The Boy and the Sea

The skiff came in light. The sail was patched again with flour sacks. It looked like the flag of a ship that had gone to war and come back alone. The old man pulled the boat ashore. His hands were thin and cut, but steady. He looked at the sea and not at the others. I carried the coil of line. I carried the gaff and the harpoon shaft. There was no weight to them now. The men on the beach laughed. They did not laugh loudly, but they laughed enough. The old man did not turn. “Another day,” I said. “Yes,” he said. I followed him up the road with the gear. His shoulders were thin and bent, but they carried the mast as if it were heavier than the boat. He did not stop and I did not stop. I thought of the days when we had fish, and how the boat was heavy and we sang when we pulled her in. I thought of DiMaggio and how he played with the spur in his heel and still won games. The old man set the mast down by the shack. He leaned it against the wall. Then he looked at me, and his eyes were not tired though the rest of him was. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow,” I said. We said nothing more. --- The shack was made of palm leaves and boards from old boats. Inside, there was a bed and a table and a chair. There was a place on the dirt floor to cook with charcoal. The pictures on the wall were of saints, but they were old and the paper curled. On one wall there was the picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. On the other wall there was a picture of the Virgin of Cobre. I set the gear in the corner. The old man sat on the bed. He did not remove his hat. “You should fish with the lucky boats,” he said. “I do,” I said. “Your father makes you.” “Yes,” I said. The old man looked at me and smiled. “You are still with me.” “Yes,” I said. He nodded. That was enough. --- We went outside. The road was quiet. The sun was low and red over the hills. You could smell tar and salt from the boats. I went to the store for beer and the old man stayed by the door of the shack. At the store the men talked. They said the old man was unlucky. They said he had gone eighty-four days without a fish. They drank and laughed. I bought two beers and did not speak. When I came back the old man was still sitting there. He looked at the sky. His eyes were far away. “Here,” I said. He drank the beer. We sat together in silence. The light faded. “Tomorrow I will go far out,” he said. “How far?” “Farther than the others.” I nodded. “I will bring the bait.” “Do not,” he said. “Your father would be angry.” “I will bring it,” I said. He smiled. “You are a good boy.” We sat there until it was dark. The air cooled. A few lamps burned in the village. The sound of the sea was steady and low. Later I brought him food. Rice and black beans and fried bananas. He ate slowly. He did not waste anything. “You eat too little,” I said. “I eat what is needed,” he said. He told me about DiMaggio. About how he played with pain and still hit the ball. He said the true man does not give in. He said the sea was the same as the game. “Will we see the lions again?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. “On the beaches in Africa. They are young and they play. They are strong and beautiful. They will not grow old.” He lay back on the bed. His eyes closed. “Tomorrow,” he said again. “Tomorrow,” I said. I left him there and walked home. The night was clear. The stars were bright and the air smelled of salt. I thought of the old man and how he would row out before dawn. I thought of the sea and how it gave and how it took away. I thought of my father and how he said the old man was finished. I thought of the laughter of the men. But I remembered the eyes of the old man and how they were not tired. I carried that with me into sleep. The next morning I woke before the sun. I took sardines for bait and a knife of bread. I carried them to the shack. The old man was up already. He was making coffee from a tin of grounds. The smell filled the room. “You should not bring this,” he said. “I brought it.” He smiled. His hands trembled a little but they were still strong. We drank the coffee. It was bitter and hot. The sea waited. “Tomorrow we will have fish,” I said. “Yes,” he said. We did not speak after that.

