![]() ![]() Day becomes night becomes day, and with little or no sleep the old man loses track of time and islands of Sargasso weed drift by. But it is then, with his quarry hooked, that the true test begins. With his village status of saleo, “the worst form of unlucky”, his body racked and gnarled by years of labour but with blue eyes “cheerful and undefeated”, he sets out on the 85th day since his last catch and rows the skiff far, away from the deep wells that have offered no reward, towards “the schools of bonita and albacore” where he might fare better: “My big fish must be somewhere.” When it suits, when hope takes the bait under the deep blue sea, Santiago offers to pray should he require not only strength but fortitude to land his prize: “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 de Cobre if I catch him. He is reverent but not pious, wary of devotion, although he could waver. He thinks and speaks of luck but is not prone to superstition. But lately the sea has been cruel, and the old man has endured 84 days without a catch. A New York Yankee, “the great DiMaggio”, is his earthly god. ![]() Fishing is his life, while baseball, the Gran Ligas, is his religion. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |