Ernest Hemingway ?The Old Man and the Sea
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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 [113] 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 [114] 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.”
[115] 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.
Ernest Hemingway ?The Old Man and the Sea
33
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 [116] 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.
[117] But by midnight he fought and this time he knew the fight was useless. They came in a
pack and he could only see the lines in the water that their fins made and their phosphorescence as
they threw themselves on the fish. He clubbed at heads and heard the jaws chop and the shaking of
the skiff as they took hold below. He clubbed desperately at what he could only feel and hear and he
felt something seize the club and it was gone.
He jerked the tiller free from the rudder and beat and chopped with it, holding it in both hands
and driving it down again and again. But they were up to the bow now and driving in one after the
other and together, tearing off the pieces of meat that showed glowing below the sea as they turned
to come once more.
One came, finally, against the head itself and he knew that it was over. He swung the tiller
across the shark’s head where the jaws were caught in the heaviness of the fish’s head which would
not tear. He swung it once and twice and again. He heard the tiller break and he lunged at the shark
with the splintered butt. He felt it go in and knowing it was sharp he drove it in again. The shark let
go and rolled away. That was the [118] last shark of the pack that came. There was nothing more for
them to eat.
The old man could hardly breathe now and he felt a strange taste in his mouth. It was coppery
and sweet and he was afraid of it for a moment. But there was not much of it.
He spat into the ocean and said, “Eat that, galanos. And make a dream you’ve killed a man.”
He knew he was beaten now finally and without remedy and he went back to the stern and
found the jagged end of the tiller would fit in the slot of the rudder well enough for him to steer. He
settled the sack around his shoulders and put the skiff on her course. He sailed lightly now and he
had no thoughts nor any feelings of any kind. He was past everything now and he sailed the skiff to
make his home port as well and as intelligently as he could. In the night sharks hit the carcass as
someone might pick up crumbs from the table. The old man paid no attention to them and did not
pay any attention to anything except steering. He only noticed how lightly and bow well the skiff
sailed now there was no great weight beside her.
Ernest Hemingway ?The Old Man and the Sea
34
[119] 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.
[120] 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 [121] over his shoulders and then
over his back and legs and he slept face down on the newspapers with his arms out straight and the
palms of his hands up.
He was asleep when the boy looked in the door in the morning. It was blowing so hard that the
drifting-boats would not be going out and the boy had slept late and then come to the old man’s
shack as he had come each morning. The boy saw that the old man was breathing and then he saw
the old man’s hands and he started to cry. He went out very quietly to go to bring some coffee and
all the way down the road he was crying.
Many fishermen were around the skiff looking at what was lashed beside it and one was in the
water, his trousers rolled up, measuring the skeleton with a length of line.
The boy did not go down. He had been there before and one of the fishermen was looking
after the skiff for him.
“How is he?” one of the fishermen shouted.
“Sleeping,” the boy called. He did not care that they saw him crying. “Let no one disturb him.”
“He was eighteen feet from nose to tail,” the fisherman who was measuring him called.
[122] “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.
Ernest Hemingway ?The Old Man and the Sea
35
“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.
[123] “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.”
[124] “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.”
[125] “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.
Ernest Hemingway ?The Old Man and the Sea
36
“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. “Shark.” 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 sleeping again. He was still sleeping on his face and
the boy was sitting by him watching him. The old man was dreaming about the lions.

THE END.