the porpoises as brothers

In Ernest Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea, Santiago, the old fisherman, repeatedly extends the language of kinship and brotherhood to the creatures of the ocean, most notably to the porpoises. This concept is not a passing metaphor but a deeply held conviction that defines his relationship with the sea and its inhabitants, shaping his understanding of his own place within a vast, interconnected, and often brutal natural world. It is a philosophy that elevates his struggle from a mere contest of survival to a complex ethical drama, where he must kill a creature he calls his brother while mourning the loss of another to predators he despises.

The Porpoises as Brothers

Santiago explicitly names the porpoises as his brothers. During the first night of his struggle with the great marlin, he hears two porpoises come around the boat, rolling and blowing, and he distinguishes the male's blowing noise from the female's sighing blow. He says aloud, "They are good," and explains, "They play and make jokes and love one another. They are our brothers like the flying fish." This statement places the porpoises within a specific category of sea life that Santiago loves and respects, alongside the flying fish, which he calls his "principal friends on the ocean." The porpoises are not merely useful or beautiful; they are kin, defined by their capacity for joy, affection, and play, qualities Santiago admires and recognizes as shared with humanity.

The Marlin as Brother and the Ethics of Killing

This philosophy of brotherhood extends most powerfully to the great marlin itself. After hooking the fish, Santiago's initial determination to kill it is gradually complicated by a deep respect and love for his adversary. He calls the fish "my brother" and reflects, "I wish I could feed the fish. He is my brother. But I must kill him and keep strong to do it." This internal conflict reaches its peak during the final, exhausting struggle. As the fish begins to circle, Santiago, on the verge of collapse, addresses it directly: "You are killing me, fish. But you have a right to. Never have I seen a greater, or more beautiful, or a calmer or more noble thing than you, brother. Come on and kill me. I do not care who kills who." The act of killing is framed not as a victory of man over beast but as a tragic necessity between equals, a duel between brothers. After the marlin is dead and lashed to the skiff, Santiago continues to think of their bond, wondering, "is he bringing me in or am I bringing him in?" and concluding, "we sail like brothers." He later reflects, "You did not kill the fish only to keep alive and to sell for food. You killed him for pride and because you are a fisherman. You loved him when he was alive and you loved him after. If you love him, it is not a sin to kill him. Or is it more?" This question remains unresolved, underscoring the profound ethical weight of his actions.

The Sharks as Enemies and the Violation of Brotherhood

If the porpoises and the marlin are brothers, the sharks are their antithesis—enemies and violators of the natural order Santiago reveres. The first shark to attack is a Mako shark, which Santiago calls a "Dentuso." He respects its power and nobility, thinking, "He is beautiful and noble and knows no fear of anything," and he kills it "in self-defense." However, the subsequent sharks, the shovel-nosed "Galanos," are treated with pure contempt. He identifies them as "hateful sharks, bad smelling, scavengers as well as killers." They are the opposite of the porpoises and the marlin; they are not brothers but desecrators. When they tear apart the marlin's carcass, Santiago feels the attack as a personal wound: "When the fish had been hit it was as though he himself were hit." The destruction of the marlin's body is a violation of the brotherhood Santiago had established, a brutal intrusion of a different, purely predatory order into the relationship he had forged with the great fish.

The Sea as a Feminine Source of Kinship

Santiago's entire worldview of brotherhood is grounded in his conception of the sea itself. He always thinks of the sea as "la mar," a feminine entity that "gave or withheld great favours." He contrasts this with younger fishermen who speak of the sea as "el mar," a masculine "contestant or a place or even an enemy." For Santiago, the sea is not an opponent to be conquered but a living, maternal presence that connects all its children. This perspective allows him to see the porpoises, the flying fish, and even the marlin not as separate species to be exploited but as fellow beings within a single, vast family. The brotherhood he feels is a direct consequence of his love and respect for the sea as a giver of life, a force that is both kind and cruel, beautiful and dangerous, but ultimately the source of all the relationships that define his existence.

The Dream of the Lions and the Loss of Brotherhood

The concept of brotherhood is also tied to Santiago's dreams, which provide a counterpoint to the violence of his waking life. He no longer dreams of his wife, of storms, or of great fish, but only of places and, most importantly, of the lions on the beaches of Africa. He dreams of them playing "like young cats in the dusk" and notes that "he loved them as he loved the boy." The lions represent a pure, untroubled form of kinship, a bond of love and companionship free from the necessity of killing. After the marlin is reduced to a skeleton, Santiago returns to his shack and falls into a deep sleep, dreaming again of the lions. This final image suggests that the true, unbroken brotherhood he seeks is not to be found in the violent reality of the sea but in the peaceful, enduring vision of his own memory and subconscious. The skeleton of the marlin, now just garbage, is a stark, physical reminder of the brotherhood that was forged and then destroyed, while the dream of the lions endures.