮他拿任何东西。”

“我和他不一样，”老人说，“你5岁时，我就让你帮着拿东西了。”

“我记得，”男孩子说，“我去去就来。再喝杯咖啡吧，我们在这儿可以赊账。”

他走了，光脚沿着珊瑚石铺道，向储存鱼饵的冷藏库走去。

老人慢悠悠地喝着咖啡。这是他今天一整天全部的饮食，他知道应该把它喝了。现在有好长一段时间，吃饭都令他厌烦，他从来不带午饭。在小船头上，他放了一瓶水，一整天只需要那个就够了。

男孩子带着沙丁鱼和两份裹在报纸里的鱼饵回来了，他们顺着小路向下面的小船走去，感觉着脚下沙土里的卵石砂。他们抬起小船，让其溜进水里。

“祝你好运，老伙计。”

“也祝你好运。”老人说。他把桨上的绳圈套在桨座的钉子上，身子前倾，抵御着桨片在水里的阻力。他在黑暗中划出了港。别的海滩上也有其他船只正在出海，即使此刻月亮下到了山背后看不清那些人，老人也还是听到了那些桨落水和划动的声音。

偶尔有船上会传来说话声。可是，除了桨声之外，大多数船只都寂静无声。船一出港就散开了，驶向各自有望能找到鱼的海域。老人知道自己将驶向远方，把陆地的气息抛在身后，划进了清晨清新的海的气息之中。他划过一片海域时，看见了水中果囊马尾藻闪出的磷光。渔夫们管这片水域叫“大井”，因为那儿陡然出现了一个700英寻（海洋测量中的深度单位，1英寻≈1.83米）深的地方，洋流冲击海底深渊的峭壁，形成漩涡，汇聚着各类鱼儿。在这个水体的至深处集中着海虾和做鱼饵用的小鱼，有时候还有成群的柔鱼，它们在夜间浮到紧靠海面的地方，所有迁徙的鱼类都以它们为食。

黑暗中，老人感觉到了清晨的到来。他划着划着，听见飞鱼跃出水面的震颤声，还有在黑暗中它们凌空飞翔扑棱翅膀发出的咝咝声。他非常喜爱飞鱼，因为它们是他在海洋上的朋友。他替鸟儿伤心，尤其是那些柔弱的黑色小燕鸥，它们始终在飞，在找食，但几乎从来没有找到过。于是，他想，鸟儿们的生活过得比我们人还要难，只有那些猛禽和强壮的大鸟除外。既然海洋这样残暴，为什么还要让像海燕这样的鸟儿生来就如此柔弱纤巧？海洋仁慈，非常美丽。而她可能又是那样残暴，突如其来，这些飞翔的鸟儿从空中俯下觅食，发出细微的哀鸣，生来却柔弱得不适宜在海上生活。

他总是把大海看作la mar，这是人们对海洋抱着好感时对她的西班牙语称呼。有时候，对海洋抱着好感的人也说她的坏话，但话语间总是拿她当作女性看待。有些比较年轻的渔夫用浮标当钓线上的浮子，用卖掉鲨鱼肝赚的许多钱置办汽艇，他们把大海说成是el mar，这是表示男性的说法。他们提起她，不是当成竞争者，就是当成一个地方，或是当成一个敌人。可是，老人总是把海洋当成女性，认为她是给予或拒绝给予莫大恩惠的某个人物，即使她干了任性或缺德的事儿，也是因为不得已而为之。他认为，月亮对海洋造成的影响，就像它对女人造成的影响一样。

他稳健地划着船，对他来说，这并不吃力，因为他很好地保持在自己的速度以内，并且除了偶尔水流打个旋儿之外，海面风平浪静。他凭洋流帮他做了三分之一的工作，天渐渐亮时，他发现自己已经到了远比预期更远的地方。

我在那些“深井”附近转悠了一个星期，居然一无所获，他想。今天，我要找到那些鲣鱼和长鳍金枪鱼群在什么地方，说不定会有一条大鱼跟它们在一起。

不等天色大亮，他就放出了一个个鱼饵，顺水漂流着。第一个鱼饵下到了40英寻，第二个下到了75英寻，第三个和第四个分别位于蓝色海面以下100英寻和125英寻的深处。每个鱼饵都用钓钩钩身穿好，缝牢，头朝下挂着，新鲜的沙丁鱼肉把钩子所有突出的部分——钩弯和钩尖——包裹得严严实实。钓钩都从沙丁鱼的眼睛穿过，钩上的鱼便在突出的钢钩上构成了一个个半环形状。钓钩每一处无一不是大鱼，闻起来香喷喷，吃起来美滋滋的。

男孩子给了他两条新鲜的小金枪鱼，或者叫长鳍金枪鱼，这时候它们像铅垂般挂在两根最深的钓线上，而在另外的两根上，他分别挂上了一条蓝色大鲹鱼和一条黄色金银鱼，它们都已被使用过，但依然完好，同时还有出色的沙丁鱼给它们增加香味和魅力。每根钓线都有大铅笔那么粗，一端缠在青皮钓竿上。因此，只要鱼一拉或一碰鱼饵，就能使钓竿下倾，每根钓线有两盘40英寻长的卷，它们能被紧紧地系到其他备用卷上。这样一来，要是鱼非要拉不可的话，就可以把钓线拉出300多英寻长。

这时候，老人一边紧盯3根挑出在小船边的钓竿有没有动静，一边缓缓地划着船，以保持钓线上下笔直，位于本来的深度。天色大亮，此刻太阳随时会升起。

太阳从海面上冉冉升起，老人可以看见其他的船只，低低的，贴着水面，离海岸不远，与洋流流向垂直展开。随后，太阳越发明亮，耀眼的阳光射在水面上；紧接着，太阳完全升了起来，平滑的海面将阳光反射到了他的眼睛里，刺得他眼睛生疼，他避开不去看，只管划着。他俯视着水里，密切关注着那几根径直下到黑魆魆的深水里的钓线。他把钓线垂得比任何人都直，这样在黑漆漆洋流深处的不同深度，才会有一个鱼饵恰好等在他希望任何游动在那儿的鱼儿吃到的地方。其他渔夫都任凭钓线顺流漂着，常常是钓线在60英寻，他们却以为在100英寻深处。

而我总是把它们精确地放在适当的地方，他想。而我的运气就此不再好了。可是，谁说得准呢？说不定今天就转运呢。每一天都是新的一天。走运当然更好，我情愿做得分毫不差。这样，运气来时，才会有备无患。

这时候，两个小时过去了，太阳升得更高，他向东望时不再感到阳光那么刺眼了。视野里只看得见3条船，特别低矮，远在近岸的海面上。

初升的太阳伤我的眼睛已经一辈子了，他想。然而，它们依旧挺好。傍晚，即使我直视太阳，眼也不发黑。傍晚的阳光也更有力量。不过，早上它使人眼疼。

就在此时，他看见一只长翅黑色军舰鸟在前方的天空中盘旋飞翔。它斜着后掠的双翅倏地俯冲下去，然后又盘旋起来。

“它逮住了什么东西，”老人说出了声，“不光是找找而已。”

他缓慢平稳地向鸟儿盘旋的地方划去。他不慌不忙，让钓线一上一下保持直立。不过，他向洋流靠近了点，这样他捕鱼的速度要比他不利用鸟儿捕鱼来得快，但用的仍是正确方法。

军舰鸟在空中飞得更高，又盘旋起来，双翅纹丝不动。它随即猛然俯冲下来，老人看见飞鱼从海里跃出，拼命地在海面上飞掠而行。

“是鲯鳅，”老人大声说道，“大鲯鳅。”

他把双桨放在船上，从船头下面拿出一根细钓丝。钓丝上系着一段铁丝导线和一只中号钓钩，他拿一条沙丁鱼挂在上面，把钓丝从船舷放下水，将上端牢系在船尾一个带环螺栓上，接着在另一根钓丝上安上了鱼饵，把它盘绕着放在船头的阴影里。他又划起船来，注视着那只此刻正在水面上低空飞掠的长翅黑鸟。

他看着看着，那只鸟儿又飞低了些，翅膀朝后掠着，准备俯冲，然后猛地展开翅膀，去追逐飞鱼，但没有成功。老人看得见这些大鲯鳅跟在逃生的鱼后面时，海面微微隆起。鲯鳅破水而行在飞掠的鱼下面，飞鱼一落，它们总会飞快地钻进水里。好大一群鲯鳅，他想。它们覆盖面广，飞鱼逃生的机会微乎其微。那只鸟没有可乘之机。飞鱼对它来说个头太大，飞得又太快了。

他看到飞鱼一次次从水里突然窜出来，跳跃前行，看到那只鸟儿一次次徒劳行动。那群鲯鳅已经离我而去，他想。它们逃得太快了，也太远了。不过，说不定我能逮住一条掉队的，说不定我的大鱼就在它们周围。我的大鱼一定在什么地方。

这时候，陆地上空的云像群山一样耸立，海岸仅成了一条长长的绿线，背后是一群灰蓝色的小山。海水此刻呈深蓝色，深得几乎发紫。他低头认真地观察着水里，看见了深水中一些细小的红色浮游生物和阳光此时在水中变幻出的奇异光彩。他留意着那几根钓线，它们径直下行在水中看不见的地方，他很高兴看到这么多浮游生物，说明这儿有鱼。太阳此刻升得更高了，阳光在水中形成的奇特光线，说明天气晴朗，陆地上空的云块的形状也说明了这一点。可是，那只鸟儿这时候几乎看不见了，水面上空荡荡的，只有几片被太阳晒得发白的黄色马尾藻和一只紧靠船舷浮动的僧帽水母。僧帽水母凝胶状的浮囊呈紫色，形状固定，闪现出彩虹般的颜色。它倒向一边，然后又正了正身子。它像一个大气泡似的欢快地浮动着，那些厉害的紫色长触须拖在身后的水中，长达一码。

“Agua mala[3],”老人说，“你这婊子。”

他从轻轻摇桨的地方低头向水中望去，看见一些颜色跟僧帽水母拖在水中的触须一样的小鱼，它们在水母的触须间和浮囊在浮动时投下的一小片阴影中游着。它们对水母的毒素有免疫力。人可就不同了。老人在拉一条鱼上船时，钓丝上总会缠着一些触须，呈紫色，黏糊糊的，他的胳膊和手上就会出现伤痕和疮肿，就像中了毒漆树或栎叶毒漆树的毒一样。可是，agua mala的毒素发作得更快，疼得像鞭抽似的。

这些闪着彩虹色的大气泡很美。然而，它们是海里最善伪装的生物，所以老人乐意看到大海龟吃掉它们。一旦发现它们，海龟就会从正面向它们紧逼，然后闭上眼睛，这样身体就完全缩藏在了龟壳之中，可以把它们连同触须一并吃掉。老人喜欢看海龟吃掉它们，喜欢在风暴过后的海滩上踩在它们上面，喜欢听自己用长着老茧的硬脚掌踩在上面时它们发出的噼里啪啦的爆裂声。

他喜欢绿色的海龟和玳瑁，它们体态优美，游水速度快，价值极高，他还对那又大又笨的蠵龟抱着不怀恶意的轻蔑，它们的甲壳呈黄色，做爱方式奇特，吞食僧帽水母时会陶醉地闭上眼睛。

尽管他曾多年乘小船去捕海龟，但他对海龟并不抱有神秘的看法。他为所有的海龟难过，甚至是那些跟小船一样长、重达一吨的大梭龟。多数人都对海龟残酷无情，因为一只海龟被剖开、杀死之后，心脏还要跳动好几个小时。不过，老人想，我也有这样一颗心脏，我的手脚也跟它们的一样。他吃白色的海龟蛋，以增强力量。

他5月份整整一个月都在吃，为的是自己到9、10月份可以变得身强力壮，去逮地道的大鱼。

他每天还去不少渔夫存放渔具的棚屋，从一只大圆桶里舀一杯鲨鱼肝油喝。桶就放在那儿，渔夫们谁想喝都可以去喝。大多数渔夫不喜欢这味道，但并不比他们摸黑起早难受，而且它对防治一切伤风感冒都非常有效，对眼睛也有好处。

老人此刻抬眼望去，看见那只鸟儿又在盘旋了。

“它找到鱼了。”他说出声来。没有一条飞鱼冲出海面，也没有小鱼四处逃窜。但就在老人观望时，一条小金枪鱼跃入空中，转身头朝下掉进了水里。这条金枪鱼在阳光下闪出银白色的光，等它回到水里后，又有些金枪鱼一条接一条跃出水面，四下乱跳，搅得海水翻腾，一跳很远，追赶钓饵鱼。它们正围赶小鱼。

老人想，要不是它们游得太快，我就可以赶到它们中间去，他看到这群金枪鱼把水搅得泛着白沫，这时候还看到那只鸟儿正俯冲下来，扎进惊慌失措被迫浮上海面的钓饵鱼群当中。

“这只鸟真是个大帮手。”老人说。就在此时，船尾的那根细钓线在他脚下绷紧，他在脚上绕了一圈钓线。于是，他放下双桨，紧紧抓住钓线，开始往回拉，感到小金枪鱼在颤颤巍巍地拉着，有点儿分量。他越往回拉，钓线就越是颤悠，他看见了水里蓝色的鱼背和它金色的两侧，然后他一甩钓线，鱼越过船舷，掉在了船上。鱼躺在船尾的阳光下，身子紧实，子弹形状，一双痴呆无神的大眼睛直瞪着，尾巴快速地拍打着船板，逐渐耗尽了力气。老人出于好意，猛击了一下它的头，一脚把它还在抖动的身子踢到了船尾背阴的地方。