Before the sun rose, he was already gone. I woke in the dark and went to the beach. The stars were still out. The sea was black and breathing. I saw the shadow of his skiff on the water, moving out, the oars dipping and rising. I watched until I could not see it. Only the sound of the water and the smell of the tar stayed. Then I stood there, barefoot in the sand, with nothing in my hands. When the first light came, the other boats pushed off. Their sails were patched but strong, and they stayed near the coast. I did not look at them. I looked only where the old man had gone, farther out, where the sea met the sky. --- I fished with my father’s crew that day. The men joked and pulled the nets. They caught fish quickly. Their hands were quick too, and the boat grew heavy with silver. They laughed and drank water from a jug and wiped sweat from their faces. “Good work,” one said. “Yes,” I said. But the fish did not feel heavy to me. They were only fish. The sea did not feel alive with them. It felt like work and nothing more. At the dock they sold the catch. The men clapped each other on the back. They counted money and talked about the next day. I carried the baskets but I thought of the skiff that had gone out farther than all of them. I thought of the old man rowing and rowing. --- At the store the men talked about him. “Still gone,” one said. “Eighty-five days,” another said. “He should give up.” “He is finished.” I bought sardines and kept my eyes down. They laughed again. I walked out into the sun with the paper bag in my hands. I brought the sardines to the shack, but it was empty. The mast leaned against the wall. The door was shut. I stood there a long time, then set the bag down by the step. --- That night I prayed. I did not know who I prayed to. I prayed to the Virgin, because her picture was in the shack. I prayed to the sea, because it held him. “Bring him back,” I said. The room was dark. The air smelled of salt and palm. “Bring him back.” I slept and dreamed of lions. They were on the beach, golden in the sun. They played like young cats. They did not grow old, and they did not fear the sea. --- The days passed. The boats came back each night, heavy with fish. The men laughed and drank. The old man did not come back. I counted the days on my fingers. I counted them twice. When I fished with my father’s crew, I worked quickly and well. But I did not feel joy. My hands worked, but my mind was out there with him, where the sea was wide and blue. At night I walked to the shack. I sat outside the door. I waited. The mast leaned against the wall. The door was still shut. I whispered: “He will return.” --- The men in the village spoke louder now. “He will not come back,” one said. “He is too old,” said another. They laughed harder. I did not laugh. I did not speak. Inside me there was a tight knot. I felt it when I ate, when I worked, when I slept. It stayed. --- On the fifth night I dreamed again. The lions were on the sand. They leapt and played in the surf. The sun was low and red. I wanted to run with them. I wanted to be strong and free as they were. I woke with my heart beating. I went to the sea. The stars were out. The water was black. I looked and looked. I saw nothing but the breathing of the sea. “He will return,” I said. I said it again. I said it until my voice was only a whisper, and the waves carried it away. --- The next day the men caught many fish. The markets were loud. My father was proud. He gave me money for my work. I held it in my hand but it felt like nothing. I walked to the shack again. I touched the mast. It was rough and dry under my hand. I sat down on the step. The door was still closed. I whispered: “He will return. He will return.” The sea was near and I listened to it. I felt it pulling at me.

The days passed and the skiff did not return. Each morning the boats went out. Each evening they came back with fish. They were heavy with catch, the decks shining with silver, the nets dripping and full. The men laughed. They poured rum. They smoked. They spoke loudly so all could hear. But there was no skiff with a patched sail. No old man bent over his oars. The horizon stayed empty. --- I counted the days on my fingers. Then I counted again. When my fingers ran out I tied knots in a rope. I tied them carefully. I tied them with strong hands so they would not come loose. My father told me to work harder with the crew. He said the sea was for the strong. He said the old man had wasted himself. “He is finished,” my father said. I said nothing. --- At night I went to the shack. It was always the same. The mast against the wall. The door closed. The silence inside. I sat on the step. I put my hand on the mast. It was dry and rough. My hand stayed there a long time. I whispered: “He will return.” I whispered it again and again. --- The men in the village grew bold with their words. “He is dead,” one said. “No man can last so long,” another said. “He rowed too far. The sharks have him.” They laughed. I wanted to strike them but I did not. I held the words in my chest until they burned. One day I walked away from them and did not stop until I reached the sea. I looked out at the blue water. It stretched wide and bright. The sun struck it and it shone like metal. Somewhere out there he was. I believed it. “He will return,” I said. --- When I slept, I dreamed of lions again. They were on the beach. They played in the surf. Their manes were gold in the sun. They leapt and ran, and the air smelled of salt and freedom. I wanted to be among them. I wanted their strength. I wanted their courage. I woke with my hands clenched. --- The crew worked me harder. We brought in many fish. The men praised me. They said I would be strong like them. But their fish meant nothing to me. They were only fish. Their nets were full, but the sea was empty with them. I thought of the old man out there. I thought of his hands, cut and swollen. I thought of his eyes that were not tired. And I thought of the great fish he must be fighting. For he would not stay away so long unless it was something worth the fight. --- At night I kept vigil. I sat outside the shack. I did not go home until the stars were out and the sea was loud in my ears. Sometimes I brought food. Sometimes I left sardines at the door. Sometimes I only sat. “He will return,” I whispered. It became a prayer. It became a vow. It became the only thing I could say. --- One evening the men came back with their boats heavy and their laughter heavier. They passed me where I sat on the step. “You wait for a ghost,” one said. I looked at him but did not speak. “You are a fool,” another said. They laughed and went on. I kept my hand on the mast. My jaw was tight. My chest was tight. But I did not move. “He will return,” I whispered. I said it until I believed it again. --- On the thirteenth night I dreamed again. The lions were on the beach. They roared but it was not anger. It was joy. They ran across the sand and into the surf. The water rose around them but they were not afraid. I woke with tears in my eyes. I did not know why. I went to the sea. It was black and endless. I listened to it breathe. I felt it pulling at me. “He will return,” I said. “He will return.” --- The days stretched longer. The rope of knots grew heavy in my pocket. The laughter of the men grew louder in my ears. But my vow grew harder too. I knew the sea would not give him up easily. I knew the fight would be great. But I also knew the old man. He would return. And when he did, I would be there.

