The bony old finger slowly followed the line of words across the page. The sun-stained skin, brown against the pale white of the page. Knotty knuckles cast strange shadows across the words, while the calcified fingernail left a faint scratch beneath the words.
Manuel sat flat on the hard red earth, propped up against the trunk of a gnarled old olive tree beside his little cottage. Man and tree seemed joined, in life and antiquity. The dappled shade of the vines entangling the tree cast blurred shadows on the earth. The gentle sea breeze tugged at the leaves, changing the patterns on the ground. The breeze also tugged at the old man’s tufty beard.
Manuel lifted his gaze from the book. He sighed, a long, slow release of lonely emotion. He stared longingly at the blue ocean in the distance. How he longed to return to the waters one last time. Maybe, he thought, the waters would welcome him with their chilly embrace. Maybe it was his destiny.
He rose slowly, his backside sore from sitting prone on the hard earth. His back ached, many years of hard toil taking their toll on his old frame. He recalled the days when he would sit for hours in that spot. He loved feeling the bark against his back and the direct contact with the earth. He loved gazing out at the ocean. Then, he was young. Then, he longed to go to sea with the men. He longed to prove himself out on the water. He longed to be counted as a man among the men of the village.
Now he was old. Now he was the second oldest inhabitant in the village. Yet he still longed for the ocean even though he’d long stopped going to sea. He didn’t need to fish for a living anymore. His simple lifestyle’s needs were well catered for by his only son. The son he’d helped educate, the son who’d gone off to the city to make it big.
The only son who sent money but never returned to the village. The son who’d forgotten his roots, the past he was ashamed of. Manuel recalled his one and only trip to the city. His son wanted to show him the bright lights but Manuel couldn’t come to terms with the claustrophobia he suffered in the place. Madrid was too far away from the ocean.
Everything choked him. They made him get into tiny windowless boxes that took him many floors up. Then, he had to look down at the ant-like people in the streets below. He didn’t like the experience for it made him feel as if he was trying to play God.
Tomás, his son, had been so insistent in proving his wealth and status that he’d taken an apartment on the very top floor of Torre de Madrid. Manuel shivered slightly as he cast his mind back to that visit. Twelve years later and he’d not seen his son. They’d parted at the station, the dapper, young corporate whizz kid briefly shaking hands with the sunburnt old man. Even their clothes were worlds apart. The old man dressed in faded denims and check shirt, the younger son resplendent in his cut perfect Savile Row suit.
Worlds apart, yes, thought the old man. They lived in different time zones, their only link the Euros he sent each month. Manuel sighed again. He shuffled toward the rear of the cottage to find a canvas chair in the lean-to shelter that doubled as a firewood store and tool shed.
He returned to the shade of the olive tree. The book drew him onward. He wanted to read, even though he had difficulty with the English. He’d never heard of the book until he’d picked it up at the local pub. A tourist had left it, said Maria, the barkeep. Maria explained that the original was written in English but said she’d try to find him a Spanish translation.
No, said Manuel, if the original was in English he wanted to read the English story. Maria offered to help but he refused, claiming it would be good exercise for his old brain. That was three days ago. Now he didn’t want to put the book down. He wanted to know and understand the man’s pain in the language of the writer. He’d instinctively suspected that he and the book’s fictional character were brothers.
Brothers of the same mother. That he knew as soon as he found the words la mar. Brothers. The children of the sea. Yes, he agreed with Santiago, she was a she and not el mar. She may be a bitch at times but never a bastard.
Manuel paused to reflect on all he’d learned so far. He couldn’t quite believe just how poor Santiago must have been. But they had so much in common. Manual realised he’d also long stopped dreaming of his long lost wife. He realised he spoke aloud most of the day when he was alone.
Manuel knew he soon had to get himself back to sea. He felt the gnawing urge in his belly, the knotted tugging of pent up nerves. Santiago put him to shame. Imagine, he said to himself, rowing out in the dark before dawn. Rowing out on an empty stomach, not knowing when the next meal would present itself.