“长鳍金枪鱼，”他说道，“拿来钓大鱼蛮好，它有10磅重。”

老人记不清他是从什么时候开始在独自待着时自言自语的。过去他一个人时就唱歌，时常夜里在小渔船或捕海龟的小艇上值班掌舵时唱歌。大概他是从男孩子离开他、剩他一个人时开始自言自语的。不过，他记不清了。他跟男孩子一块捕鱼时，他们一般只在必要时才说话。他们晚上或是被暴风雨的坏天气困在海上时才说话。不在海上进行不必要的谈话，这被认为是一种美德，老人一向也这么认为，并始终遵循。不过，现在妨碍不到旁人，他把心里想说的话说出过好多次。

“别人听到我在自言自语，还以为我疯了，”他说出声来，“不过，既然我没有疯，我才不管呢。有钱人的船上有收音机跟他们讲话，给他们播放棒球赛的消息。”

现在可不是关心棒球赛的时候，他想。现在只应该关注一件事，我生而为之的那件事。那个鱼群附近可能有条大家伙，他想。我只逮住了进食时一条离群的金枪鱼。它们的鱼群正游向远方，游得很快。今天凡在海面上露面的都游得很快，并且都朝着东北方向。难道一天的这个时候就该这样？要么是我不懂的某种天气征兆？

他眼下已经看不见海岸的那道绿色，只看得见那些青山仿佛积着白雪的山峰，以及山峰上空好似高耸雪山的云朵。海水颜色非常深，光线在水中折射出七彩光芒。烈日当空，此刻那些斑斑点点、数不清的浮游生物都不见了踪影，老人眼下只能看到蓝色海水里大海的七色光，还有那几根笔直垂在1英里（1英里≈1.61千米）处深水里的钓线。

那些金枪鱼又潜到了水底。渔夫们把所有种类的金枪鱼统称为金枪鱼，只在用来出售或拿来换鱼饵时，才指出它们确切的名字。此刻，阳光炽热，老人感到脖颈上火辣辣的，划船时感到背上汗水直往下淌。

他想，我可以随波逐流，睡上一觉，把钓线绕到脚趾上好唤醒我。不过，今天是第85天，我该好好钓上一整天。

就在观察钓线时，老人看见伸在水面上的绿色钓竿中有一根猛地栽了一下。

“有，有了，”说着，老人把桨放到船上，不使船摇晃。他伸手去拉钓线，轻轻地捏在右手大拇指和食指之间。他感到钓线并没有绷紧，也没有什么分量，就轻轻地捏着。接着，钓线又动了一下。这回只是试探性地拉了一下，既不牢也不重，他完全明白是怎么回事。在100英寻的水下有一条枪鱼正在吃裹着钩和钩身的沙丁鱼，这个手工制作的钓钩是从一条小金枪鱼的头部伸出来的。

老人小心把持着钓线，左手把它从钓竿上轻轻解下。现在，他可以让钓线穿过手指间滑动，而又不让鱼感到一点儿拉力。

这个不寻常的家伙长到这个月份，个头一定极大，他想。吃鱼饵吧，鱼儿。吃吧，请吃了它们。对于待在600英尺（1英尺≈0.30米）深黑沉沉的冷水中的你，这些鱼饵多么新鲜。摸黑再绕个弯儿，回来把它们吃了吧。

他感到了那种细微的轻拉，接着是更猛的一拉，看来哪条沙丁鱼的头一定更难从钓钩上撕扯掉了。随后便没有了一丝动静。

“来吧，”老人说出了声，“再绕个弯子。闻闻这些鱼饵吧。它们难道不鲜美吗？趁此刻新鲜，吃了它们，另外还有条金枪鱼。既壮又冰，味道还鲜美。别难为情，鱼儿，请吃吧。”

他把钓线掌控在大拇指和食指之间等待着，同时盯着它和其他几根钓线，因为这鱼可能已经向上游或向下游了。然后又是那种细微的轻轻拉力。

“它会咬饵的，”老人说出声来，“上帝帮帮它，让它咬饵吧。”

可是，它没有咬饵，游走了。老人没有感到有任何动静。

“它不可能走的，”他说，“天知道它是不可能游走的。它正在绕弯子吧。也许它以前上过钩，还有点儿印象。”

接着，他感到钓线轻轻地动了一下，他高兴起来。

“刚才它不过是在转身，”他说，“它会咬饵的。”

那轻微的一拉，让他很高兴。紧接着，他感到用力一拉，力量重得叫人难以相信。这是鱼本身的重量造成的，他展开两卷备用钓线中的一卷，任钓线下溜。钓线从指间轻轻下滑过程中，他依旧能感到那个巨大的分量，尽管他的大拇指和食指施加的压力简直小得令人难以觉察。

“多棒的鱼啊，”他说，“现在鱼饵横在嘴里，衔着鱼饵在游走。”

随后，它会转而把饵吞下去的，他想。他没有说出声来，因为他知道，好事一旦说出口，也许就不会发生了。他知道这条鱼有多大，他想象它嘴里横衔着金枪鱼，在黑暗中游荡的样子。这时候，他感觉它停止了移动，但分量还在。接着，分量越来越重了，他又放钓线。一时间，他把大拇指和食指捏紧了，分量增加着，直往下沉。

“它咬饵了，”他说，“现在我来让它美美地吃一顿。”

他让钓线通过指间往下溜，同时伸出左手，把两卷备用钓线的一端牢系在旁边那根钓线的两卷备用钓线上。他准备停当。眼下，除了正在使用的那盘钓线，他还有三卷40英寻长的钓线备用。

“再吃点吧，”他说，“要吃好。”

吃了它，钓钩的钩尖就会扎进你的心脏，刺死你，他想。慢悠悠地浮上来，让我把鱼叉插进你的身体。好了。准备好了吗？你进餐时间够长了吧？

“得了！”他大喊一声，双手猛地一拽钓线，收进了一码，然后接连拉了起来，胳膊在钓线上轮番挥舞，用上了两臂全部的力气和撑起的身体的重量。

结果什么也没有发生。那条鱼只顾慢慢地游开去，老人无法再把它往上拉。他的钓线很结实，是专门为钓大鱼而做的，他转而把它套到背上拉，直拉得钓线绷紧，水珠四溅。接着，水里传来了一阵钓线发出的沉闷的咝咝声，他依然攥紧不放松，倚着座板撑牢身子，后仰上身对抗着鱼的拉力。船儿慢慢地向西北方向驶远。

大鱼毫不动摇地游着，他们在平静的水面上缓慢而行。另外几个鱼饵还在水中，但毫无动静。

“要是我有男孩子帮忙就好了，”老人说出声来，“我被一条鱼拖拽着，简直成了一根系纤绳的短柱。我可以把钓线拴牢。不过，这样一来，鱼儿会把它扯断。我必须尽可能牵制它，必要时给它放放线。感谢上帝，它正在游，没有往下潜。”

我不知道，要是它决意向下潜我该怎么办？我不知道，要是它潜入海底死了，我该怎么办？不过，我一定会有行动，我能做的事儿还多着呢。

他攥住勒在背脊上的钓线，紧盯着斜在水中的部分，而小船在不断朝西北方航行。

这样下去一定会要了它的命，老人想。它不可能永远这样游下去。但4个小时后，鱼拖着船依旧毫不停歇地向大海远处游去，老人则依然用背牢牢地拉着钓线。

“我是在中午钓的它，”他说，“可始终也没有见到它的面。”

在钓到这条鱼之前，他曾把头上的草帽使劲往下按，这时候它勒得他脑门生疼。同时，他也觉得口渴，于是双膝跪下，尽可能远地向船头爬，因为他能一只手伸过去够到水瓶，这中间小心翼翼，不去牵动钓线。他打开瓶盖，喝了点儿，然后就靠到船头歇息。他坐在绕着帆的桅杆上，努力不去想事，只是干挺着。

接着，他向身后望了望，陆地已不见一丝踪影。没关系，他想。我总是能靠着哈瓦那的灯火回港。离太阳落山还有两个小时，也许不到那个时候鱼就浮上来了。即使那时它没有浮上来，也许会在月亮出来时浮上来。即使它没有在月亮出来时浮上来，它也许会伴着日出浮上来。只要手脚不抽筋，我就自感强壮。是它自己把钓钩吞进嘴里的。但是，拉劲儿这么大，该是多大一条大鱼啊。它必定把钢丝钓钩紧紧含在嘴里。但愿能见到它，哪怕一眼也好，只为搞清我这对手长什么样儿。

老人通过观测星象得知，这条鱼整整一夜都没有改变航线和航向。太阳落下后，天就寒了，老人脊背、胳膊和老腿上的汗变得又干又冷。白天，他把盖在鱼饵匣上的麻袋掀掉，摊到阳光下晒干。太阳下去后，他就把麻袋系到脖子上，搭住背，并且小心地把它掖到肩上挂着的钓线底下。麻袋垫着钓线后，他就发现，身体前倾靠着船头，他会觉得舒服很多。这姿势实在只能说是多少叫人好受点儿，而他觉得这差不多算是舒服了。

我拿它没办法，它也拿我没办法，他想。只要它一直这样，我就一直没办法。

有一次，他起身，隔着船舷撒尿时，观测星空，核对自己的航向。钓线从他肩上直泻到水里，好似一道磷光划过。鱼和船此刻变得更慢了。哈瓦那的灯火也没有那么强烈。于是，他明白，洋流准是在把他们向东带。要是哈瓦那的灯火也看不见了，我们一定是更向东走了，他想。因为，要是鱼的行程维持不变的话，我准还有好几个小时看得见哈瓦那的灯火。不知今天的棒球大联赛结果如何，他想。干这行当，要是有一台收音机就棒极了。他转而又想，总惦念那玩意儿，还不如想想眼下正在做的事儿吧。你千万别干傻事儿。

接着，他出声说道：“要是男孩子在就好了。可以帮我一把，也见识见识这情景。”

他们这把年纪的人不该一个人待着，他想。可这避免不了。我一定要记住趁金枪鱼坏掉之前吃掉它，以保持体力。记住，无论想吃多少，都必须早上吃。记住，他对自己说。

夜间，有两条海豚游到船边来，他能听到它们翻腾和喘气的声音。他能辨别雄海豚粗重的喘息声和雌海豚看得见、听不到的喘息声。

“它们都是好样的，”他说，“它们彼此嬉戏打闹、相亲相爱。它们和飞鱼一样，都是我们的兄弟。”

接着，他怜悯起这条被他钓住的大鱼来。真了不得，非同寻常，有谁知道它有多大呢，他想。我从来没有钓到过这样强壮的鱼，也从来没有见过行动如此奇怪的鱼。也许它太机灵，不跳出来。它可以跳出来或猛冲过来，把我击垮。不过，也许以前它曾上钩多次，知道了该如何应战。它哪会知道它的对手只有一个人，而且是个老头。不过，它是条多大的鱼啊，要是肉好，到市场上将能带来一笔多么可观的收入啊。从它咬饵来看，像一条雄鱼，拉钓线的架势也像雄鱼，它的反抗没有一丝惊慌。不知道它有没有什么打算，还是就跟我一样不顾死活？

他记得，有一次钓到了一对枪鱼中的一条。雄鱼总是让雌的先吃，上了钩的雌鱼，疯了一样，惊慌失措而又绝望地挣扎，不久便筋疲力尽了，与此同时，那条雄鱼始终和它待在一起，在钓线下窜来窜去，陪着它在水面上一起打转。雄鱼离钓线好近，老人生怕它会用尾巴把钓线割断，它的尾巴像大镰刀一样锋利，大小、形状都和大镰刀差不多。老人用鱼钩把雌鱼钩上来，握住雌鱼边缘砂纸般的长剑嘴，连连用棍子向它头顶打，直打得它的颜色差不多和镜子背面的红色一样，然后由男孩子帮忙，把它拖上了船。这期间，雄鱼一直待在船舷边。然后，老人收起钓线、准备鱼叉时，雄鱼在船边高高地跳到空中，看雌鱼在哪儿，然后下潜，钻进了深水里。它那淡紫色、翅膀一样的东西——它的胸鳍，张得大大的，它身上所有的淡紫色的宽条纹都露了出来。它很美，老人记得，它久久地待在那儿，不愿离开。

它们这情景是我看到的最令人伤心的了，老人想。男孩子也很伤心，因此我们请求雌鱼原谅，马上宰了它。

“男孩子在这儿就好了。”他说出声来，身子靠在船头被磨圆的木板上，通过勒在肩头的钓线，感到这条强壮的大鱼正朝着它选择的方向稳稳地游去。

中了我的圈套，它不得不做出选择了，老人想。

它本来选择待在黑暗的深水里，远离一切圈套、罗网和诡计。而我选择赶去谁也到不了的地方找到它。世界上任何人也到不了的地方。现在，我们聚到了一起，从中午起就聚到一起了。而且没有人出面帮我们任何一方。