The shout came from the point. Then another, closer, as if a bird had taken up the word and dropped it down the beach. “Boat.” I was mending a line by the wall of the shack. I stood and shaded my eyes. The sun was high and hard, and all the water shone. At first there was nothing but the glare. Then a fleck moved where the horizon ran flat and blue. The fleck grew. The men came out from the tavern and the sheds. They stood with their hands on the brims of their hats. The women came too, holding their aprons, squinting. “Whose?” someone said. No one answered. The fleck became a skiff. The skiff crawled on the water like an insect. I could see the oars lifting and falling. They lifted and fell in a slow rhythm. There was a long pale shape above the gunwale, and another pale rise farther aft. The sun struck it and it shone white and bare. “It is him,” I said. No one heard me or they pretended not to hear. The men were quiet now. They watched. The sound of the sea came steady under the quiet, the old breathing of it. When the skiff reached the channel the boatmen nearest the water moved back from the edge. The skiff passed between the stones. The long white shape showed itself clear: bones, clean and arched, like the ribs of a great house without a roof. The head at the bow was gone. The tail at the stern swung in the thin chop, wide as a door. The sunlight ran along it and then broke. The old man rowed. His hands were on the oars. His hat was low on his head. He did not look right or left. He looked where the oars sent him and nowhere else. No one laughed. I ran down the beach. The sand was hot on my feet and soft and it took my step. I ran faster. The skiff grounded and the bow rose and settled. He rested the oars and sat a moment, not moving, his shoulders bowed like a man who has lifted a load all day. Then he stood. He stepped out into the water and the water came to his knees and ran around his legs and away again. “Old man,” I said. He looked at me then. His eyes were the same. They were bright and without bitterness. They were only tired in the edges where the lids hung. “Boy,” he said. I waded in and took the painter. The rope was stiff with salt. I pulled the skiff up and the shells in the sand grated under the keel. The men came to help and then did not help and then helped again. They were looking at the bones. They stood and counted the ribs with their eyes and did not speak. The smell of the sun and the fish and the tar was heavy. A dog barked and then stopped. “How far?” one of the men said at last. “Far,” the old man said. He had to say no more. He stepped from the water. He walked as if his feet were hurt. His wrists were banded with rope marks and his palms had new tears that were clean and red and the edges white. The backs of his hands were swollen and dark. He did not look at them. He did not look at the men or at the bones. He looked up the road toward the little rise where the shack was. “Take the mast,” he said. “I have it,” I said. I lifted it and the spar was heavier than I remembered. It pressed into my shoulder and the cords in my neck pulled. He picked up the wrapped sail himself and the coils of line. He did not take the harpoon shaft. There was no harpoon iron to fit it now. We went up the road. The men did not follow. They stood by the skiff and the long white skeleton. They talked low. Their voices were like small waves on stones. I heard them and then I did not hear them. The road climbed and the sun lay hot on it. The old man did not complain. He walked slow and even. His breath was steady. Once he set the coils down and straightened and looked at the sea as if to find whether it was still there. Then he took the coils again. “Lean on me,” I said. He shook his head and smiled a little. “I lean on my shadow,” he said. The mast bit my shoulder. The sweat ran on my chest and down my sides. A fly landed on my cheek and I shook it off and it came back and I did not shake it off again. The palm leaves above the road made a poor shade. A lizard ran across the dust and was gone. At the door of the shack I set the mast down and the floor took the end of it with a little thud. The old man set the sail bundle on the bed and the coils by the wall. He stood very straight for a moment, as a soldier stands to be counted. Then he sat. Then he lay down. His hands were in front of him on the blanket. They looked like hands that had worked on stone and rope for a hundred years, and now the rope had worked on them. The cuts were not dirty. The salt had burned them clean. His knuckles were like knots in a tree. “Water,” I said. “There is the jug,” he said. “Do not trouble.” “I will bring fresh.” He rolled