I will go to sea again, he told himself. I will find an old wooden boat down in the harbour and repair it. I will paint it bright red, blue and yellow. I will name it El Campeón in honour of Santiago. I will do this all before the summer is out. Before the winter storms arrive. I will.
Manuel read until the sun dipped low enough to drive the shadows away from his resting place. It was time to put the book away and stroll down to the local for his evening meal. It was a good thing. He would talk to Maria. She would have answers. At first Maria wanted nothing to do with his idea of going to sea. No, she said, not even one more time. It was too dangerous for an old man.
He didn’t protest at all. He simply said that if she wouldn’t help he’d find someone who would and suggested that she could be a little more helpful. Once she was in agreement things happened quite quickly so even before he’d completed reading the book he’d completed most of his plans and preparations.
He combined his past experience with a few of Santiago’s comments. Manual fitted new monofilament braid to his two reels and ensured that his rods were in good order. In his younger days he’d taken great pride in preparing the leaders and traces. Now his fingers quickly found their rhythm. They twisted and turned lines and braids, forming knots, as of old.
He made up a few light handlines for bait fishing. He fished around in a large wooden chest in the tool shed until he found his old leather fishing belt. He carefully checked the stitching and buckles.
“Nothing that a bit of dubbin wouldn’t fix.”
When his fishing equipment was ship-shape he packed a backpack with flashlight batteries and dry rations. He would take fresh bread, cheese, ham and fruit on the morning he set out. Oh, and yes, he wouldn’t forget to take a few lemons and salt.
He shopped around for a good second-hand outboard motor and fitted out the boat Maria had found for him. He stored spare water, fuel, a few cans of oil and safety gear in the small cabin compartment. He didn’t need all this stuff but he knew the harbour folk would stop him from going to sea if he didn’t have everything required by the authorities.
He only had one more detail to wait for before he could set off on his mission. He planned to leave the harbour under the cover of darkness and not wanting to alert anyone of his departure, he needed to do so on the turn of the high tide. Yes, he planned to row out, in the dark, just like Santiago had done all those years ago.
He’d have to wait a few days for all the conditions to be in his favour, but he didn’t mind. He had the book to keep him company and as he labored through each page his bond with Santiago grew. He visualised his pain. He imagined being in the skiff for a day and a night, while the great fish towed him along.
On the afternoon before the full moon, Manuel went down to the harbor to check the boat one last time. He stowed the book in the hatch for it was his plan to read the last few pages only once he and his friend Santiago were united at sea. That evening he enjoyed a portion of Maria’s fine paella before he headed to the village store to stock up on the fresh supplies.
Manuel didn’t sleep much. Instead, he tossed and turned. Past demons chased him. One, named Tomás, kept screeching at him to run. How could he run, he wondered, he was in a boat at sea. After flipping over for what seemed the hundredth time he gave up on sleep. His gut told him it was time to go. It didn’t take him long to do his ablutions. Next, he fumbled around in the dark kitchen for his supplies. Breakfast could wait until the sun rose.
He paused for a second or two before closing the front door behind him. Would he return? He didn’t know, or care but he thought he’d better greet Aná before going. He stepped back inside and walked to her faded image over the fireplace. He mumbled a few inaudible words of farewell before heading out into the predawn.
The bright full moon lit his path to the harbour. He estimated the time to be somewhere around four so he knew he’d have enough time to get out of the harbour before the regulars arrived. Once he’d stowed his few additional belongings he readied the oars and cast off.
He rowed easily, the slack tide offering no resistance. Within half an hour of rowing out past the harbour lights he found the offshore current so he let the water do the work. The current carried him toward the south west, away from the fast diminishing lights along the Mallorca coast. He kept the boat on course with the hand tiller, not bothering with the motor at all.
He ate bread, cheese and ham as he drifted, regretting not bringing a flask of coffee. Oh well, he thought, maybe I won’t miss the coffee when the fishing begins. He removed the old mobile phone from his pocket. He carefully took it from the plastic wrapping. He’d promised Maria that he’d call her once he was away from prying eyes.