也许我就不该当渔夫，他想。然而，这正是我生来该干的行当。务必记住，天亮后吃那条金枪鱼。

离天亮还有一段时间，有什么东西咬住了他背后的一个鱼饵。他听见钓竿啪的折断了，那根钓线越过船舷向外一直滑。他摸黑拔出鞘中的刀子，用左肩承担着大鱼所有的拉力，身子向后靠，就着木头的船舷，把那根钓线割断了，然后把另一根离他最近的钓线也割断了，摸黑把这两个没有放出去的钓线卷的断头系在一起。他用一只手熟练地干着，在牢牢地打结时，一只脚踩住钓线卷不让动。他现在有六卷备用钓线了。他刚才割断的那两根有鱼饵的钓线各有两卷备用钓线，加上被大鱼咬住鱼饵的那根上的两卷，它们全都接在了一起。

他想，等天亮后，我要慢慢挪回到那根鱼饵在40英寻深处的钓线，把它也割断了，结在那些备用的钓线卷上。我将失去200英寻长出色的卡塔卢尼亚钓线，还有钓钩和导线。这些都是能再置办的。即使钓上别的鱼，要是把这条大鱼搞丢了，上哪儿找去？我不知道刚才咬饵的是什么鱼。很可能是一条枪鱼、剑鱼或鲨鱼。我根本不去琢磨，我得赶快甩掉。

他响亮地说：“我要是有男孩子在该多好啊！”

可是，男孩子不在这儿，他想。只有你自己一个人，甭管天黑不黑，最好现在就挪到最末那根钓线边，把它割断了，把两卷备用钓线系在钓钩上。

他说干就干。天黑，干起来确实挺难。中间有一次，大鱼猛地掀动了一下，把他脸朝下拖倒在地，使眼睛下面划了一道口子，鲜血顺着他的脸颊流了下来。可是，血还没有流到下巴的地方就凝固变干了。他又一路挪回船头，靠在木船舷上歇息。他调整了一下麻袋的位置，小心翼翼地把钓线在肩上挪了个新地方，固定在他的肩膀上，仔细地试了试鱼拉拽的重量，然后把手伸到水里感受船行进的速度。

我不知道鱼刚才为什么突然翻动一下，他想。一定是钓线在它高高隆起的背脊上滑了一下。它的背肯定不像我的背感觉那么糟糕。可是，不管它有多大劲儿，总不可能拖着这条小船永远跑下去吧。眼下，凡是可能惹乱子的东西都清除了，还有一大堆备用钓线可用，一个人还会有什么后顾之忧呢。

“鱼儿啊，”他轻轻地说出声来，“我要奉陪到底。”

看样子，它也要跟我奉陪到底，老人想。他等待着天明。眼下正值破晓前夕，天很冷，他把身子紧贴着木船舷来取暖。它能挺多久，我就能挺多久，他想。清晨第一缕阳光下，钓线向外伸展着，隐没在水中。小船平稳地行进着，太阳刚露出头，照在了老人的右肩上。

“它在向北游。”老人说。洋流在把我们远远地往东方送，他想。要是鱼跟着海流转变方向就好了。那就说明它要累了。

太阳更高了，老人发觉鱼并没有显乏。只有一个让人高兴的迹象，钓线的倾斜度显示它游得没有那么深了。这不一定意味着它将跃出水来，但也说不定。

“上帝啊，让它跳吧，”老人说，“我有足够长的钓线对付它。”

也许我把钓线拉得更紧点儿，它觉得痛，就跳了，他想。既然是白天了，就让它跳，这样它沿背脊的液囊就会充满空气，它就不能沉到海底死了。

他努力把钓线拉得更紧，但自从他钩到这条鱼以来，钓线已经被拉紧得快要绷断了，他向后仰着身子一拉，感到钓线粗糙发硬，就知道无法拉得再紧了。我千万不能再猛拉了，他想。每猛拉一次，就会把钓钩钩出的口子扯得更大，鱼一跳，兴许就会把钓钩甩掉。总之，太阳出来就好了，我总算不用紧盯着了。

钓线上粘着一些黄色海藻，但老人知道这只会给鱼增加一些负担，所以他很高兴。正是这种黄色果囊马尾藻在夜间发出的那么强的磷光。

“鱼儿，”他说，“我爱你，也很敬重你。不过，今天无论如何我要把你干掉。”但愿如此，他想。

一只小鸟从北边向小船飞来。那是一只鸣禽，在水面上飞得很低。老人看得出它已经很累了。

鸟儿总算落在了船尾上，在那儿歇了口气，而后绕着老人的头飞了一圈，最终落在了它觉得更舒服的钓线上。

“你多大了？”老人问小鸟，“是第一次出门吗？”

他说话时，鸟儿望着他。它太累了，甚至没有细看钓线，就用小巧的双爪抓住了钓线。它在上面摇摇欲坠。

“这稳当，”老人对它说，“很稳当。昨夜没有风，你不该这么困乏啊。鸟儿都怎么了？”

他想，是老鹰的缘故吧，它们总到海上对付它们。不过，这话他没有跟小鸟说，反正它也听不懂他的话，而且很快就会知道老鹰的厉害。

“好好歇息，小鸟，”他说，“然后像人、鸟或鱼那样去碰碰运气。”

这样说话使他受到了鼓舞，因为他的背在夜里变得僵直，现在真疼。

“鸟儿，你乐意的话，就住我家吧，”他说，“很抱歉，我不能趁眼下吹着的微风，扯上帆带你回去。可是，我总算有个朋友在一起了。”

说话间，鱼突然倾向一侧，把老人拖倒在了船头上，要不是他紧贴住船，放一段钓线出去，早被拖到了海里。

钓线猛地那么一动，鸟儿飞走了，老人甚至没有看到它飞走。他用右手小心地去触摸钓线，发现右手正在流血。

“这么说，大概是什么东西伤着了鱼。”他大声说着，把钓线往回拉，看能不能让鱼翻转回来。他握稳钓线，让身子后仰，抵住钓线的拉力，简直快要把钓线拉断了。

“你现在觉着疼了吧，鱼儿，”他说，“老实说，我也如此。”

此刻，他扭头再去找小鸟，因为他很乐意有它陪着，可是发现鸟儿已经飞走了。

你没待多久，老人想。可是，你要去的地方风大浪大，直到你到了岸上才会好些。我怎么会让鱼猛地那么一拉，划破了手呢？我一定是越来越笨了，或许是我只顾看那只小鸟，光想着它的事儿了。现在，我要关心自己的活儿，然后务必把那金枪鱼吃下去，这样才不会没有力气。

“但愿男孩子在这儿。我手边有点儿盐就好了。”他出声说道。

他把沉甸甸的钓线转移到左肩上，小心翼翼地跪下，把手伸到海水里洗了洗，在水里浸了一分多钟，他看着血的痕迹漂开去，海水随着船的移动不停地拍打着他的手。

“它游得慢多了。”他说。

老人本想让手在盐水中多泡一会儿，但他怕鱼突然一抖身，于是站起来，振作精神，对着太阳举起那只手。只是被钓线勒了一下，割破了肉。而那正是手上用劲的地方。他知道在捕鱼结束之前他需要这双手，所以他不喜欢还没有动手就割破了手。

“现在，”等手晾干后，他说，“我必须吃小金枪鱼。我可以用鱼钩把它钩过来，在这儿好好吃一顿。”

他跪下来，用鱼钩在船尾下找到了那条金枪鱼，避开那几卷钓线，把它钩向身边。他又用左肩扛住钓线，左手和胳膊撑在座板上，从鱼钩上取下金枪鱼，把鱼钩放回了原处，一只膝盖压在鱼身上，从它的脖颈竖割到尾部，割下一条条深红色的鱼肉。这些是楔形肉条，他从脊椎附近开始，一直割到腹边。他割下6条后，把它们摊放在船头的木板上，在裤子上擦了擦刀子，然后拎起鱼尾巴，把骨头扔进了海里。

“我想我是吃不了整个一条。”说着，他用刀子在一个鱼条上划了一刀。他能感到钓线一直紧紧地拉着，左手都抽起了筋。左手紧紧地拽着粗钓线，他厌恶地看了一眼。

“这是什么手啊，”他说，“你想抽筋就抽去吧，你自己变成一只爪子吧，那对你不会有好处。”

赶快，老人低头看着斜向黑暗海水里的钓线想。现在把它吃了，它会增强手劲。这不是这只手的过错，这手已经守着这鱼好几个小时了。不过，你能跟它永远待下去吗？现在就把鱼吃了吧。

他拿起一块鱼肉，放进嘴里，慢慢咀嚼。这并不难吃。

他想，好好咀嚼，把所有的汁液都嚼出来。要是加上一点酸橙、柠檬或盐，吃起来一定不错。

“你感觉怎样，我的手？”他问那只抽筋的手，它几乎像僵尸一样硬。“我再为了你多吃些吧。”

他吃着切成两截的那块鱼肉的另一半，仔细咀嚼，然后把鱼皮吐了出去。

“觉得怎样，手？或者太早了，还不知道？”

他又拿起一整块鱼肉，咀嚼起来。

“这条鱼血气旺盛，非常强壮，”他想，“我运气好，逮住的是它，而不是鲯鳅，鲯鳅太甜了。这鱼一点也不甜，所有的元气都还在体内。”

不过，除了务实，什么都没有意义，他想。要是我有些盐就好了。我不知道太阳会不会把剩下的鱼肉晒烂或晒干，虽然我不饿，但我最好把它统统都吃了。那鱼平静安稳，我要把这鱼肉统统吃了，随后我就会做好准备。

“手儿啊，要耐心，”他说，“我这样做是为了你。”

我真希望能喂那条鱼，他想。它是我的兄弟，可我必须弄死它，为了要保持体力。他慢慢地、认真地把那些楔形鱼肉条统统都吃了。

他直起腰，手在裤子上擦了擦。

“好了，”他说，“手儿，你可以松开钓线了，我只用右臂来对付它，直到你不再那样胡来。”他左脚踩住刚才左手握着的粗钓线，身子向后，用背部顶住那股拉力。

“上帝请帮助我，不要让我抽筋吧，”他说，“因为我不知道这条鱼要怎么做。”

不过，它好像非常镇静，他想，而且在按照它的计划行动。可它的计划是什么呢？他想。我的计划又是什么呢？它个头大，我的计划必须随着它的计划而变化。要是它跳跃，我就能弄死它，可它始终待在下面。因此，我要跟它永远待下去。

老人在裤子上搓了搓那只抽筋的手，想设法缓和一下手指。可他的手张不开了。也许随着太阳出来，它就会张开，他想。也许等那些生猛的金枪鱼肉消化后，它就会张开。要是不得不用这只手，我就要不惜任何代价打开它。可我现在不想强行打开它。让它自己张开，自动恢复吧。毕竟，在昨夜必须解开各条钓线时，我使用过度了。

老人眺望大海，明白他现在是多么孤单。可他能看到黑暗海水深处的那些折光体，看到面前伸展的钓线和平静大海上的奇异波动。信风刮起，眼下云正在积聚，他向前望去，只见一群野鸭飞过水面，在天空的映衬下，时而清晰，时而模糊，他明白一个人在海上永远不会孤单。

他想起有些人害怕乘船到看不见陆地的地方，明白在风云突变的那几个月里他们有理由害怕。可是，目前处在飓风的月份，不刮飓风时，这些飓风月份是一年中天气最好的时候。

要是有飓风，要是你在海上，你总是会在几天前看到天空中有种种迹象。之所以人们在岸上看不到，是因为他们不知道要寻找什么，他想。陆地上一定也会不同寻常，那就是云的不同形状。可是，现在不会有飓风刮来。

他望望天空，看到一团团白色积云，像一堆堆舒适及时的冰淇淋，位于高高上空的是高远的9月的天空映衬着一团团羽毛似的卷云。

“轻微的东北风，”他说，“鱼儿，天气对我比对你更有利。”

他的左手还在抽筋，但他正在慢慢地打开它。我讨厌抽筋，他想。这是对自己身体的一种叛逆行为。在别人面前因食物中毒而腹泻或呕吐，非常丢人。然而，抽筋——他认为是calambre——是给自己丢脸，尤其是独自一人的时候。

要是那个男孩子在这儿，他可以给我揉揉，从前臂向下放松，他想。不过，这手会松开的。

接着，他用右手去摸钓线，感觉上面的拉力不一样，随后他才看到水里的斜度发生了变化。于是，他俯身贴住钓线，左手飞快有力地按在大腿上，看到钓线倾斜着在慢慢上升。

“它上来了，”他说，“快点，手儿，请快点。”

钓线慢慢地稳定上升，随后小船前面的海面暴涨起来，鱼浮出水面。它不停地浮出来，水从它的身体两边倾泻而下。它在阳光下鲜亮，头和背部呈深紫色，两侧的条纹在阳光下显得宽阔，呈现紫色。它的剑嘴像棒球棒那么长，如一把轻剑逐渐变细，全身都露出了水面，然后像潜水员一样平滑地又钻进了水里，老人看到它大镰刀片似的尾巴钻到了水下，钓线开始飞快地出来。

“它比这小船还长两英尺。”老人说。钓线又快又稳地出来了，这鱼没有受惊。老人正在设法用双手拉住钓线，用的劲刚好不拽断钓线。他知道，要是他不能用稳定的压力使鱼慢下来，它就会拖走全部钓线，挣断。

它是一条大鱼，我一定要制服它，他想。我千万不能让它明白它有多大劲儿，也不能让它明白要是逃走，它有多大能耐。我要是它，现在就会全力以赴，直到钓线绷断。不过，谢天谢地，尽管它们更高贵、更能干，但它们没有我们这些要消灭它们的人聪明。

