the big drum of shark liver oil as a remedy

The big drum of shark liver oil as a remedy is a communal resource kept in the shack where many fishermen store their gear, a practical emblem of the unsentimental endurance that defines their trade. The old man drinks a cup of it each day, a habit he maintains despite the fact that most fishermen hate the taste. He considers it no worse than getting up at the hours they all rise, and he values it as very good against all colds and grippes and good for the eyes. The drum is there for all fishermen who want it, a shared provision in a world where each man ultimately faces the sea alone.

Origin and Context

The shark liver oil belongs to the same economic and ecological system that the old man navigates daily. The shark factory on the other side of the cove processes the sharks that fishermen bring in, hoisting them on a block and tackle, removing their livers, cutting off their fins, skinning their hides, and slicing their flesh into strips for salting. When the wind is from the east, a smell from the shark factory comes across the harbour; on the day the old man sets out, the wind has backed into the north and the odour is only a faint edge. The oil in the drum is a byproduct of this industrial processing, a remedy extracted from the same creatures that will later destroy the old man's great fish. The old man himself has gone turtle-ing for years off the Mosquito Coast, an activity that kills the eyes, yet his own eyes remain good, and the shark liver oil helps sustain that resilience.

Daily Use and Significance

The old man drinks the oil daily, especially through May to be strong in September and October for the truly big fish. He also eats the white eggs of the turtles to give himself strength, and he loves to see the big sea turtles eating the Portuguese men-of-war, the iridescent bubbles he calls "Agua mala" and "you whore." The oil is part of a regimen of self-maintenance that includes the cast net he no longer owns, the fiction of the pot of yellow rice and fish, and the newspaper that may or may not be real. When the old man finally kills the marlin and lashes it to the skiff, he estimates its value: over fifteen hundred pounds, perhaps much more, dressing out two-thirds of that at thirty cents a pound. The calculation is a reminder that the fish, like the shark liver oil, exists within a market economy, but the old man's relationship to both is governed by a code that transcends commerce. He thinks of the great DiMaggio, whose father was a fisherman, and wonders whether the bone spur in DiMaggio's heel hurts as much as the spur of a fighting cock. The oil, like the baseball, is a link to a world of endurance and skill.

Thematic Resonance

The drum of shark liver oil embodies the old man's philosophy of practical, uncomplaining suffering. He does not admit his suffering at all, and when he prays, he does so mechanically, promising a pilgrimage to the Virgin of Cobre if he catches the fish. The oil is a remedy for the body, but the old man's true remedy is his will. After the sharks have destroyed the marlin, leaving only the skeleton, he tells the boy, "They beat me, Manolin. They truly beat me," but the boy insists, "He didn't beat you. Not the fish." The old man's hands, cut and raw from the line, will heal; the salt water is the greatest healer. The oil in the drum is a small, concrete aid in a life defined by larger, abstract forces: the sea, the current, the trade wind, the hurricane months. When the old man finally reaches his shack, he sleeps face down on the newspapers with his arms out straight and the palms of his hands up, and the boy sits by him watching. The old man is dreaming about the lions. The drum of shark liver oil, like the lions, is a recurring element of a life that is both harsh and beautiful, a life in which a man can be destroyed but not defeated.