“Yes, I am fine. I am drifting out in the channel between Palma and Ibiza. No, I’m heading south of the islands. Yes, I’ll stay around Illa des Conills and Cabrera. Good… OK, fine. I’ll keep in contact, yes, I promise.”
He carefully wrapped the phone after switching it off. He stowed it with his other provisions. Now was the time for action. Manuel baited the #4 barbless hooks of the first line with slithers of squid. The second he baited with small cuts of salted sardines. No ordinary salted sardines. He’d spent a few hours preparing these with one of his old, trusted recipes. Just the correct amount of flavours.
Before casting the lines, he half-filled the bait box with sea water.
“Now… I am ready.”
He cast the lines a little way from the boat. One on each side. He felt alive, the most invigorated he had been in many years. His mental race had begun. Him against the fish. This is how it should be, man against the elements.
“I bet the sardines bring the first results.”
He spoke aloud, as he knew Santiago would have done. He held each line lightly between thumb and forefinger.
“I wonder if the left hand will fare better that the right? Lefty’s holding the sardine line so it should. Yes, I’ve given the weaker hand the advantage.”
Manuel didn’t have long to wait. He soon felt the faint twitching of fish nibbling, at both lines. He played the lines, gentle upward movements interspersed with sharper jerks to set the hooks.
“Come on mackerel, swallow your breakfast… yes… yes, and another.”
He pulled both lines in simultaneously and stopped as the first fish broke water. He stepped on the left line to hold it in place, allowing him space to remove the fish from each hook of the right line without getting the lines entangled.
“One, two, three and four. Full house on the squid.”
He carefully placed each fish in the bait box. The sardine line only yielded three fish.
“Not good lefty, I banked on you and you let me down. Never mind, that was only round one. Three more to go.”
He repeated the baiting process and then cast the lines in again, this time he gave the left hand the squid line.
“Got to be fair, no cheating allowed here.”
He continued fishing until he’d completed the fourth round. The squid won the day. Thirteen fish to eleven.
“That would do just fine, I now have enough to last me for a day or so. I could even enjoy a bit of raw mackerel as I’ve got salt and lemon.”
Manuel carefully wound up the handlines and stowed them.
“A neat deck is a safe deck.”
How long had he known those words? Was it not his father who taught him the saying when he first went to sea?
“A neat deck is a safe deck. Yes, that is so. That is also a lesson I never transferred to my own son, the city boy.”
He wistfully shook his head from side to side.
“No, he didn’t want to fish, even as a small boy he showed no interest. The little tiddlers in the harbour weren’t even inviting.”
Manuel stopped himself. This was no time to allow his sorrow to cloud his purpose. This was the time to celebrate the sea. This was the time to unite with Santiago in triumph. The thought of Santiago reminded him of the book. He retrieved it after throwing a quick glance at the sun.
“A good time to rest and read. The sun is high, the fish will be very deep and not in the mood for eating.”
He recalled his days of regular fishing. Most boats would be heading for the harbour by now. Only the tourists stayed out during the high sun. Now was the time to test the motor, he thought. It started easily and got the boat moving smoothly through the water. He headed for the leeward side of Cabrera. He would anchor in one of the sheltered bays to lay up until later in the afternoon. He had much to do, the book beckoned.
He found a shady spot under trees close to the beach. He read for a while before dozing off for a few hours. He didn’t fight the sleep because he knew he’d need all his strength if he picked up a large fish during the night. He stirred from his slumbers when the sun dipped low enough to cause him discomfort. It took him a few moments to gather his thoughts but he quickly realised it was time to get going.
Manuel set off toward the south as the sun began its dash toward the horizon. He knew he’d reach the deeper water with enough time remaining to begin his fishing. The mackerel were lively in the bait box because he’d continued refreshing the water. He cut the motor as soon as he established that he was back in the current.
He kept a good lookout for birds and once he thought he saw action further to the south he got the motor going again. No time to row now, he wanted to be in position before dark. He cut the motor when he confirmed that his eyes had not let him down.
“Petrels… the Mother’s chickens. You’re talking to me, there are fish… I’m sure. Has Santiago sent you to guide me?”