老人曾见过许多大鱼。他见过许多1000多磅重的大鱼，这一生也曾逮住过两条这么大的鱼，但从未独自逮住过。现在独自一人，看不见陆地，他跟一条比他曾见过的最大的鱼紧紧地连在一起，比他曾听说过的鱼都大，他的左手还在紧握着，就像紧抓着的鹰爪一样。

不过，我的左手是不会抽筋的，他想。它肯定会不抽筋，来帮助我的右手。有三样东西是兄弟：那条鱼和我的两只手。这手一定不会抽筋的，它真不该抽筋。鱼又慢了下来，正用它平常的速度游动着。

我不知道这鱼为什么跳出水，老人想。它跳起来，简直就像是为了让我看看它有多么大。反正我现在知道了，他想。但愿我也能让它看看我是什么样的人。不过，它会看到这只抽筋的手。让它以为我是一个比现在的我更有力量的人，我一定会是这样。他想，但愿我就是这条鱼，用它所有的一切来对付我仅有的意志和智慧。

他舒适地靠在木船上，对袭来的痛苦逆来顺受，鱼稳定地游着，小船慢慢穿过水。随着东方吹来的风，海上有了浪花。中午时分，老人的左手不再抽筋了。

“鱼儿，对你来说是坏消息。”他说着，把钓线从披在肩膀的麻袋上挪了挪。

他舒适却又痛苦，尽管他根本不承认这是痛苦。

“我不信教，”他说，“可是，我愿意将《圣母经》和《天主经》念上十遍。这样我会逮住这条鱼，我答应，要是逮住它，我要去科布莱的圣母那儿去朝拜。这是我的许诺。”

他开始祈祷。有时候，他太累了，会记不住祈祷文，就说得很快，以便祈祷文自动说出来。《圣母经》真是比《天主经》容易念，他想。

“万福玛利亚，主与你同在。你在女人中受到祝福，你的子宫之果——耶稣也受到祝福。圣母玛利亚在我们临终时刻为我等罪人祈祷。阿门。”随后，他补充道，“圣母玛利亚，让这条鱼死去吧，尽管它让人敬畏。”

说完祈祷文，他感觉好多了，但还是像刚才一样痛苦，也许更严重了点儿。于是，他靠在船头的木舷上，开始机械地活动起左手的手指。

尽管微风正在轻轻吹起，但现在阳光很热。

“我最好还是把船尾的小钓丝重新装上钓饵，”他说，“要是那条鱼决定再待一夜，我就需要再吃点东西，瓶里的水也不多了。我想我只能在这儿逮一条鲯鳅了。可要是我在它足够新鲜时吃，味道就不会糟。我希望今晚有一条飞鱼跳上船来，我却没有灯光吸引它。飞鱼生吃，味道好极了，我也不必把它切碎。我现在必须保存所有的力气。天哪，我原来不知道它有这么大。”

“不过，我要宰了它，”他说，“不管它有多么伟大、多么风光。”

尽管这不公平，他想。不过，我要让它看看人有多能干，人有多大耐力。

“我对那个男孩子说过，我是个怪老伙计，”他说，“现在是我必须证明这一点的时候了。”

他已经证明过上千次了，这不算什么。现在他又要证明了。每一次都是新的一次，他这样做时，从来没有想起过去。

我真希望它会睡去，这样我也能睡去，梦见狮子，他想。为什么梦里剩下的主要是狮子呢？别想了，老伙计，他对自己说。现在轻轻地靠在木船舷上，什么都不要想。它正在慢慢游动，你尽可能少动。

时间渐渐地到了下午，船还在缓慢而稳定地移动。可是，现在来自东边的微风给船增加了拉力，老人随着小小的海浪轻轻漂流，钓线勒在他背上的疼痛最后变得舒适平稳。

下午，钓线又开始升起。可是，那鱼只是在稍高一点的水平面上继续游动。太阳落在了老人的左臂、左肩和背上。所以，他知道鱼已经转向了东北方。

既然他已经见过它一次，他就能想象出它在水里游动的情景，它的紫色胸鳍像翅膀一样大张，竖立的大尾巴划过黑暗的海水。我不知道它在那样深的海里会看见多少东西，老人想。它的眼睛极大，马的眼睛小得多，但在黑暗里也能看见。从前我在黑暗中也能看得一清二楚，不是在完全黑暗的地方，像猫似的。

阳光和手指的稳定动作现在已经使他的左手完全不再抽筋了，他开始把更多的拉力转移到了左手上，然后耸了耸背上的肌肉，稍微移开钓线造成的疼痛。

“鱼儿啊，要是你不累的话，”他大声说道，“你一定非常奇怪。”

他此刻感觉很累，他知道夜幕很快就要降临，所以他就尽力去想别的事儿。他想到了棒球两大联赛，在他看来就是Gran Ligas（大联赛），而且他知道纽约市的洋基队正在和底特律的老虎队比赛。

现在是联赛的第二天，我不知道juegos[4]的结果，他想。可是，我一定要有信心，一定要对得起了不起的迪马乔，他就是脚后跟长了骨刺，疼痛难忍，也会把一切做得非常完美。骨刺是什么？他问自己。就是un espuela de hueso[5]。可我们没有骨刺。它会像斗鸡腿上拴的铁刺扎进脚后跟那样疼吗？

我想我受不了那种痛苦，也不能像斗鸡那样失去一只眼或两只眼后接着斗下去。跟伟大的鸟兽相比，人没有什么了不起的。我还是宁愿做那种待在黑暗中的海水里的动物。

“除非鲨鱼来，”他大声说道，“要是鲨鱼来，上帝会同情它和我。”

你相信了不起的迪马乔守着一条鱼，会像我守着这条鱼一样长久吗？他想。我相信他会，而且会更长久，因为他年轻力壮。他的父亲也是一名渔夫。

可是，骨刺会让他疼吗？

“我不知道，”他大声说道，“我从来没有长过骨刺。”

太阳落下时，为了给自己增加信心，他想起了那次在卡萨布兰卡的一家酒店跟码头上那个最强壮的人——来自西恩富戈斯的大个子黑人——比手劲的情景。他们一天一夜前臂向上伸直，两手紧握，把胳膊肘支在桌面一条粉笔线上。各自都竭力把对方的手向下压到桌面上。好多人下了赌注，人们在屋里的煤油灯下进进出出，他望着黑人的胳膊和手，望着黑人的脸。最初的8小时过后，他们每隔4小时就换一名裁判，以便裁判们能轮流睡觉。血从他和黑人手上的指甲下面流出来，他们望着对方的眼睛，望着对方的手和前臂，打赌的人在屋里进进出出，坐在靠墙的高椅上观看。墙壁是木头做的，涂成了鲜蓝色，几盏灯把他们的影子投射在墙上。黑人的影子极大，随着微风吹灯，这影子也在墙上移动。

整整一夜，胜负难分，人们喂黑人喝朗姆酒，为他点燃香烟。接下来，喝过朗姆酒后，黑人会用九牛二虎之力，有一次把老人的手——他当时还不是老人，而是圣地亚哥冠军——扳下去将近3英寸。可是，老人又举起手，扳成了平局。他当时确信他会打败这个黑人，这个黑人非常出色，是个运动健将。而天亮时，那些打赌的人要求判成平局，裁判员摇摇头，老人使出浑身力气，硬是把黑人的手压下去，再压下去，直到它停留在桌面上。这场比赛开始于星期天早上，结束于星期一早上。好多打赌的人要求判成平局，因为他们得去码头装运一袋袋的糖或去哈瓦那煤矿公司干活，否则人人都会要求比赛到底。不过，他反正已经完成了，而且是在任何人必须上工之前。

之后好长时间，人人都叫他“冠军”，第二年春天又举行了一场比赛。可是，打赌的金额不多，他轻而易举就赢了，因为他在第一场比赛中已经击碎了那个西恩富戈斯来的黑人的自信心。之后，他又比赛过几次，后来就再没有比赛过。他判定，要是他一心想打败谁，他就能打败谁；他还判定，比手劲对他用来捕鱼的右手有害。他曾用左手尝试过几次练习赛。他的左手却总是背叛他，不愿听他使唤，所以他不信任它。

太阳现在会把那只手彻底烤热的，他想。它不会再抽筋了，除非夜里变得太冷。我不知道这一夜会发生什么事儿。

一架飞机从他头顶飞过，飞向迈阿密，他望着它的影子惊起了成群成群的飞鱼。“有这么多飞鱼，这儿应该有鲯鳅。”他说着，向后靠在钓线上，看能不能把那鱼拉过来。可是，他做不到，钓线紧绷，水珠抖动着，都快绷断了。船慢慢前进，他望着飞机，直到看不见为止。

坐在飞机里一定不同寻常，他想。我不知道从那个高度向下看，大海是什么样子。要不是飞得太高，他们一定能看清这条鱼。我想在200英寻的高度慢慢飞行，从空中看到那条鱼。在捕海龟的船上，我待在桅顶的横桁上，即使从那样的高度也能看到好多东西。从那儿看，鲯鳅显得更绿，你能看到它们的条纹和紫色斑点，你能看到它们整整一群都在游动。为什么所有在黑色水流中游得很快的鱼都有紫色背脊，常常还有紫色条纹或斑点？鲯鳅在水里看上去当然是绿色的，因为它其实是金黄色的。可是，当它真正饿，来吃东西时，像枪鱼一样身子两侧就会出现紫色条纹。使这些条纹显露出来的，可能是愤怒还是游得太快的呢？

就在天黑之前，老人和船经过一座马尾藻大岛，它在轻轻的海浪中起伏晃动，好像海洋正在一条黄色毯子下面跟什么东西做爱，这时候他那条小钓线被一条鲯鳅咬住了。他第一次看到它是在它跃到空中时，在最后的阳光中就像真正的金子一样，在空中弓起身，疯狂扑打着。它害怕得一次又一次跃出水面，像在杂技表演一样，他移回船尾蹲下来，右手和右臂握住那根大钓线，左手往里拽着鲯鳅，每拽回一段钓线，光着的左脚就踩在上面。等这条鱼被拽到了船尾，绝望地来回蹿跳时，老人弯腰趴在船尾，拎起了这条紫色斑点金光闪闪的鱼。它的嘴被钩住，抽搐地动着，飞快地咬着钓钩，用它又长又扁的身体、尾巴和脑袋连续重击着船底，直到他用木棍敲了一下它金光闪闪的脑袋，它才哆嗦着，不动了。

老人从钓钩上取下那条鱼，重新装上一条沙丁鱼作为诱饵，把钓线甩进海里，随后慢慢地移回船头，洗了洗左手，在裤子上擦了擦。接着，他把那根粗钓线从右手换到左手，在海里洗着右手，同时望着太阳沉入海里，望着倾斜的大钓线。

“它一点没变。”他说。可是，他望着流动的海水打在手上，注意到船明显慢了下来。

“我要把这两支船桨交叉绑在船尾，这在夜里会使它慢下来，”他说，“它善于熬夜，我也可以。”

最好等会儿再给这条鲯鳅开膛，这会让鲜血留在鱼肉里，他想。我可以稍晚会儿再干，同时可以把船桨绑在一起，增加阻力。我现在最好让鱼安静，在日落时分不过分地惊动它。对所有的鱼来说，太阳落下都是一个艰难的时刻。

他让手晾干，然后握住钓线，尽可能放松身体，任凭自己被拖向前去，身体贴在木板上，以便使船承受同样的拉力或比他承受更大的拉力。

我要学会怎么做，他想，至少是这一部分。那么，也要记住它咬饵以来还没有吃过东西，而且它身体庞大，需要许多食物。我已经吃了整条金枪鱼，明天我要吃掉那条鲯鳅。他叫它剑鱼。也许我应该在把它开膛时吃一些，它要比那条金枪鱼难吃。不过，什么事儿也不容易。

“鱼儿，你觉得怎么样？”他大声问道，“我感觉很好，左手好转，我有够一天一夜吃的食物。鱼儿，拖着这条船吧。”

他其实感觉并不好，因为钓线勒在背上的疼痛几乎超过了痛苦的极限，进入了一种麻木的状态。不过，我曾有过比这更糟的事儿，他想。我一只手仅仅割破了一点，另一只手的抽筋也消失了。我的两腿状况良好，同时，我眼下在食物方面也超过它。

这时候，天黑了，因为九月份，太阳落下后，天就会很快黑下来。他靠着船头磨损的木板，尽可能歇息。第一批星星出来了。他不知道猎户座那颗明亮双星的名字，但他看到了它，它们很快都会出来，他就会拥有所有这些遥远的朋友了。

“这条鱼也是我的朋友，”他大声说道，“我从来没有见过或听说过这种鱼。可我必须杀了它。我很高兴，我们不必去设法杀死那些星星。”

想象一下，一个人每天必须设法杀死月亮是什么情景，他想。月亮会逃走。不过，想象一下，一个人每天必须设法杀死太阳，又会怎样呢？我们生来幸运，他想。

于是，他为这条没有东西吃的大鱼感到难过，而要杀死它的决心从来没有因为替它难过而松懈。它会养活多少人啊，他想。可他们配吃它吗？不配，当然不配。从它的行为举止和崇高尊严来看，谁也不配吃它。

