The old man, the sea, and I

I HAD A bad day.

Oh there, what a perfect opening for my first 2012 blog post. But what can I say?

At a time like this, I just want to get inside the Great Persky’s magic box, like what Professor Kugelmass did. He would get inside the cheap-looking Chinese cabinet, waiting for Persky to throw a book to him. Once the professor got the book and tapped it three times, he would find himself projected into that book. Professor Kugelmass ended up making love to Madame Bovary.

But I only want to meet Santiago, and sail the blue Havana ocean with him, at a time like this. I want the Great Persky to throw me Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea.

Grab the image from here.

Tap tap tap.

It is still dark. Santiago, the old man, leads our way. We walk in silence. I could only see his back. He’s pretty tall and his shoulders seem powerful, although very old — just like what Manolin said in the book.

His posture and aura, they are exactly like what I have always imagined. He is a calm man, I tell myself. And you can feel this strange tranquil feeling when walking behind him.

“I had a bad day,” I inform him, to his absent reply.

He walks pretty fast for an old man. He is barefoot. I gaze at his old shirt — that had been patched so many times. I regret that I did not bring him some clean blankets.

I feel ashamed, I should have not wore this stupid Jamiroquai’s t-shirt, and shoes. Oh my God, why did I wear them? Yeah, my Converse shoes. I hate Converse. God, I look completely 2000s.

But that old, best fisherman, seems not to care about what I am wearing. It’s not surprising. His head must be filled with places he went and lions he saw, his wife, and the Yankees. He is crazy about them, Yankees that cannot lose.

Suddenly, he says something. He says he could feel the morning coming. I could, too, then I hear myself saying, “a chill in the air.”

Santiago keeps walking, but then stops, abruptly. He turns his face toward mine, examining, he might be looking at me in the eyes — I cannot really tell, dark still.

“What’s your name, again?” he asks, with his deep voice.

“Anita,” say I.

“You are Manolin’s friend?”

“Yes,” I lie.

Of course I lie, I must.

I must not meet Manolin. He is pretty obsessed with Santiago, I am sure he wouldn’t be so ecstatic to learn that Santiago is now having a new company on board — a girl, me.

But the old man is the kindhearted type. He would welcome anyone to his old boat, like he did to me just now. He has been sailing alone the Gulf Stream for forty four days, since Manolin left him for another boat just to please his parents.

“I haven’t taken a fish for eighty-four days. People said that I am definitely and finally salao. But today, we are going far out,” he tells me, I could hear optimism in his voice.

You know, salao, it’s the worst form of unlucky.

We get into the boat and start rowing. And Santiago tells me he could hear the trembling sound made by the flying fish, one of his favorites from the ocean.

We row steadily, he is so calm, and strangely I am too. We are drifted with the current. I feel peaceful. It seems there are only us; the old man, the sea, and I in this big ocean of Havana.

I lay down, impolitely, like a yacht-owner, with his captain Santiago drives the small boat in silence. But he seems to comprehend my “I had a bad day” situation. He smiles at me, understandingly. Then I make this thank-you-so-much face.

I could only hear the ocean’s streams, and some birds up there flying. Streams and birds are the music of the ocean, I tell myself. I am the ocean’s child.

Not long. The light starts to illuminate the big flat ocean. He warns me that the glare of the light might hurt my eyes, it did to his. He doesn’t have shades, of course. I am wearing glasses so it’s not so bad.

I tell Santiago I want to see some plankton.

“Soon,” he says. “We are down in the blue water at one hundred and one hundred and twenty-five fathoms.”

It is when you see the darker blue ocean, it is so dark you might think it is purple. Then, I rise. The light doesn’t hurt our eyes so badly anymore. I look up, there are man-of-war birds flying.

“Dolphin,” the old man says aloud. “Big dolphin.”

I gasp.

Knock knock knock.

“Anita, your time is up!” the Great Persky shouts from outside of… the cabinet, the sea.

Oh damn. Didn’t I tell you I had a bad day, Persky?