He paused to give this omen a thought. Could it be that the birds are warning him of a storm coming or are they good luck?
“No… you chickens are good, now we fish. Me and Santiago’s memory. But, I must first call Maria.”
Manuel retrieved the phone, unwrapped it and switched it on. He checked the signal strength before dialling.
“Weak but it will do.”
He listened at the ring tone for a few seconds,
“Hello, hello. Yes, I can hear you. No, I’ll sleep out on the islands tonight. No, I’m fine. It’s warm, I have food and water. No, no… no Maria. Don’t be saying that. No, don’t send people to look for me. NO! I’m fine. Yes, I’ll call… yes, even at night if I need to. Fine. Thanks… ok, good evening.”
Once the phone was stored he readied his sturdiest rod and real. He chose a 6/0 long shank hook and carefully secured the woven metal leader onto the braid. He checked and rechecked the knots.
He hooked one of the mackerel through the top lip in the classic live bait fashion. He flick-cast the bait out as far from the boat as possible. He kept playing out line until he was satisfied and then set the reel’s drag. He pulled at the line while adjusting the setting until he was happy. Then he placed the rod in the holder and began the wait.
“One rod is good. Don’t be greedy… you can only catch one big fish at a time. Eat something and make sure all your gear is in working order. Check your flash light. It will be a little while before the moon rises.”
“Eat, old man… eat while you have the time.”
He broke chunks of bread and enjoyed some of the ham and cheese. He would first finish off the fresh food and fruit before taking to the dry provisions. He wasn’t fond of tinned food but if he stayed out much longer than 48 hours he would have to keep himself fed with his dry stores.
“Read a little more, before the darkness comes.”
He wanted to read but he was distressed by Santiago’s plight. Shark after shark was attacking his fish. He marvelled at the resilience and daring of the other man. To fight off the sharks the way he did must have taken so much of his strength.
The descending darkness soon put pay to the reading but the inactivity made him mull over Santiago’s fate. He worried that if he should be lucky to catch a big one that he would not be strong enough to handle the fish.
The moon rose an hour after sundown. Manuel enjoyed the beauty.
“It’s been so long since I’ve seen such a splendid sight. Even if I catch no fish this makes it worthwhile.”
The boat drifted slowly toward the south west. He thought he could still make out the distant low lying outline of the islands. There was no action on the rod so around midnight he reeled in the line to replace the bait.
The mackerel wasn’t in good shape. Many small mouths had nibbled at the fish.
“Just as well I checked. You’re no good anymore. I’ll hook up one of your brothers”
Manuel rebaited the hook and cast out the line again. He played out less line this time. He didn’t want to spend half the night retrieving line. Once he’d set the reel’s tension and replaced the rod in the stand he made himself comfortable.
“I may as well doze off… the reel will wake me if a fish runs with the bait.”
He slept in fits and starts, waking every so often. His subconscious was looking out for him. He checked the line and the boat’s drift to make sure all was well. The moon and stars told their tale. He would eventually land up in Algeria if he kept going on this current. He’d have to make a call by early morning to start the motor and head in a homeward direction.
The reel woke him in the predawn. The ratchet click-clicking a few times before he could knock it off. He placed a fingertip loosely on the line, feeling the slight tremors coming back at him. He waited for signs of a full run but it didn’t come. The fish had dropped the bait.
“Come on fish… don’t let me down.”
He waited a few more minutes before retrieving the line.
“Son of a syphilitic seafaring sailor… you took my bait and not my hook. Let me get another bait on there…”
He hurriedly rebaited and cast in again. This time he didn’t bother to let more than 50 meters of line out before returning the rod to the holder. It seemed to him as if the boat’s drift had slowed down. He dipped his hand into the water to feel the flow.
“Yes… I think we’ve slowed so the bait will sink too deep if I let out lots of line.”
He glances toward the east. A faint showing of colour confirmed the impending arrival of a new day.
“Come on fish, this is your time to feed. You don’t feed deep down in the dark so get back to your snack, won’t you?”
He didn’t have long to wait. He was about the get the last of the fresh food ready for breakfast when the reel wound into action. The rod tip arched as the fish began its run.