我不明白这些事，他想。可我们不必设法杀死太阳、月亮或星星，这是好事。在海上生活，杀死我们真正的兄弟，就够受了。

现在，他想，我必须考虑那个被拖物了。它有它的危险，也有它的优点。要是它用劲拉，两个船桨造成的阻力适当，船不再那样轻巧，我就可能会被鱼拖走好多钓线，最终会失去它。船身轻巧会延长我们双方的痛苦，但这是我的安全所在，因为它速度极快，这种速度它还从来没有使用过。无论发生什么事儿，我必须把这鲯鳅开膛，免得它坏掉，然后吃些鱼肉，补补身体。

现在，我要再歇息一个小时，等我感觉它完全稳定下来，然后再回到船尾去干活，做出决定。在此期间，我可以看看它怎么行动，它有没有什么变化。那两个船桨是个好窍门，不过，已经到了稳扎稳打的时候了。它还是一条了不起的鱼，我看见钓钩挂在它的嘴角，它紧闭着嘴。钓钩的伤害不算什么。

饥饿的折磨，以及它对付自己不了解的对手，才是最重要的。老伙计，现在歇息吧，让它干去吧，等你下一次过来时再说。

他认为自己歇息了两个小时。月亮现在要很晚才升起，他无法判断时间。他的歇息只是相对而言，其实也没有在歇息。他的双肩上还承受着鱼的拉力，但他左手按在船头的舷上，把对抗鱼的拉力越来越多地交给了小船本身。

要是我能让钓线绑紧，那会多么简单啊，他想。可是，只要鱼稍微倾斜，就能挣断钓线。我必须用身体来缓冲钓线的拉力，随时准备用双手放出钓线。

“可是，你还没有睡觉，老伙计，”他大声说道，“已经半天一夜了，现在又是一个白天，你都没有睡觉。你必须想个办法，要是鱼安静稳定，你就睡上一小会儿。要是不睡觉，你可能会头脑不清。”

我头脑够清楚的，他想，太清楚了。我像星星一样清楚，它们是我的兄弟。尽管如此，但我还是必须睡觉。星星睡觉，月亮和太阳睡觉，在某些没有急流、风平浪静的日子里，就连海洋有时候也要睡觉。

不过，要记住睡觉，他想。要让自己睡觉，想出一个简单可靠的办法来处理那条钓线，现在回到船尾收拾那条鲯鳅。要是你必须睡觉，把船桨绑起来拖在水里，那就太危险了。

我不睡觉也能行，他对自己说。可是，这太危险了。

他开始手膝并用爬回船尾，小心翼翼，避免惊动那条鱼。它自己也许正似睡非睡，他想。可是，我不想让它歇息，它必须拖拽，直到死去。

回到船尾，他转过身，以便左手握住勒在肩膀上的钓线，右手从刀鞘里拔出刀子。星星这时候亮晶晶的，他看清了那条鲯鳅，刀刃扎进它的头部，把它从船尾下面拽出来。他一只脚踩在鱼身上，从肛门一直到它的下颌尖端飞快地切开。随后，他放下刀子，右手掏出它的内脏，掏干净，完全拉下了鱼鳃。他感觉鱼胃在手里沉甸甸、滑溜溜的，就把它剖开。里面有两条飞鱼。它们新鲜坚实，他把它们并排放好，将内脏和鱼鳃从船尾扔进了水中。它们沉下去时，在水里留下一道磷光。鲯鳅冰冷，这时候在星光里像麻风病患者一样灰白，老人右脚踩住鱼头，剥下鱼身上一边的皮，然后把鱼翻过来，剥掉另一边的皮，把鱼身两边的肉从头到尾割下来。

他把鱼骨悄悄地扔到了船外，注意看它是不是在水里打转。可是，却只见它慢慢下沉时的磷光。随后，他转过身，把两条飞鱼放在那两片鱼肉里面，将刀子插回刀鞘，慢慢地挪回船头。因为钓线的重量，他被压弯了腰，右手拿着鱼肉。

回到船头，他把两片鱼肉摊在船板上，旁边放着飞鱼。之后，他把压在肩上的钓线换了个地方，又用左手握住钓线，手按在船舷上。接下来，他靠在船舷上，在水里洗了洗飞鱼，注意观察水冲在他手上的速度。他的手因剥鱼皮而发出磷光，他望着水流冲击自己的手。水流减弱，当他把手的侧面在船板上摩擦时，磷光体的微粒漂浮而去，慢慢地漂向船尾。

“它要么是越来越困，要么是在歇息，”老人说，“现在我要吃掉这条鲯鳅，歇息一下，睡一小会儿。”

星光下，夜越来越冷了，他把一块鱼肉吃了一半，还吃了一条挖去内脏、切掉脑袋的飞鱼。

“鲯鳅煮煮，一定好吃极了，”他说，“鱼生吃，真难吃。不带盐或酸橙，我再也不上船了。”

要是有头脑，我就会整天把海水泼在船头上，晾干，就会变成盐了，他想。不过，我是直到太阳快落山时才钓到了这条鲯鳅。尽管如此，准备工作还是欠缺。然而，我把它彻底嚼碎吃了下去，没有恶心的感觉。

东方的天空布满乌云，他认识的星星一颗颗接连消失了。现在他好像正在驶向一个乌云大峡谷，风已经停息了。

“三四天后会有坏天气，”他说，“不过，今晚和明天都不会有。老伙计，现在这鱼安静稳定，你就装上索具，睡一会儿吧。”

他右手紧握钓线，然后大腿抵住右手，全身重量压在船头的木板上，接着把肩上的钓线挪低了一点，左手撑住了钓线。

只要钓线撑住，我的右手就能握住它，他想。要是我睡着时钓线松弛，滑出去，左手就会把我弄醒。这样右手就会非常吃力。不过，它习惯吃苦。即使我睡二三十分钟，也没事儿。他向前用整个身子夹住钓线，把所有重量压在右手上，进入了梦乡。

他没有梦见狮子，而是梦见了一大群海豚，延伸8到10英里，这正是它们交配的时节，它们会高高地跃到空中，然后又回到它们跳跃时在水里形成的漩涡当中。

接着，他梦见自己在村子里，躺在床上，正刮着北风，他很冷，右臂麻木，因为他的头枕在右臂上，而不是枕头上。

之后，他开始梦见了那个长长的黄色海滩，看到狮群中的第一头狮子傍晚时分来到海滩上，随后其他狮子也来了；他把下巴放在船头的木板上，轮船抛锚停泊在那儿，晚风吹向海面，他等着看会不会有更多的狮子，他感到非常开心。

月亮已经升起好一阵子了，但他继续睡着，鱼平稳地向前拖着，船进入了云彩峡谷。

他的右拳猛地砸在脸上，从梦中醒来，钓线正嘶嘶地从他的右手里跑了出去。左手失去了知觉，右手竭尽全力拉住钓线，但它还是飞快地滑了出去。左手终于抓住了钓线，他向后倾斜拉着钓线，这时候钓线火辣辣勒着他的背部和左手，左手承受着全部的拉力，划得很重。他回头看着那些钓线卷，只见它们正在滑溜地放出钓线。正在此时，鱼跳起来，冲破一大片海面，然后重重地落下来。随后，它跳了一次又一次，船走得飞快，钓线还在飞快地向外滑溜，老人把它拉紧到了快要绷断的地步，他一次次把它拉紧到了快要绷断的地步。他已被拉得紧靠在船头上，脸贴在那片切下的鲯鳅肉上，他无法动弹。

这就是我们等待的事儿，他想。所以，现在让我们来承受它吧。

让它为拖钓线付出代价吧，他想。让它为此付出代价吧。

他看不见鱼的跳跃，只听见海面的破裂声和鱼落下时沉重的飞溅声。钓线飞滑，把他的手划得非常严重，但他始终知道这会发生，所以他设法让钓线勒在长有老茧的部位，不让它滑到掌心或勒在手指上。

要是男孩子在这儿，他就会打湿这些钓线卷，他想。是的，要是男孩子在这儿，要是男孩子在这儿。

钓线向外飞滑着，飞滑着，飞滑着，但现在越来越慢了，他正让鱼每拖一英寸都要付出代价。此刻，他从木板上抬起头，不再贴在他的脸颊已经压碎的那片鱼肉上。随后，他跪在那儿，接着慢慢地站起来。他正在放出钓线，但他站起得越来越慢。他正在放出钓线，但始终越来越慢。他挪回到他可以用一只脚触摸却看不到的那一卷卷钓线的地方。钓线还有好多，现在这条鱼不得不拖着摩擦力大的新钓线穿过海水。

是的，他想。这时候，它已经跳了十几次，把那些背囊装满了空气，所以它沉不到深水，死在我无法把它捞上来的地方。它很快就会开始转圈，那时我一定会对付它。我不知道是什么让它这样突然跳起来？可能是饥饿使它不顾一切，要么是它夜间受到了什么东西的惊吓？也许是它突然感到害怕。不过，它是一条如此镇静、强壮的鱼，好像是那样无所畏惧、如此充满信心。这很奇怪。

“老伙计，你最好自己也无所畏惧、充满信心，”他说，“你又把它拖住了，可你收不回钓线。不过，它很快就得打转了。”

老人现在用左手和肩膀拽住它，弯下腰，右手掬起水，洗掉脸上压碎的鲯鳅肉。他怕这肉会使他恶心呕吐，丧失力气。擦净脸后，他把右手在船舷外的水里洗了洗，然后泡在海水里，同时望着日出前的第一缕晨光。它几乎是向东航行，他想。这意味着它疲乏，随波逐流。它很快就得打转。那时我们的真正工作才会开始。

等他认为右手在水里泡的时间够长后，他把手从水里抽出来，看着。

“不错，”他说，“疼痛对男子汉来说不要紧。”

他小心地握着钓线，以免嵌进刚勒破的任何一道伤口中，他把身体挪到小船的另一边，这样就能把左手伸进海里了。

“尽管你没用，但干得还不错，”他对左手说，“不过，有一阵子，你不听我使唤。”

我为什么不生下来就有两只好手呢？他想。也许是我的过错，没有适当训练这只手。可是，上帝知道它曾有过足够多的学习机会。然而，它今天夜里干得非常不错，只抽了一次筋。要是它再抽筋，那就让这钓线把它勒断吧。

想到这一点后，他明白自己头脑不清，他想起他应该再嚼一些鲯鳅肉。可我不能，他对自己说。头晕也比因恶心而丧失力气强。而且我知道我吃了也存不住，因为我的脸曾压在那上面。我要留着它应急，直到它腐烂。不过，要想通过营养增强力气，太晚了。你真蠢，他对自己说。把另一条飞鱼也吃了吧。

它在那儿，已被洗净、备好。于是，他左手拿起那条鱼，吃了起来，仔细咀嚼着鱼骨，连尾巴都吃了。

它几乎比任何鱼都更有营养，他想。至少会给我需要的那种力气。现在我已经做到了我力所能及的一切，他想。让它开始打转，让战斗来临吧。

自从他出海以来，太阳第三次升起，这时候鱼开始打转。

根据钓线的斜度，他看不出鱼在打转，这还太早。他只感觉到钓线的拉力稍微减弱，就开始用右手轻轻拉着。钓线像往常那样绷紧，但就在拉到快要绷断时，钓线却开始回收了。他让肩膀和脑袋从钓线下面钻出来，开始平稳地轻轻回收钓线。他挥动双手，尽可能使出全身和两腿的力气设法去拉。他的老腿和肩膀随着拉力的晃动而转动。

“这圈子真大，”他说，“它总算在打转了。”

随后，钓线就再也收不回来了，他握住钓线，直到看见水珠在阳光中从钓线上迸了出来。接着，钓线开始向外滑溜，老人跪下来，很不情愿地松开，让它又回到了黑暗的海水中。

“它现在正绕到圈子的最远处。”他说。我一定要尽力握住，他想。要是拉紧，每次就会缩小它转的圈子。也许一小时后，我就会看到它。现在我必须征服它，然后杀了它。

可是，这条鱼继续慢慢地打转。两小时后，老人浑身湿透，疲惫入骨。不过，那些圈子现在小多了，而且根据钓线的倾斜度，他能看出鱼一边游一边稳定上升。

老人看见眼前有些黑点已有一个小时了，发咸的汗水浸入他的眼睛，浸入眼睛上方和额头上的伤口。他不怕那些黑点。他紧张地拉着钓线，出现那些黑点是正常的。然而，他已经两次感到头昏眼花，这让他担心。

“我不能让自己失望，就这样死在一条鱼的手里，”他说，“既然我已经将它拖得越来越近，天主就保佑我坚持到底吧。我要念100遍《天主经》和100遍《圣母经》。不过，我现在还不能念。”

就算这些已经念过，他想。我以后还会念的。

就在此时，他突然感到双手握住的钓线撞击、猛拉了一下。来势猛烈，感觉强硬，沉甸甸的。

它正用长矛似的嘴撞击着铁丝导线，他想。这肯定要来，它不得不这样干。不过，这可能会使它跳起来，我宁愿它现在继续打转。它必须跳出水面呼吸空气。可是，每跳一次，钓钩造成的伤口就会扩大，它就会甩掉钓钩。

“鱼儿，别跳，”他说，“别跳啊。”

鱼又撞击了铁丝导线好几次，它每次甩头，老人就放出一点钓线。

我必须让它的疼痛保持在一个地方，他想。我的疼痛不要紧。我能控制自己的疼痛。可它的疼痛能使它发疯。

过了一会儿，鱼不再撞击铁丝，又开始慢慢地打起转来。老人眼下正在稳定地收线。可是，他又感到头晕了。他用左手掬了一些海水，洒在头上，然后洒了些，在脖颈上揉搓着。

“我没有抽筋，”他说，“它马上就会游上来，我能挺住。你必须得停住。别说了。”

