Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway Page A

you have not
slept. You must devise a way so that you sleep a little if he is quiet and
steady. If you do not sleep you might become unclear in the head.”
       I’m clear enough in the head, he thought. Too clear. I am as clear as the stars that are my brothers.
Still I must sleep. They sleep and the moon and the sun sleep and even the
ocean sleeps sometimes on certain days when there is no current and a flat
calm.
       But remember to sleep, he thought. Make yourself do it and devise some simple and sure way about the
lines. Now go back and prepare the dolphin. It is too dangerous to rig the oars
as a drag if you must sleep.
       I could go without sleeping, he told
himself. But it would be too dangerous.
       He started to work his way back to the stern
on his hands and knees, being careful not to jerk against the fish. He may be
half asleep himself, he thought. But I do not want him to rest. He must pull
until he dies.
       Back in the stern he turned so that his left
hand held the strain of the line across his shoulders and drew his knife from
its sheath with his right hand. The stars were bright now and he saw the
dolphin clearly and he pushed the blade of his knife into his head and drew him
out from under the stern. He put one of his feet on the fish and slit him
quickly from the vent up to the tip of his lower jaw. Then he put his knife
down and gutted him with his right hand, scooping him clean and pulling the
gills clear.
       He felt the maw heavy and slippery in his
hands and he slit it open. There were two flying fish inside. They were fresh
and hard and he laid them side by side and dropped the guts and the gills over
the stern. They sank leaving a trail of phosphorescence in the water. The
dolphin was cold and a leprous gray-white now in the starlight and the old man
skinned one side of him while he held his right foot on the fish’s head. Then
he turned him over and skinned the other side and cut each side off from the
head down to the tail.
       He slid the carcass overboard and looked to
see if there was any swirl in the water. But there was only the light of its
slow descent. He turned then and placed the two flying fish inside the two
fillets of fish and putting his knife back in its sheath, he worked his way
slowly back to the bow. His back was bent with the weight of the line across it
and he carried the fish in his right hand.
       Back in the bow he laid the two fillets of
fish out on the wood with the flying fish beside them. After that he settled
the line across his shoulders in a new place and held it again with his left
hand resting on the gunwale. Then he leaned over the side and washed the flying
fish in the water, noting the speed of the water against his hand. His hand was
phosphorescent from skinning the fish and he watched the flow of the water
against it. The flow was less strong and as he rubbed the side of his hand against
the planking of the skiff, particles of phosphorus floated off and drifted
slowly astern.
       “He is tiring or he is resting,” the old man
said. “Now let me get through the eating of this dolphin and get some rest and
a little sleep.”
       Under the stars and with the night colder
all the time he ate half of one of the dolphin fillets and one of the flying
fish, gutted and with its head cut off.
       “What an excellent fish dolphin is to eat
cooked,” he said. “And what a miserable fish raw. I
will never go in a boat again without salt or limes.”
       If I had brains I would have splashed water
on the bow all day and drying, it would have made salt, he thought. But then I
did not hook the dolphin until almost sunset. Still it was a lack of preparation.
But I have chewed it all well and I am not nauseated.
       The sky was clouding over to the east and
one after another the stars he knew were gone. It looked now as though he were
moving into a great canyon of clouds and the wind had dropped.
       “There will be bad weather in three or