“Oh ho… give me a minute fish! I need my belt… I can’t fight you without help.”
Manuel suddenly regretted being out alone. How would he handle the boat and the fish at the same time?
“Be good to me fish… please let me off kindly and I’ll be good to you. Please?”
Once he’d strapped on the belt he lifted the rod. The fish was still taking line but he knew he’d have to slowly begin applying more pressure if he wanted any chance of turning the fish.
“Don’t empty the reel fish… then I’ll never get you in.”
He slowly tightened the drag while pulling back on the rod. The line was running off to the side of the boat causing cross drag. It could work in his favour but it could just as easily put too much resistance on the line. He began reeling in, slowly, as gently as the fish would allow. He knew he’d have to use the boat as a break but how much pressure could he apply?
Slowly, very slowly, he began winning back line. He made his way to the bow so that the fish could pull against as little resistance if it should turn again. He had to be very careful not to be pulled off the small bow deck area.
“Old man, what are you doing. You’ll fall overboard and become food for the fish.”
He kept working the fish until he noticed the fish was towing him back toward the islands, directly into the rising sun. He also noticed the line seemed to be rising. He knew he’d have to be ready for the fish to turn and run again as they usually do when they surface.
He kept the rod tip high and made the decision to head back to use the rod holder. He needed a rest and the best way to do so was to use the motor to follow the fish for a while.
“Fish, you have me between the devil and the dark blue, that you have. Either I take a chance and put you in the rod holder or you wear me out and I lose you.”
He tied a short rope strop loop above the reel and then to a cleat on the gunwale.
“Stay where you are rod.”
Manuel loosened the drag just enough to slacken the excessive arc in the rod. He hoped he’d be able to reel in line quick enough while steering the boat toward the fish. He started the motor and put it into gear. He set the throttle so the boat crept forward just enough for him reel in line.
“Fish, don’t play any tricks on me now. Be good to me and I’ll be good to you. I promise!”
He kept creeping toward the east, toward the fish. Instinct told him he’d chanced his arm enough. He stopped the motor, loosened the tie-down and lifted the rod.
“I must eat, I need my strength and I must phone Maria. She will worry.”
He inched his way toward the hatch to get the phone and food. He was about to reach for the phone when he felt the shudder in the line. That shudder alerted him to danger. The danger of the fish outwitting him.
“Are you coming up to show yourself? Yes… you want to show me your size. You want to let me see who’s boss.”
He’d retrieved most of the line so he expected to see the fish near the boat. He wasn’t ready for the size and beauty of the fish. Although the fish didn’t quite break the surface he could see the shimmering neon cobalt blue glistening just below the surface. It was the biggest bluefin tuna he’d ever seen. The fish must be all of three meters, he thought.
“Fish, I will not harm you, I will not let them sell you and eat you raw. You are too beautiful.”
The fish seemed to look him in the eye and as Manuel expected, he turned and dived straight down, the great tail momentarily breaking water as it scythed it’s way downward.
Manuel was as ready as he could be. He’d slackened off the drag as much as possible to allow the fish a partially free run. He kept the rod tip as high as possible. He used the precious few moments to reach for the phone. He used his teeth to unwrap the plastic.
He concentrated on the rod tip and the tension on the line while also getting the phone switched on. As soon as he was sure he had signal he dialled Maria. She must have been holding the phone because she answered on the second ring.
“Good morning… yes, I’m fine. No, I need help.”
He listened at Maria’s panicked response.
“No… I’ve had an idea. Get the people from the oceanarium to come out and help me. Yes… the researchers. I have a massive bluefin on the line.”
He listened while she repeated what he’d just said to whoever was listening. He heard someone in the background say he’d call the oceanarium immediately. Yes, he knew one of the main men there. It took him a second to realise Maria was again speaking to him.
“Oh, I’m out south of the islands. Yes, I can see them on the horizon. I’m sure I see Puig Major far to the north east. I must go. I’ll leave the phone on. I’ll try to answer but the fish needs my attention now.”