他靠着船头跪下来，一时间又把钓线挎在背上。我眼下要在它向外转圈时歇息一下，等它转回来时，我再站起来对付它，他决定说。

他真不想回收钓线，在船头歇息了一下，让鱼自己转一圈。可是，当钓线的拉力表明鱼已经转身向小船游来时，老人站起来，开始绕着钓线转动，像纺线一样拉动钓线，收回了他拉过来的所有钓线。

我从来没有这样疲惫过，他想，现在信风刮起来了。不过，这对拖回这条鱼有好处。我急需这股风。

“它下一次向外转圈时，我要歇息一下，”他说，“我感觉好过多了。然后再转两三圈，我就会逮住它。”

他的草帽戴到了后脑勺上，他感觉鱼转身时，随着钓线的拉动，他扑通坐进了船头。

鱼儿，你现在忙吧，他想。你转身时我就会对付你。

海浪已经大大升起。不过，这是晴天的微风，他得靠它才能回去。

“我只要向西南航行就行了，”他说，“人在海上是绝不会迷路的，再说这是一个长长的岛屿。”

鱼转到第三圈时，他才第一次看见它。

他起先看到它是一个黑影，它需要那么长时间从船下穿过，他不相信它有那么长。

“不，”他说，“它不可能那么大。”

可是，它就是那么大，这一圈转完时，它冒出水来，只有30码远，老人看见它的尾巴露出了水面。它比一把长柄大镰刀的刀刃更高，在深蓝色的海水上方呈淡淡的紫色，向后倾斜。鱼在水面下游动时，老人可以看见它庞大的身体和浑身的紫色条纹。它的脊鳍向下，巨大的胸鳍张得很宽。

这次鱼转圈回来时，老人看见它的眼睛和围绕它游动的两条灰色乳鱼。

有时候它们贴在它身上，有时候飞快地游去，有时候会轻松地游在它的阴影里。它们每条3英尺多长，游得快时，像鳗鱼那样甩动整个身体。

老人现在流起了汗，但除了太阳，还有其他原因。鱼每次沉着平静地转回，他都收回钓线，所以他确信再转两圈，就有机会把鱼叉扎进去。

不过，我必须把它拉近，拉近，拉近，他想。我千万不能扎它的脑袋。我必须扎进它的心脏。

“要镇静，要用力，老伙计。”他说。

鱼又转了一圈，背脊露了出来，但它离小船越来越远。它接下来又转了一圈，还是太远，但它露出水面更高了，老人确信，再收回一些钓线，他就能把它拉到船边。

他早已备好鱼叉，那卷细绳放在一只圆筐内，一端紧紧地绑在船头的系缆柱上。

这时候，鱼转了一圈回来，看上去平静漂亮，只有它的大尾巴在动。老人竭尽所能把它拉得更近。一时间，鱼微微倾斜，随后又挺直身体，转起了另一圈。

“我拉动它了，”老人说，“我刚才拉动它了。”

他又感到眩晕，但他竭尽所能拽住那条大鱼。我拉动它了，他想。也许这次我能把它拉过来。手啊，你拉吧，他想；腿啊，你挺住；头啊，为我撑下去，为我撑下去吧。你从来没有晕倒过，这次我要把它拉过来。

可是，鱼还没有来到船边，他离好远就竭尽全力继续拉钓线，鱼拉偏了点，然后又摆正身体，游走了。

“鱼儿啊，”老人说，“鱼儿，你反正就要死了。你非得把我也害死不可吗？”

这样会一事无成，他想。他的嘴干得说不出话来，但他现在不能伸手去端水喝。我这次必须把它拉到船边，他想。再多转几圈，我就不行了。是的，你行，他对自己说。你永远都行。

转下一圈时，他差点儿把它拉过来。可是，鱼又摆正了身体，慢慢地游走了。

鱼儿，你要害死我啊，老人想。不过，你有权这样做。老弟，我从来没有见过比你更庞大、更漂亮、更镇定或更崇高的东西。来，害死我吧。我不在乎谁害死谁。

我现在头脑越来越糊涂了，他想。我必须保持头脑清醒，保持头脑清醒，要像男子汉一样懂得怎样忍受痛苦，或者像一条鱼那样，他想。

“头啊，你要清醒，”他用一种自己都几乎听不见的声音说，“清醒吧。”

鱼又转了两圈，还是一样。

我不知道，老人想。每次他都感觉自己快要垮了，我不知道是怎么回事，不过，我还是要再试一下。

他又试了一下，当他把鱼拉得转过来时，他感觉自己就要垮了。鱼摆正身体，又慢慢地游走了，大尾巴在空中摇晃着。

我要再试一下，老人发誓说，尽管他双手现在软弱无力，眼睛也只能一阵一阵地看清。

他又试了一下，情况还是一样。这样看来，他想，还没有开始，他就感觉自己要垮了，我要再试一下。

他忍住所有的痛苦，拿出剩下的力气和久已失去的自尊，用来对付这条鱼的垂死挣扎，鱼游到他身边，在他身边轻轻地游着，它的嘴几乎碰到了小船的船板，它开始游过船边，身体又长又宽，入水很深，银白色，带着紫色条纹，在水里长得没边。

老人放下钓线，一只脚踩在上面，尽可能把鱼叉举高，用尽全身力气，以及他刚才鼓起的力气，扎进鱼身的一侧，就在大胸鳍后面，胸鳍高耸在空中，跟老人的胸部一样高。他感到铁叉扎了进去，就把身体靠在上面，把它扎得更深，然后用全身的重量推着。

这时候，尽管死到临头，但鱼又活蹦乱跳起来，从水里高高跃起，展示了它巨大的长度和宽度，展示了它所有的力量和美。它仿佛悬在空中，悬在小船上老人的头顶，随后哗啦一声落进水里，浪花飞溅在老人身上，飞溅在船上。

老人感到头晕恶心，看不清东西。不过，他收拾了鱼叉绳，让它从他擦破皮的两手之间慢慢地滑出去。等他能看清时，只见鱼银色的肚皮朝上仰面躺在那儿。鱼叉柄从鱼肩部斜伸出来，海水因它心脏里流出的鲜血而变色。起先，它昏暗，就像这一英里多深的蓝色海水中的一个浅滩。随后，它像云彩一样铺开。鱼呈银色，一动不动，随着波浪浮动。

老人用他在瞬间看清的视力仔细望着，接着把鱼叉绳在船头的缆柱上绕了两圈，把头靠在两只手上。

“保持头脑清醒，”他靠着船头的木板说，“我是个疲惫的老头。可是，我杀死了这条鱼，它是我的兄弟，现在我必须去做苦工了。”

现在我必须准备好套索和绳子，把它绑在船边，他想。就是我们有两个人，让船灌满水，把它装上船，然后把水舀出去，这条小船也绝容不下它。我必须做好一切准备，之后把它拖过来，捆绑好，竖起桅杆，扬帆回家。

他开始把鱼拖到船边，以便能把一根绳子穿进它的鳃，从嘴里拉出来，把它的头紧紧地绑在船头边。他想，我想看到它，碰碰它，摸摸它。它是我的财富，他想。可这不是我想摸它的原因。我以为我刚才摸到了它的心脏，他想。就是在我第二次推动鱼叉柄的时候。现在要把它拖过来，紧紧地绑住，用一根套索捆住它的尾巴，另一根捆住它的腰部，把它绑在小船上。

“开始动手吧，老伙计。”他说。他喝了一小口水。“既然战斗结束了，就有好多苦活要干。”

他抬头望望天空，然后又瞧瞧船外的鱼。他仔细看了看太阳。中午没过多久，他想。信风刮起来了，这些钓线现在都没用了。回家后，我和那个男孩子会把它们捻接起来。

“鱼儿，过来吧。”他说。可是，鱼不过来，而是躺在海面上翻滚着。于是，老人把小船开过去，靠住它。

等他跟鱼并排，把鱼头靠在船头边时，他无法相信它居然那么大。可是，他从缆柱上解下鱼叉绳，穿进鱼鳃，从嘴里拉出来，在它的剑嘴上绕了一圈，然后穿过另一个鱼鳃，又在剑嘴上绕了一圈，把这双股绳子打了个结，紧紧地绑在船头的缆柱上。随后，他割下一截绳子，走到船尾去套住鱼尾。鱼已经从原来的紫色和银色变成了银色，条纹像尾巴一样显出了同样的淡紫色。这些条纹比一个人张开五指的手还宽，看上去鱼的眼睛像潜望镜中的镜片或游行队伍中的圣徒一样冷漠。

“要杀死它，只有这个办法。”老人说。喝水后，他感觉好了些，知道自己头脑清醒，不会垮掉。看样子它有1500多磅重，他想。说不定要重得多。要是掐头去尾剩三分之二的重量，按一磅3角钱计算，是多少钱？

“我需要一支铅笔来计算，”他说，“我的头脑不是那么清醒。不过，我想了不起的迪马乔今天会为我感到自豪。我没有长骨刺。可是，双手和背部确实疼。”我不知道骨刺是什么，他想。也许我们都有，只是自己不知道。

他把鱼紧紧地绑在船头、船尾和中间的横座板上。它非常大，就像在船边绑着另一只大得多的船。他割下一截钓线，把鱼的下颌和鱼嘴捆在一起，以免它的嘴张开，这样他们就会尽可能干净利索地行驶。随后，他竖起桅杆，装上那根用作鱼叉的棍子和下桁，张起补过的风帆，船开始移动，他半躺在船尾，向西南开去。

他不需要罗盘来告诉他西南在哪儿，只需要感觉一下信风和风帆的方向就行了。我最好放出一根带有匙状假饵的细钓线，设法钓一些东西吃喝，润润喉咙。可是，他找不到匙状假饵，他的沙丁鱼都腐烂了。所以，他在船经过时用鱼叉钩上了一小块黄色马尾藻，把它抖了抖，使里面的小虾掉在了船板上。共有十几只小虾，它们像沙蚤一样活蹦乱跳。老人用拇指和食指掐掉它们的头，连壳带尾嚼着吃了下去。它们很小，但他知道它们富有营养，味道不错。

老人瓶里还有两口水，吃过虾后，他喝了半口。鉴于种种不利条件，小船行驶得还算不错，他把舵柄夹在腋下掌着舵。他能看见那条鱼，他只要看看自己的双手，感觉到背靠在船尾上，就知道这是真正发生的事儿，不是一场梦。有一段时间，他感觉很糟，快要完了，以为这可能是一场梦。后来，当他看到鱼跃出水面，落下前一动不动悬在空中时，他觉得非常奇怪，难以相信。当时他看不清，尽管现在他像往常一样看得一清二楚。

眼下，他知道鱼在这儿，双手和背部都不是梦。这双手很快就会痊愈，他想。我让血都出净了，海水会把它们治好的。真正海湾的暗水是世上最好的良药。我必须做的就是保持头脑清醒。这两只手已经尽职了，我们航行得不错。鱼闭着嘴，尾巴直上直下，我们像兄弟一样航行。随后，他的头脑开始有点儿不清醒，他心里想，是它在带我回家，还是我在带它回家？要是我把它拖在船后，那就不会有任何问题了。要是这条鱼尊严尽失，被放在小船里，也不会有什么问题。不过，他们是并排绑在一起航行，所以老人想，只要这让它高兴，就让它带我回家吧。我只是通过诡计才比它强，它对我并没有任何伤害。

他们航行不错，老人两手泡在海水里，努力保持头脑清醒。积云堆得很高，积云上空还有足够多的卷云，因此老人明白风将会持续整整一夜。老人常常看着那条鱼，以确定这是真的。这是第一条鲨鱼袭击它前的一个小时。

鲨鱼的出现并不是意外事件。当乌云般的鱼血向一英里深的海里下沉扩散时，它就已经从深水处游了上来。它上来得非常快，毫无禁忌地冲破蓝色水面，出现在太阳下。随后，它又掉回了海里，嗅到了血腥的气味，开始顺着小船和那条鱼所走的航道游去。

有时候它会跟丢那种气味。可是，它常常会重新嗅到或只嗅到一点蛛丝马迹，就飞快地努力游过去。它是一条很大的灰鲸鲨，生来能游得像海里最快的鱼一样快，它周围的一切都很美，除了它的嘴。它的背脊像剑鱼的一样蓝，腹部呈银色，鱼皮光滑漂亮。除了那张紧闭的大嘴，它长得像剑鱼一样，现在就在水面下飞快地游着，高耸的背鳍像刀子似的划破水面，毫不摇摆。在它紧闭的双唇里，八排牙齿都向里倾斜。它们不像大多数鲨鱼那样有普通的金字塔形牙齿。它们如爪子般蜷曲时，形状像人的手指。它们差不多像老人的手指一样长，两边都有锋利的刃口。这种鱼生来就是以海里所有鱼为食，它们健壮，游得飞快，装备精良，所以没有任何对手。它闻到了更新鲜的气味，现在加快了速度，蓝色脊鳍划破了水面。

看到它游来时，老人明白这是一条无所畏惧、为所欲为的鲨鱼。他备好鱼叉，绑紧绳子，同时注视着鲨鱼向前游过来。绳子很短，缺少他割下用来绑鱼的那段。

老人现在头脑清醒健全，充满决心，但他没有抱多大希望。情况太好了，不可能持久，他想。他一边注视着鲨鱼逼近，一边看了那条大鱼一眼。这最好是一场梦，他想。我挡不住它来袭击我，但也许我能逮住它。登土鲨，他想，你运气太差了。