his head once on the pillow. It was a pillow made of folded cloth, and the cloth had the smell of salt and old sun. His eyes closed. “You must sleep,” I said. “I will sleep a little,” he said. “Then we will talk about baseball.” “Yes,” I said. “We will talk about it.” He smiled again with his eyes closed. The smile made no weight on his face. It came and was gone like a fish that shows its back once. I went to the store for water and the men there were speaking of length and weight and of sharks. They stopped when I came in. The owner handed me the jug without being asked. “For the old man,” he said. “Yes,” I said. “Is he—?” “He sleeps,” I said. They nodded. One of them cleared his throat to speak and did not speak. Another ran a hand over his hair and then his hand stayed there as if it had lost its way. The owner cut a loaf in half and put it in paper and pushed it across the counter. I paid for the water and he pushed the coins back and looked at the floor. “Later,” he said. I took the water and the bread and left. The road was the same road and the sun was the same sun. Only I was not the same. I walked quickly and the jug hit my leg. The loaf was warm in the paper and it made the smell of crust and yeast. When I entered the shack he had not moved. He lay on his side with his back to the door, the old shirt loose across his shoulders. The bones of his back showed under the cloth like the bones of the fish showed at the skiff. He was breathing evenly and his mouth was closed and peaceful, the way a man’s mouth is when he has said all he must say. I set the jug by the wall and the bread on the table. I washed my hands in a basin and the water turned pink and then clear and I threw it outside and the sand drank it. I found the little tin of salve on the shelf. It was old and almost empty. I warmed it between my palms and then I sat by the bed. “Pardon,” I said softly. He did not wake. I took his right hand and turned it. It was heavy as if it belonged to someone else. I worked the salve into the cuts, slow and careful. The skin took it greedily. The pale edges of the cuts softened a little. I did the left hand too. I wrapped them both with the clean strips I had torn from a shirt once, and I tied the knots low so they would not rub the palms. He slept through it. Once he made a sound in his throat but it was not a pain sound. It was the kind a man makes when he sees something in a dream and is not afraid of it. Outside I heard voices. Men had come up from the beach. They stood by the door and spoke without entering. “How long?” one said. “Longer than any of us,” another said. “Did you see the spine? Straight as a mast.” “And the tail. You could roof a hut with it.” “Sharks,” someone said. The word was low and ugly and quick like a knife flicked open. “They came and came.” “Be quiet,” another said. Their voices drifted away as the wind shifts. I did not go out to them. I sat with the old man instead. I watched a fly land on the wall and walk in little jerks and then lift away. I watched his shoulders rise and fall under the shirt. I listened to the steady breath. When he woke the shadow of the door had moved across the floor and was halfway up the table leg. “Boy,” he said. “I am here.” He turned a little and saw the bandages and lifted his hands as if to look closer but did not. He let them fall again. “You should not waste salve,” he said. “It is not wasted. Drink,” I said, and I held the cup to his mouth. He drank and the water ran down and wet his beard and I wiped it with the cloth and he smiled the same small smile. “You did not see it at sea,” he said. “No.” “It was a great fish,” he said. “It was my brother and my enemy and my bread.” He looked past me at the wall and at the picture of the Sacred Heart that was there, and past it too. “I went far,” he said. “Farther than I should, perhaps. But one must go to where the fish are and not to where they are not.” “Yes,” I said. He lay quiet and then spoke again. “They came,” he said. “You know this. They always come. I fought them until there was only the bone and the wide tail. I fought them because the fish was my honor and because I was alive. But a man alone with a fish is a man against the sea and the sharks are the sea’s teeth. You know this also.” “Yes,” I said. He closed his eyes. “It is good that you know.” We were silent. The silence was not heavy. It was like deep water under the boat when the day is calm. A breeze moved in through the door. It touched the hair on my arms and then was gone. Far off a child cried once and stopped. A hen muttered to herself in the dust. “Will you eat?” I asked. “Later,” he said. “We will talk of baseball now. We will