نبرد شروع میشه

CHAPTER THREE

The Battle Begins

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. Maybe he will come up before sunset, or with the moon. 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. I wish I could see him only once to know what I have against me.

The fish never changed his course. It was cold after the sun went down, he tied the sack that covered the bait box 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.

I can do nothing with him and he can do nothing with me, he thought. Once he stood up and urinated over the side of the skiff and looked at the stars and checked his course. They were moving more slowly now and the glow of Havana was not so strong. so he knew the current must be carrying them eastward.

I wonder how the baseball came out in the grand leagues today, he thought. It would be wonderful to do this with a radio. 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, you must eat him in the morning, he said to himself.

During the night two porpoise came around the boat and he could hear them rolling and blowing.

“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. But what a great fish he is and what he will 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.

“I wish the boy were here,” he said aloud and settled himself against the bow and felt the strength of the great fish through the line he held across his shoulders. My choice was to go out to find him beyond all people in the world. Now we are joined together and no one to help either one of us.

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.

I wonder why he made that surge, he thought. The wire must have slipped on the great hill of his back. Certainly his back cannot feel as bad as mine does. But he cannot pull this skiff forever, no matter how great he is.

“Fish” he said softly, aloud. “I’ll stay with you until I am dead.”

When the sun had risen further the old man realized that the fish was not getting tired. There was only one favorable sign. The slam of the line showed he was swimming at a lesser depth. That did not mean that he would jump. But he might.

“God, let him jump,” the old man said. “I have enough line to handle him.”

“Fish,” he said, “I love you and respect you very much. But I will kill you dead before this day ends.”

A small bird came toward the skiff from the north. He was a warbler and the old man could see he was very tired. He flew around the old man’s head and rested on the line.

“How old are you?” the old man asked the bird. “Is this your first trip?” The bird was very tired and he teetered on the line as his delicate feet gripped it.

“Take a good rest, small bird,” he said. “Then go and take your chance like any man or bird or fish.”

Just then the fish gave a sudden lurch that pulled the old man down to the bow and would have pulled him overboard if he had not braced himself and given some line. The bird flew away and he felt the line carefully with his right hand and noticed his hand was bleeding. Shifting the weight of the line to his left shoulder and kneeling carefully, he washed his hand in the ocean. The cut 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, “I must eat the small tuna.” he knelt down and found the tuna under the stem. He put one knee on the fish and cut strips of dark red meat from the back of the head to the tail.

“I don’t think I can eat an entire one,” he said. He could feel the steady hard pull of the line and his left hand was cramped.

“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.”

He picked up a piece of tuna and put it in his mouth and chewed it slowly. It was not unpleasant.

“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.”

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 he ate all the strips of fish.

“God help me to have the cramp go,” he said. “Because I do not know what the fish is going to do.” What is his plan, he thought. And what is mine?

His left hand was still cramped, but he was unknotting it slowly.

I hate cramps, he thought. It is a treachery of one’s own body. Then, with his right hand he felt the difference in the pull of the line.

“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 his sides were wide and colored 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 started to race out.

“He is two feet longer than the skiff,” the old man said. He 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 but I must convince him that he is no match for me, he thought. I must never let him learn his strength nor what he could do if he made his run.

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 tied fast to the biggest fish that he had ever seen and bigger than he had ever heard of, and his left hand was still cramped.

I wonder why he jumped, the old man thought. He jumped almost as though to show me how big he was. I wish I could show him what sort of man I am. But then he would see the cramped hand.

At noon the old man’s left hand was uncramped. 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 so that I can catch this fish. and I promise to make a pilgrimage to the Virgin de Cobre if I catch him. Christ, I did not know he was so big.”

“I’ll kill him though,” he said “In all his greatness.”

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.

“If you’re not tired, fish” he said aloud, “you must be very strange.”

He felt very tired now and he tried to think of other things. He thought of the Big Leagues, and he knew the Yankees of New York were playing the Tigers of Detroit.

This is the second day 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.

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.