Hooking the Marlin

The Hooking of the Marlin marks the decisive turning point of Santiago's solitary voyage, transforming a routine day of fishing into an epic, life-or-death contest. After eighty-four fruitless days, the old man's patience and precision are rewarded when a great marlin, swimming at a depth of one hundred fathoms, begins to investigate his baits. This event sets in motion the three-day ordeal that will test Santiago's physical limits, his will, and his understanding of his place in the natural order.

The Approach and the First Touch

It is the eighty-fifth day, and Santiago has rowed far out into the Gulf Stream, past the "great well" where the ocean floor drops suddenly to seven hundred fathoms. He has set his four baits with meticulous care, each hanging head down at a precise depth, the hooks covered with fresh sardines. At noon, he sees one of the green-sapped sticks that hold his lines dip sharply. He ships his oars and takes the line in his right hand, holding it softly between thumb and forefinger. He feels a tentative pull, not solid or heavy, and knows exactly what it is: one hundred fathoms down, a marlin is eating the sardines that cover the hook. The old man speaks aloud, coaxing the fish: "Eat them, fish. Eat them. Please eat them." He feels the light, delicate pulling, then a harder pull as a sardine's head is torn from the hook, and then nothing. The fish has turned. Santiago waits, his hope and confidence freshening like the morning breeze. The gentle touch returns, and he is happy. Then he feels something hard and unbelievably heavy—the weight of the fish itself. He lets the line slip down, unrolling off the first reserve coil, feeling the great weight through his almost imperceptible pressure. "What a fish," he says aloud.

The Strike and the First Resistance

Santiago allows the marlin to take the bait fully, letting the line run through his fingers while he makes fast the free end of the two reserve coils to the loop of the next line, giving himself three forty-fathom coils in reserve. He waits, speaking to the fish, urging it to swallow the hook so that the point will go into its heart. Then, with a sudden cry of "Now!" he strikes hard with both hands, gaining a yard of line, then strikes again and again, swinging with each arm alternately, using all the strength of his arms and the pivoted weight of his body. Nothing happens. The fish simply moves away slowly, and Santiago cannot raise him an inch. The line becomes so taut that beads of water jump from it, and it begins to make a slow hissing sound. The boat itself starts to move slowly toward the northwest, towed by the unseen fish. Santiago braces himself against the thwart, leaning back against the pull. "I wish I had the boy," he says aloud. "I'm being towed by a fish and I'm the towing bitt." He knows he must hold the line with his body, giving line when the fish demands it, and that he cannot make it fast for fear the fish will break it. The fish continues its steady course, and four hours later, at noon, it is still swimming out to sea, towing the skiff, and Santiago has still not seen his adversary.

The First Night and the Cutting of the Lines

As darkness falls, Santiago's sweat dries cold on his back and arms. He ties the sack that covered the bait box around his neck, letting it hang down over his back to cushion the line. He finds a way of leaning forward against the bow that is almost comfortable. The fish never changes its course or direction through the night, and Santiago watches the stars to confirm their heading. The glow of Havana fades, telling him the current is carrying them eastward. He speaks aloud again: "I wish I had the boy. To help me and to see this." Some time before daylight, something takes one of the baits behind him. He hears the stick break and the line rush out. In the darkness, he loosens his sheath knife, takes the strain of the great fish on his left shoulder, and cuts the line against the gunwale. He cuts the other closest line and makes the loose ends of the reserve coils fast, working skillfully with one hand. Now he has six reserve coils of line. He knows he has lost two hundred fathoms of good Catalan cordel and the hooks and leaders, but he tells himself those can be replaced. The fish itself cannot be replaced. He works back to the last line in the dark, cutting it away and hooking up the two reserve coils. During this work, the fish makes a surge that pulls him down onto his face, cutting him below the eye. The blood runs down his cheek but coagulates and dries before reaching his chin. He adjusts the sack, works the line onto a new part of his shoulders, and settles back. "Fish," he says softly, aloud, "I'll stay with you until I am dead."

The Dawn and the Certainty of the Bond

In the first light, Santiago sees the line extending out and down into the water. The boat moves steadily. The fish has headed north, and the current has set them far to the east. The slant of the line shows the fish is swimming at a lesser depth, a favorable sign that might mean a jump. Santiago tries to increase the tension but knows he can put no more strain on the line without breaking it. He speaks to the fish: "I love you and respect you very much. But I will kill you dead before this day ends." A small warbler, exhausted from its flight, rests on the line, and Santiago talks to it, apologizing that he cannot hoist the sail because he is "with a friend." The fish gives a sudden lurch, pulling Santiago down onto the bow and cutting his hand. The bird flies away. Santiago washes his hand in the ocean, noting that the fish has slowed. He eats the bonito he had caught earlier, cutting strips of dark red meat and chewing them slowly, knowing he needs strength. His left hand is cramped, and he speaks to it with disgust, calling it a "treachery of one's own body." He rubs it against his trousers, trying to gentle the fingers. Then, with his right hand, he feels a change in the pull of the line and sees the slant change. The line rises slowly and steadily. The surface of the ocean bulges ahead of the boat, and the fish comes out—unendingly, water pouring from its sides, bright in the sun, its head and back dark purple, its stripes wide and light lavender, its sword as long as a baseball bat and tapered like a rapier. It rises its full length and re-enters the water smoothly, like a diver. Santiago sees the great scythe-blade of its tail go under. "He is two feet longer than the skiff," he says. The line races out, but the fish is not panicked. Santiago knows he is fast to the biggest fish he has ever seen, bigger than he has ever heard of, and he is alone, out of sight of land. He thinks of the three things that are brothers: the fish and his two hands. The hook is set, the bond is sealed, and the true ordeal has begun.