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 would
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 centre of his flattopped
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 locked and the old
man stabbed him in his left eye. The shark 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 and 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 on to her
‘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 dreamy, 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
‘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
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 on to 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
‘Come on, galano,’ the old man said. ‘Come in again.
The shark came in 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
‘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
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 any more 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
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. The 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
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 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 fagged 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.’