“Good luck,” the old man said. He fitted the rope lashings of the oars onto the thole pins and, leaning forward against the thrust of the blades in the water, he began to row out of the harbour in the dark. There were other boats from the other beaches going out to sea and the old man heard the dip and push of their oars even though he could not see them now the moon was below the hills. Sometimes someone would speak in a boat. But most of the boats were silent except for the dip of the oars. They spread apart after they were out of the mouth of the harbour and each one headed for the part of the ocean where he hoped to find fish. The old man knew he was going far out and he left the smell of the land behind and rowed out into the clean early morning smell of the ocean. He saw the phosphorescence of the Gulf weed in the water as he rowed over the part of the ocean that the fishermen called the great well because there was a sudden deep of seven hundred fathoms where all sorts of fish congregated because of the swirl the current made against the steep walls of the floor of the ocean. Here there were concentrations of shrimp and bait fish and sometimes schools of squid in the deepest holes and these rose close to the surface at night where all the wandering fish fed on them.
From “The Old Man and the Sea” by Ernest Hemingway
This great tale shows Hemingway’s sensitivity and love for his fellow man. The beauty of his prose lies in its straightforwardness and appearance of simplicity. But do not fool yourself. There is nothing simple about his prose, which is as sophisticated and conscientiously written as could be. There is nothing simple about fishing either. A few months ago, I went fishing far out to sea. It was windy, and the boat bobbed up and down huge waves. At times, I feared it would capsize because I could see the swells of the ocean much higher that the cabin in the back of the deck. The vessel plummeted to deep voids of water—which each wave had left behind as it rushed forward—and again catapulted up the peaks of the crests as if it were a surfboard. I thought I was immune to seasickness since l had lived all my life on the coast and never had any problem when I sailed. I had not taken any preventative medication. But one hour into this trip, the illness hit me with vengeance—continuous unstoppable vomiting to the point that I could not breathe. I thought I was going to die. It lasted for two hours until I set foot on the dock. Before the vomiting hit me, some of my fellow fishermen caught some fish, but they were devoured by sharks before they reached the surface of the water.