He realised he’d lost sight of what he and the fish were doing and that he’d have to concentrate on the fight otherwise he would lose his prize after all the effort they’d both put in.
He again went through the long process of regaining lost line. The fish came grudgingly. On more than one occasion he could feel line thumps.
“He’s shaking his head… he wants to be free. Wait fish… I’ll let you go when the time is right.”
The ringing phone startled him. He answered as soon he could. It was a male’s voice.
“Yes? Oh good. Yes, the fish is still fighting strongly. He’s run twice.”
Manuel listened to the man on the other end of the line. They were a crew from the oceanarium who’d slept over on the island so they were close by. Yes, they were well on the way. Did he have flares? Fine… they’d ring when they thought they were close enough to see. He was lucky, said the man.
Lucky? No, not lucky, rather fated. The omens were with him. Santiago had sent the Mother’s chickens as a sign. The fish will be his and he’d keep his promise. Santiago knew that and would honour his desire to bring the fish in.
Manuel managed to get the fish alongside the boat again. They stared at each other for another brief moment before the fish put its head down and set off on another run. This time he was more prepared and didn’t bother trying to handle the boat and the fish. The boat would follow as long as he allowed the fish its freedom to move.
The fish slowed and he began the retrieval of line again.
“You’re getting tired fish… you haven’t run so far this time. You’ve left much line on the reel.”
Manuel was grateful that the fish was tiring. He was nearing exhaustion as well.
“Come people, I need your help.”
He realised he’d not spoken aloud this time, as if he feared the fish hearing him admitting to being almost beaten. No, I mustn’t give up. Santiago didn’t, even though he’d been much more exhausted.
“But Santiago missed having the boy to help him so he must have suffered terribly. I will have help. I will manage.”
Then the phone rang again. They asked if he would shoot a flare. Manuel placed the rod in the holder and tied it off. The tension should keep the fish happy. Then he looked through the survival gear until he found a red 1000-foot flare. He removed it from its canister, pulled the safety pin and set it off.
He watched as the flare whooshed upward. He hoped it wouldn’t spook the fish.
The phone rang almost immediately. They confirmed that they had seen his flare and would be with him in about 15 minutes. Good, now he could concentrate on the fish again.
The fish allowed him to bring in almost all the line before it turned and headed out again. This time it stayed near the surface so Manuel suspected it may be the last run.
“Soon you’ll be mine and soon you’ll be free. Soon, I promise.”
The run was a short one and he was winning line again when he first heard the thumping of the research vessel’s diesels.
“We’ll both rest soon fish, of that I’m sure.”
He recognised the voice calling out from the other boat.
“What do you want us to do?”
“What do you usually do when you catch large bluefins?”
“We bring them on board in a sling. The we do our measurements and take samples. We tag the fish and then we release them.”
Manuel watched as the boat took up station behind his boat. They kept a fair distance so as not to snag his line.
“Don’t you want to capture the fish and sell him? You’ll make a lot of money.”
“No! I promised the fish he’ll go free.”
“Fantastic. We don’t get to see such lovely specimens often anymore. Here’s what we’ll do. Two of the team will swim to your boat and help you while we get you transferred over to our boat. Then we’ll sling the fish when it’s ready and bring him on board.”
Manuel watched the two men dive into the sea and swim over to his boat. A shudder on the line reminded him that he needed to concentrate on the fish and not on the men.
The men made easy work of getting onto Manuel’s boat.
“Here’s what we’ll do. You keep playing the fish while we steer your boat to the rear of ours then we’ll help you across to the swim platform. One of the other team members will help you onto our boat’s deck.”
Manuel was surprised how easily the transfer happened. Fortunately, the sea was calm. Within minutes he was sitting in a fighting chair on the research vessel. The men on his boat then steered it away from the area.
“How are you holding up?”
Manuel looked at the team leader.
“What’s your name young man?”
“Forgive my rudeness, it’s Luis.”
“The fish is almost ready so what will we do when he comes up?”
“Come around to the rear of the boat when you’re ready. We’ll have the sling prepared, ready on the swim platform.”