鲨鱼飞快地逼近船尾，它袭击那条鱼时，老人看到它的嘴张开，看到它奇异的眼睛，看到它牙齿嘎吱一声咬住鱼尾上方的肉。鲨鱼的头露出水面，背部正在出水，老人可以听到那条大鱼的皮肉撕裂的声音，这时候他用鱼叉向下猛地扎在鲨鱼的头上，正扎在它两眼间那条线与从鼻子径直通到脑后那条线的交叉点上。这两条线并不存在。只有沉重尖锐的蓝色脑袋、两只大眼睛和嘎吱作响、向前猛推、吞噬一切的嘴巴。可那是大脑的位置，老人扎中了它。他用尽全力，血肉模糊的双手把一把好鱼叉扎了进去。他扎它时，没有抱什么希望，但带着坚定的决心和十足的狠劲。

鲨鱼翻过身，老人看到它的眼里没有活力，接着它又翻过身，自行缠上了两圈绳子。老人知道鲨鱼死了，但它不愿接受这一点。这时候，它仰躺着，尾巴急速甩动，嘴巴嘎吱作响，像一条快艇那样划过水面。它的尾巴把水打得泛起了白色，四分之三的身体完全露在水面上，这时候绳子绷紧，抖了一下，随后绷断了。鲨鱼在水面上静静地躺了一小会儿，老人望着它。接着，它慢慢地沉了下去。

“它吃掉了大约40磅。”老人大声说道。他想，它把我的鱼叉也带走了，还有所有的绳子，而且现在我这条鱼又流了血，其他鲨鱼也会追来。

他不想再看这条鱼，因为它已经被咬得残缺不全。鱼受到袭击时，就像他自己受到袭击一样。

可是，我杀死了这条袭击我那条鱼的鲨鱼，他想。而它是我见过的最大的登土鲨。天知道我见过一些大鲨鱼。

情况太好，不会持久，他想。但愿现在这是一场梦，我从来没有钓到这条鱼，正独自躺在铺着报纸的床上。

“可是，人不是生而失败，”他说，“一个人可以被毁灭，但不能被打败。”

不过，我很遗憾杀了这条鱼，他想。现在糟糕的时刻就要来了，我连鱼叉都没有。这条登土鲨残忍、能干、强壮、聪明。可是，我比它更聪明。也许不是，他想，也许我只是防卫比它强。

“老伙计，别想了，”他大声说道，“顺着这航线行驶，事情来了，就去承受。”

可是，我必须想，他想。因为我剩下的就这个了。这个，还有棒球。我不知道了不起的迪马乔对我那样击中它的大脑是不是喜欢？这不是什么了不起的事儿，他想。任何人都能做到。可你认为我这双手像骨刺一样是一大不利条件吗？我不得而知。我的脚后跟从来没有出过毛病，除了有一次游泳时踩住一条刺鳐，它蜇了我一下，使我小腿麻痹，疼痛难忍。

“老伙计，想些高兴事儿，”他说，“现在每过一分钟，你就离家更近一步。失去40磅，你航行会更轻快。”

他非常清楚，他驶进洋流内部会发生什么事儿。可是，现在没办法。

“有，有办法，”他大声说道，“我可以把刀子绑在一支桨的桨柄上。”

于是，他胳膊夹着舵柄，一只脚踩住帆脚索，就这样做了。

“好了，”他说，“我还是一个老头。不过，我有武器。”

这时候，海风强劲，他继续顺利航行。他只望着鱼的前半身，又有了一些希望。

不抱希望才傻，他想。此外，我相信这是一种罪过。别想罪过了，他想。

现在没有罪过，问题就够多了。我也根本不懂这一点。

我根本不懂这一点，也拿不准自己是不是相信。也许杀死这条鱼是一种罪过。我想是这样，即使我这样做是为了养活自己，也是为了给许多人鱼肉吃。不过，一切都是罪过。别想罪过了。现在想它太晚了，有些人就是吃这碗饭。让他们去想吧。你天生是一个渔夫，就像鱼天生是鱼一样。圣彼得是一个渔夫，就像了不起的迪马乔的父亲一样。

可是，他喜欢去想他被卷入其中的一切事儿，而且因为没有什么东西阅读，也没有收音机，他就想得很多，一直想着罪过。你杀死鱼，不仅仅是为了养活自己，卖了买食物，他想。你杀死它是为了自尊心，因为你是渔夫。它活着时你爱它，它死后你还爱它。要是你爱它，杀死它就不是罪过。要么是更大的罪过？

“老伙计，你想得太多了。”他大声说道。

可是，你乐意杀死那条登土鲨，他想。它像你一样，靠吃活鱼生活。它不是食腐动物，也不像有些鲨鱼那样，只是游动着满足食欲。它美丽高贵，无所畏惧。

“我出于自卫杀死了它，”老人大声说道，“而且我杀得非常利索。”

此外，他想，一切东西都以某种方式杀死其他的一切。捕鱼养活我，也会害了我。那个男孩子使我活下去，他想。我不能过分欺骗自己。

他趴在船边，从鱼身上鲨鱼咬过的地方撕下一块肉。他咀嚼着，发现肉质和味道都不错。坚实多汁，像食用肉一样，但不是红色的。里面没有任何筋，他知道这在市场上会卖最高的价钱。可是，无法不让它的气味散发到水里，老人知道非常糟糕的时刻就要来了。

风向平稳，它已经稍微转向了东北方，老人知道这意味着风不会减弱。老人望着前方，但他既看不到船帆，也看不到船身或任何轮船冒出的烟。只有从他船头跃起向两边游去的飞鱼，和一块块黄色马尾藻，他连一只鸟也看不到。

他已经航行了两个小时，在船尾歇息，有时候从枪鱼身上撕下一点肉咀嚼，设法歇息，保持体力，这时候他看到了两条鲨鱼中首先露面的那条。

“Ay。”他大声说道。这个词无法翻译，也许只是一种叫声，就像一个人感觉钉子穿过他的双手、钉进木头时不知不觉发出的声音。

“加拉诺鲨。”他大声说道。他看到第二个鳍在第一个的背后冒出来，根据褐色三角形鳍和尾巴横扫的动作，认出它们是铲鼻鲨。它们嗅到了血腥味，非常兴奋，因为饿得晕头转向，它们嗅不到血腥味，随后在兴奋中又嗅到了血腥味。不过，它们始终在逼近。

老人系紧帆脚索，卡住舵柄，然后拿起上面绑有刀子的船桨。他尽可能轻地把它举起来，因为他的双手疼得不听使唤了。接着，他张开双手，轻轻地合住，又放松开来。他紧紧地合拢双手，让它们现在忍受痛苦，不会退缩，同时注视着鲨鱼游过来。他现在看到了它们又宽又扁、铲尖一样的脑袋和尖端呈白色的宽阔胸鳍。它们是可恨的鲨鱼，气味难闻，既吃其他鱼，又吃腐肉，饥饿时还会咬船上的桨或舵。就是这些鲨鱼，它们会在海龟在水面上睡觉时咬掉它们的脚和鳍状肢，要是它们饥饿，即使这人身上没有鱼血味或鱼黏液的腥味，也会在水里袭击人。

“Ay。”老人说。“加拉诺鲨，来吧，加拉诺鲨。”

它们来了。而它们来时，跟那条灰鲸鲨不一样。一条鲨鱼转身钻到小船下面不见了踪影，它拖拽那条鱼时，老人能感觉到小船在晃动。另一条用它细缝似的黄眼睛注视着老人，然后飞快地游来，半圆形嘴巴大大张开，向鱼身上已被咬过的地方咬去。它褐色的头顶和大脑与脊髓相连的背脊上有一道清晰的纹路，老人把绑在桨上的刀子扎进那个交叉点，拔出来，又扎进了鲨鱼的黄色猫眼般的眼睛里。鲨鱼放开咬住的鱼，向下滑去，临死时把咬下的肉吞了下去。

另一条鲨鱼正在咬那条鱼，小船还在晃个不停，老人松开帆脚索，以便小船横过来，使鲨鱼从船下露出来。他看到鲨鱼后，趴在船沿上，向它戳去。他只戳在肉上，鲨鱼皮紧绷着，他几乎戳不进去。这一戳不仅刺痛了他的双手，也刺痛了他的肩膀。可是，鲨鱼飞快地浮上来，露出了脑袋，老人在它的鼻子伸出水面，贴住那条鱼时，击中了它的扁平脑袋。老人拔出刀刃，又向同一地方扎了鲨鱼一下。它仍然用嘴紧咬着那条鱼，老人一刀戳进了它的左眼，鲨鱼还是悬在那儿。

“不行吗？”说着，老人把刀刃戳进了它的椎骨和大脑之间。这时候扎起来轻而易举，他感到它的软骨折断了。老人把船桨颠倒过来，把刀刃插进鲨鱼的上下颚之间，想撬开它的嘴。他转动刀刃，鲨鱼松开嘴时，他说：“加拉诺鲨，走吧。滑到一英里深去吧，去找你的朋友吧，或许那里有你的妈妈。”

老人擦了擦刀刃，把桨放下来，随后摸到了帆脚索，张满帆，把小船开上原来的航线。

“它们一定已经吃掉了四分之一的鱼，而且都是最好的肉，”他大声说道，“但愿这是一场梦，我根本没有钓到它。鱼儿，对不起。这使一切都很糟。”

他停住话头，现在不想看那条鱼。它流尽了血，随波逐流，看上去像镜子背面的银色，身上的条纹仍然露出来。

“鱼儿，我不该出海这么远，”他说，“对你对我都不好。鱼儿，对不起。”

好了，他对自己说。去看看绑刀子的绳子，看看断了没有。然后弄好手，因为还有鲨鱼要来。

“我要是有一块石头磨磨刀就好了。”老人检查了绑在桨把上的刀子后说。“我本该带一块磨石的。”你应该带来许多东西，他想。可是，你没有带来，老伙计。现在不是想你没有带什么东西的时候。想想你用现有的东西能做什么事儿吧。

“你给了我许多忠告，”他大声说道，“我都听腻了。”

小船向前驶去时，他把舵柄夹在胳膊下面，两手浸在水里。

“天知道最后那条鲨鱼咬掉了多少肉，”他说，“不过，这船现在轻得多了。”他不愿去想那条鱼残缺的肚子。他知道鲨鱼每次猛撞上去，都要撕去一块肉，也知道鱼现在给所有的鲨鱼都留下了一道像穿越大海的公路一样的嗅迹。

它是一条大鱼，可供一个人吃一冬天，他想。别想这个了，请歇息一下，把你的手弄好，保护剩下的鱼肉。水里的血腥味非常浓，我手上的血腥此刻不足挂齿。再说，这双手流的血并不多，割破的地方没有大碍，出血也许会使我的左手不再抽筋。

我现在还能想什么呢？他想。什么也没有，我必须什么也不想，等待下面的鲨鱼来。我真希望这是一场梦，他想。可谁知道呢？也许结局良好。下一条鲨鱼是单独的铲鼻鲨。它来时像一头猪跑向饲料槽，要是说猪有这么大的嘴，你能把头伸进去的话。老人让它咬住了那条鱼，然后把船桨上绑着的刀子扎进了它的大脑。可是，鲨鱼向后猛地一拉，打了个滚，刀刃突然折断了。

老人安顿下来掌舵，他甚至没有去看那条大鲨鱼在水里慢慢下沉，它起先露出整个身体，然后变小，后来成了小不点儿。这总是让老人着迷。可是，他现在连一眼都不看了。

“我现在还有大鱼叉，”他说，“不过，它不会有什么用处。我还有两把桨、一根舵柄和一根短棍。”

现在它们已经打败了我，他想。我太老了，用棍子打不死鲨鱼了。可是，只要有船桨、短棍和舵柄，我就要试一下。

他又把双手伸进水里泡着。天色渐渐黄昏，他只能看到大海和天空。空中的风比先前大了，他希望马上会看到陆地。

“你累了，老伙计，”他说，“你心里累了。”

直到太阳快落时，鲨鱼才又来袭击。

老人看到褐色的鳍顺着那条鱼在水里留下的臭迹游来。它们甚至不用四处游动搜索臭迹，径直并排游向了小船。

他卡住舵柄，系紧帆脚索，伸手去船尾下面拿短棍。那是一个从断桨上锯下的桨柄，大约两英尺半长。因为把手握力的缘故，他只能一只手有效使用把手，所以他就用右手牢牢握住，一边弯手按在上面，一边望着鲨鱼游来。两条都是加拉诺鲨。

我必须让第一条鲨鱼牢牢咬住，再打它的鼻尖或直接击中它的头顶，他想。

两条鲨鱼一起逼近，他看到离他最近的那条鲨鱼张开嘴，咬进了那条鱼的银色肚子，就高高地举起棍子，重重地砸了下去，咚的一声砸在鲨鱼宽阔的头顶上。棍子落下去时，他感觉好像打在坚韧的橡胶上。可是，他也感觉到坚硬的骨头就在鲨鱼从那条鱼身上滑下时，他又一次重重地砸向它的鼻尖。