talk of the one who plays with pain and does not show it.” “DiMaggio,” I said. “Yes,” he said. “He is a great one. He has the bone spur and he plays as if it were a thorn that means nothing. He goes on. He makes men remember what it is to be strong.” “You are like him,” I said. “No,” he said. “I am like myself. And I am tired. But it is good to think of him.” He grew drowsy again and closed his eyes between sips and opened them to say one more thing and then closed them for longer. I did not press him. I drank my cup and sat with him and watched the door where the sky beyond was turning from white to yellow to the first deepening blue. When he slept I carried the pot back and the owner took it and nodded to me and said nothing. The village had quieted. The men had left the beach. The long white bones lay in the dusk, high and pure, the tail farther off in the dark now, the skiff settled and almost a part of the sand. A boy younger than me stood and stared at it. He held a stick and he held it as if it were a spear and then he dropped it and walked away. I went back to the shack and sat again. The air cooled and the palm leaves moved and whispered against one another. The old man breathed evenly. I put my hand on the bed near his shoulder so he would feel the weight of it when he woke and know he was not alone. “Old man,” I said, very low, so as not to wake him. “I am here.” Outside, in the dark, the sea went on with its old work, drawing itself in and letting itself out, as a great animal breathes while it sleeps. The bones down on the beach glimmered and then were dark and then glimmered again as the clouds crossed the face of the moon. The smell of salt and tar and dried fish and old wood came and went. There was nothing more to do and I did not wish for more to do. It was good to sit and to be tired and to know that the waiting had ended. The long absence was behind us. The road that had been only dust and heat in the sun now led forward into the morning that would come. I did not know how it would be. I only knew I would wake with him and put my shoulder under the mast again and take what came. He slept. I kept the room.

The old man slept. His hands were on the blanket, bandaged now but still swollen. His breath came slow and even. The room was quiet. The chair, the table, the bed, the mast against the wall — all were still. I sat by him. I watched. The men outside spoke low. They came to see the skeleton. They counted the ribs. They measured the tail. They shook their heads and walked away. Some stayed to stare. Some lifted their hats. But none laughed. Not now. I stayed inside. I listened to the sea through the window. It moved steady and endless. It had taken much, but it had given too. It had given him back. --- I thought of the days he was gone. I thought of the knots in the rope in my pocket, each one for a day. I thought of the nights I whispered to the mast that he would return. He had returned. But not whole. Not as before. I looked at his hands. I thought of the fish. I had not seen it alive, but I had seen what was left. It was enough. The bones told the story. They told it better than words. --- He stirred once in the night. His eyes opened a little. “Boy,” he said. “Yes.” “You must fish with the lucky boats.” “No,” I said. “I will fish with you.” He smiled, faint and tired. He closed his eyes again. His chest rose and fell. I leaned close. I whispered: “I will not leave you again. I will fish with you. Always.” I did not know if he heard. Or maybe he did. --- The night grew long. The stars turned. The air cooled. The sea breathed steady. I stayed there. I did not sleep. When the first light came I rose. I went outside. The sky was pale. The skeleton on the sand glowed white in the dawn. The tail lay in the surf and the water moved through it, back and forth. The men had gone. The village was quiet. Only the sea moved, endless and wide. --- I looked at it a long time. I felt it pulling at me, the way it had always pulled at him. It was the same pull. It was in me now. I knew then what I would be. I would fish. I would row out. I would face the sea as he had. I would fight it, and I would love it. The sea had taken from him, but it had not broken him. It would not break me. --- The sun rose. The light spread over the water. The sea shone blue and hard. The day was beginning. I turned back to the shack. The old man slept. His breath was steady. His hands lay still. I sat by him again. I kept the vigil. I whispered: “We will fish again.” I whispered it until it was a vow, until it was the truth. --- The boy at dawn, sitting by Santiago, listening to the sea. The inheritance of struggle, quiet and sure.