Manuel kept bringing in line until he had the fish almost at the surface. He maneuvered the fish alongside the swim platform and watched as the team worked skilfully to get the sling beneath the fish. Luis took up the slack on the straps connected to the sling’s anchor points.
“On my signal, place the reel in free spool and we’ll lift the fish with the derrick's winch.”
The men steadied the sling as it cleared the water.
“Ok, now.”
Manuel released the spool as Luis began hoisting the fish upward. Once he’d swung it onto the deck the men worked fast. One put a hose in the fish’s mouth and covered its head with a wet cloth while another kept a hose of flowing water on the fish’s skin.
“We cover the eyes and flow fresh water over the gills and the fish. Now we can work on the fish because it will remain docile as long as it can’t see what’s going on.”
Luis noticed Manuel was still holding the rod.
“Put down your rod Manuel, the fight is over.”
“So it is. I’m very tired.”
“You can rest very soon. First, come join me here at the head. I want you to hold the tape measure so we can get photos of you and your fish.”
Manuel watched the team at work. One man handed him the tape while another held the start in the V of the tail. Luis showed him where to hold his end.
“Three point zero five meters. Wow, indeed a unique catch. I don’t think anyone has landed a fish this size in the Mediterranean in many a year. Come, let’s get a few photos of you holding the tape.”
“Luis, may I ask a favour please?”
“By all means, what can we do?”
“I have a book on my boat, can your men please bring it over?”
Luis immediately hailed the men to bring Manuel’s boat closer. While they waited for Manuel’s boat to come alongside Luis instructed the men to tag the fish.
“We double tag the fish. The one is a pop-up satellite tag that will relay its data when it’s released. The other tag is a newer, long term device. We inject it under the skin between the two dorsal fins. We believe these tags have a better chance of remaining intact there.”
When Manuel’s boat came alongside he explained what they were after. One of the men retrieved the book and passed it across to Luis who handed it to Manuel.
“Will you now take the photo please?”
Luis took a few photos from different angles while Manuel held the end of the tape measure in one hand and the book in the other.
“That is good, now we better get the fish back into the water to minimise its stress.”
“Luis, why do you not put this fish in the large tank at the oceanarium? That way the people will see its beauty.”
“We would love to but it will most likely just be its death sentence. Big tuna don’t like aquariums, they usually die soon after being put into tanks. It’s worth much more out in the wild with the tracking tags giving us valuable data on its behaviour.”
The team lowered the fish back into the water. They allowed the fish to stay in the loosened sling, for support, until it recovered sufficiently to make its escape. Manuel watched with the team as the fish dived out of sight.
“Go free my friend, live long!”
“Manuel, you have done a great thing today. We hope to get years of information from your fish. What shall we name him? Manuel… or another name?”
“Tomás… someone I knew long ago.”
Luis noticed a hint of melancholy in Manuel’s tone but he knew it would be out of place to ask.
“We shall do that. Now, let’s get you back to Port de Campos. We’ll tow your boat, you rest.”
Manuel sat in the fighting chair, staring out at the ocean for a long while. One of the men brought him a mug of sweet coffee which he sat sipping, slowly. He found himself muttering beneath his breath.
“He was a dream. I didn’t see him but in my dreams. Better a dream that lives on than the dead skeleton lashed to a skiff. I am happy that you live fish. You are too beautiful to die by man’s hand.”
He slept well that night and woke the next morning to realise he’d become an overnight local hero. Maria brought him the newspapers. His photo was all over the front pages.
In a Madrid skyscraper's office another man sat looking at the article. The man couldn’t contain his bitter frustration any longer.
“It’s time to return home. It’s time to leave this empty life behind and go back to the islands.”
The man couldn’t quite make out what the fisherman held in his left hand. He turned to his laptop and opened the national daily’s webpage. Then, he enlarged the frontpage photo.
“He got his inspiration from a book.”
He enlarged the photo a little more.
“Ernest Hemingway… The Old Man and the Sea.”
Tomás sighed a deep, almost sorrowful sigh.
“Now, I’ll go and learn about inspiration from my father, if he’ll still have me.”