另一条鲨鱼出出进进，现在又张开大嘴游过来。它撞击那条鱼，合上嘴，老人可以看到一块块白色鱼肉从它的嘴角溢出来。他抡起棍子向它砸去，只砸中了头部，鲨鱼看着他，猛地撕下了咬在嘴里的那块肉。老人在它溜走要咽下那块肉时，又抡起棍子砸向它，只砸中了那块厚实的橡胶。

“来呀，加拉诺鲨，”老人说，“再过来呀。”

鲨鱼冲上来，老人在它合嘴时砸了它一下。他有力地砸中了它，是尽可能高举棍子砸下来的。这一次，他感觉砸中了大脑后部的骨头，又向同一地方砸了一下，鲨鱼行动迟缓地撕下嘴里咬着的鱼肉，从鱼身上滑了下去。

老人守候着，等它再来，但两条鲨鱼都没有露面。随后，他看到其中一条在海面上转圈游动着。

我指望不了打死它们了，他想。我年轻时可以。不过，我已经把它们打成了重伤，哪一条都不会好过了。要是我能用双手抡棒，肯定就能打死第一条。

即使现在也能，他想。

他不想看那条鱼。他知道它的半拉身子已被咬烂了。他跟鲨鱼搏斗时，太阳已经落下了。

“天很快就要黑了，”他说，“那时我应该看到哈瓦那的灯火。要是向东走得太远，我就会看到其中一个新海滩的灯光。”

我现在离陆地不会太远了，他想。我希望没有人太担心。当然，只有那个男孩子会担心，可我相信他会有信心，许多老渔夫会担心。还有许多其他人，他想。我住在一个好镇子里。

他不能再跟这条鱼说话了，因为它已被咬得太烂了。接着，他想起了一件事。

“半条鱼，”他说，“你原来是一条鱼。对不起，我出海太远了，我把咱们俩都毁了。不过，我们已经杀死了许多鲨鱼，你和我还毁了好多条。你杀死过多少，老鱼儿？你头上长的长矛似的嘴，可不是白长的。”

他喜欢想到这条鱼，想到要是它在自由游动，可能会怎么对付一条鲨鱼。我应该砍下它这长嘴，用来跟那些鲨鱼搏斗，他想。可是，没有斧头，后来又没有了刀子。

不过，要是我有，并能把它绑在桨把上，就会是多好的武器啊！这样，我们就能一起跟它们搏斗。要是它们夜里来，你现在会怎么做？你又能做什么呢？

“跟它们搏斗，”他说，“我要跟它们一直搏斗到死。”

可是，在眼下的黑暗中，不见天光，不见灯火，只有风和船帆的稳定拉力，他感觉说不定自己已经死了。他合上双手，摸了摸掌心。这双手没有死，只要把它们开合一下，他就能感到生命的痛苦。他背靠船尾，知道自己没有死。

这是他的肩膀告诉他的。

我许诺过，要是逮住这条鱼，我就要做那些祷告，他想。不过，我太累了，现在念不成了。我最好把麻袋拿来披在肩上。

他躺在船尾掌着舵，望着天空，等待光亮出现。我还有半条鱼，他想。也许我有幸把前半条带回去。我应该有幸。不，他说。你出海太远了，妨碍了自己的好运。

“别犯傻，”他大声说道，“保持清醒，掌好舵。你也许还有许多好运。”

“要是什么地方卖好运，我想买些。”他说。

我能用什么来买呢？他问自己。我能用一支丢失的鱼叉、一把折断的刀子和两只受伤的手吗？

“你也许能，”他说，“你曾设法用在海上的84天来买它。他们也差点儿把它卖给了你。”

我不能胡思乱想，他想。好运来时以多种方式，谁能认出它来？可无论什么样的好运，我都要买一些，要多少钱就给多少钱。但愿我能看到灯火的亮光，他想。我想要的东西太多了。不过，现在我想要的东西就是这个。他设法坐得舒服些来掌舵，因为疼痛，所以他知道自己没有死。

大约夜里10点，他看到了城市灯火的反光。起初只是依稀可见，就像月亮升起前天空的光亮。随后，隔着现在越来越大的风刮得波涛汹涌的海洋，这些光稳定可见。他驶进了光亮的圈内，他想现在不久他一定会驶到湾流的边缘。

现在事情结束了，他想。它们说不定还会来袭击我。不过，一个人在黑暗中，没有武器，怎么能对付它们呢？

他现在身体僵硬疼痛，随着夜晚的寒气袭来，他的伤口和身上所有过分用力的部位都在刺痛。我希望不用再斗了，他想。我多么希望不用再斗了。

可是，到了午夜，他又搏斗了起来，这一次他知道搏斗没用。鲨鱼是成群袭来，扑向那条鱼，他只能看到它们的鳍在水面上划出的一道道线和它们的磷光。他砸向它们的脑袋，听到它们的嘴巴咔嚓咬碎的声音和它们在船下咬住鱼后小船摇晃的声音。他只能凭感觉和听觉拼命挥棍砸去，感到什么东西抓住了棍子，它就不见了踪影。

他把舵柄从方向舵上猛地拽下，用它又打又砍，双手握住一次又一次低戳下去。可是，它们此刻都在船头边，成群结队一条接一条地扑上来，撕咬下一块块鱼肉，当它们转身再次扑来时，这些鱼肉在海面下闪闪发亮。

最后，其中一条鲨鱼向鱼头扑来，他知道这下完了。他把舵柄抡向鲨鱼的脑袋，砸在它咬住厚实鱼头的嘴上，那儿的肉撕不下来。他抡了一次、两次、三次。他听到舵柄折断，就把断柄扎向鲨鱼。他感到它扎了进去，知道它非常尖利，就又把它扎进去。鲨鱼松开嘴，翻了个身走了。这是过来的鲨鱼群中的最后一条。它们再没有什么东西可吃了。

老人现在简直喘不过气来，感觉嘴里有一股怪味。它有一股铜锈味，甜丝丝的，他一时害怕起来。不过，气味并不大。

他向海里吐了一口，说：“把它吃了，加拉诺鲨。做个梦，梦见你杀了一个人吧。”

他知道他现在被打败，无法补救，就回到船尾，发现舵柄锯齿状的断头还可以插在船舵的狭槽里，让他掌舵。他把麻袋围在肩上，让小船顺着航线行驶。他现在航行轻松，既没有什么想法，也没有任何感觉。他现在超越了一切，尽可能顺利巧妙地把小船开回家乡的港口。夜里，一些鲨鱼来咬这条死鱼的残骸，就像有人从饭桌上捡面包屑吃一样。老人没有理睬它们，除了掌舵，他什么都不理睬。他只注意到船边没有什么沉重的东西，小船现在行驶得很轻松、很出色。

小船还不错，他想。它非常完好，除了舵柄，没有任何损伤。舵柄容易更换。

他感觉到自己眼下在湾流中行驶，看得见沿岸那些海滨住宅区的灯光。

他知道此刻自己到了哪儿，回家不成问题了。

不管怎样，风都是我们的朋友，他想。随后，他补充说，有时候是。还有大海，大海里有我们的朋友，也有我们的敌人。还有床，他想，床是我的朋友。仅仅是床，他想。床将是一件了不起的东西。你被打败后，床非常舒适，他想。我从不知道床有多么舒适，也从不知道是什么打败了你，他想。

“什么也没有，”他大声说道，“我出海太远了。”

他驶进小港后，露台饭店的灯都熄了，他知道大家都上床了。海风已经越来越强，现在刮得更猛。不过，港湾里静悄悄的，他开到岩石下面的一小块砂石海滩上。没有人来帮他，所以他尽力把小船划到岸边。之后，他走出船，把它绑到一块岩石上。

他取下桅杆，卷起帆，系住，接着扛起桅杆，开始向岸上爬。这时候，他才知道自己累到了什么地步。他停了一会儿，回过头，只见在街灯的反光中，那条鱼的大尾巴完全竖在小船的船尾后面。他看到了它的脊骨裸露的白线、黑乎乎的脑袋、突出的长嘴和首尾之间光秃秃的空白。

他又开始向上爬，爬到顶上，摔倒在地，桅杆横在肩上，躺了一段时间。他想设法站起来。可是，太难了，他就肩扛桅杆坐在那儿，望着大路。一只猫经过路对面，去干自己的事儿，老人注视着它。随后，他只是望着大路。

最后，他放下桅杆，站起来。他又拿起桅杆，放在肩上，开始走上大路。

他不得不坐下歇息了5次，才走到自己的小屋。

他走进小屋，把桅杆靠在墙上，摸黑找到一只水瓶，喝了一口水，然后在床上躺下来。他拉起毯子，盖住肩膀，之后又盖住后背和两腿，脸朝下趴在报纸上，两臂伸直，手掌向上，睡着了。

早上男孩子向门里张望时，老人正在睡觉。风刮得很猛，那些漂网渔船不出海了，所以男孩子起得晚，起床后像每天早上一样来到老人的小屋。男孩子看到老人在喘气，接着看到老人的那双手，就哭了起来。他悄悄地走出来，去端咖啡，一路上都在哭。

许多渔夫都围住那条小船，看着绑在船边的东西，其中一名渔夫挽起裤腿站在水里，用一根钓线在量鱼的残骸。

男孩子没有走下岸。他先前已经去过了，其中一名渔夫正在替他看管这条小船。

“他怎么了？”一名渔夫大声问道。

“在睡觉。”男孩子大声答道。他不在乎他们看到他在哭。“谁也不要打扰他。”

“它从鼻子到尾巴有18英尺那么长，”量鱼的渔夫叫道。

“这我相信。”男孩子说。

他走进露台饭店，要了一罐咖啡。

“要热的，在里面多加些牛奶和糖。”

“还要什么？”

“不要了。过后，我看他能吃什么。”

“鱼真大啊，”饭店老板说，“从来没有过这么大的鱼。你昨天逮到的那两条鱼也不错。”

“我的鱼见鬼去吧。”说着，男孩子又开始哭了起来。

“你想喝点什么？”老板问。

“不想，”男孩子说，“告诉他们不要去打扰圣地亚哥。我去去就来。”

“告诉他说我是多么难过。”

“谢谢。”男孩子说。

男孩子端着那罐热咖啡，走到老人的小屋，坐在他身边，等他醒来。有一次看上去他好像要醒来。可是，他又沉睡过去，男孩子穿过马路去借些柴火来热咖啡。

老人终于醒来了。

“别坐起来，”男孩子说，“先把这个喝了。”他在一只玻璃杯里倒了些咖啡。

老人接过去喝了。

“马诺林，它们打败了我，”他说，“它们确实打败了我。”

“它没有打败你，那条鱼没有。”

“没有。后来打败我了。”

“佩德里科在照看小船和渔具。你想怎么处理鱼头？”

“让佩德里科把它切碎，用作鱼饵吧。”

“那个长嘴呢？”

“你想要，就拿去吧。”

“我想要，”男孩子说，“现在我们必须计划一下别的事儿。”

“他们找过我吗？”

“当然找过。还派了海岸警卫队和飞机。”

“海很大，船很小，难以看见。”老人说。他注意到，有人交谈，而不是只对自己和大海说话，是多么愉快。“我想念你呀，”他说，“你逮到了什么？”

“第一天一条，第二天一条，第三天两条。”

“很好。”

“现在我们又可以一块捕鱼了。”

“不，我运气不好，我不会再有好运了。”

“让好运见鬼去吧，”男孩子说，“我会给你带来好运的。”

“你的家人会说什么？”

“我不在乎，我昨天逮了两条。可是，我们现在要一块捕鱼，因为我还有好多东西要学。”

“我们必须搞一根一扎致命的好鱼叉，始终放在船上。你可以用一辆旧福特车上的弹簧片做刀口。我们可以到瓜纳巴科亚去磨一下。它应该锋利，不要回火锻造，这样它会断裂。我的刀子就断了。”

“我再去搞一把刀子，把弹簧磨一下。这大风还要刮多少天？”

“也许3天，也许更多天。”

“我要把一切都安排好，”男孩子说，“你先把手养好，老伙计。”

“我知道怎么照顾它们。夜里，我吐出了一些奇怪的东西，感到胸膛里的什么东西碎了。”

“把这个也养好，”男孩子说，“老伙计，躺下吧，我去给你拿干净衬衣，还有吃的东西。”

“随便把我离开后的报纸拿一份来。”老人说。

“你一定要快快好起来，因为还有好多东西我可以学呢，你能教我所有的一切。你受了多少罪？”

“好多。”老人说。

“我去拿吃的和报纸，”男孩子说，“好好歇息，老伙计。我去药房给你拿点治疗手的药。”

“别忘了告诉佩德里科说那个鱼头归他了。”

“不会忘，我会记住的。”

男孩子出门，沿着那条磨损的珊瑚石路走时，又哭了起来。

那天下午，露台饭店来了一群旅游者，一个女人低头望着海水，看到在那些空啤酒罐和死梭鱼之间有一根又大又长的白色脊骨，一端有一条巨大的尾巴，当东风在港口外持续掀起大浪时，这个尾巴随着潮水涨起并摇晃。

“那是什么？”她指着那条大鱼的长脊骨问一名服务员，现在它不过是垃圾，等着随潮水而去。

“Tiburon[6]。”侍者说。“Eshark[7]。”他是想解释一下事情的经过。

“我不知道鲨鱼能有如此美观、形状漂亮的尾巴。”

“我也不知道。”她的男同伴说。

在大路顶上老人的小屋里，他又睡着了，还是脸朝下趴在那儿睡觉，男孩子坐在身边望着他，老人正梦见那些狮子。