May 4: Coast Guard, Being Forgotten, Italian Restaurant

Santiago wonders if he was missed . . . 

"Did they search for me?"

"Of course. With coast guard and with planes."

"The ocean is very big and a skiff is small and hard to see," the old man said. He noticed how pleasant it was to have someone to talk to instead of speaking only to himself and to the sea. "I missed you," he said. "What did you catch?"

"One the first day. One the second and two the third."

"Very good."

I think we all think about being forgotten, like Santiago does here.  I know I do.  I wonder what kind of hole in the universe my absence would create.  If anyone would send out the coast guard and search planes.

Didn't do much today.  Took my son to a therapy appointment.  Then we went to an Italian restaurant for dinner.  I would never want to be a middle schooler again.  Too much drama and hormones.

Saint Marty's koan for the day:  if you're adrift on the sea, make sure someone will miss you.

May 3: Make Our Plans, Submitted Final Grades, Registrar's Office

Santiago thinks he's been beaten . . . 

The boy carried the hot can of coffee up to the old man's shack and sat by him until he woke. Once it looked as though he were waking. But he had gone back into heavy sleep and the boy had gone across the road to borrow some wood to heat the coffee.

Finally the old man woke.

"Don't sit up," the boy said. "Drink this." He poured some of the coffee in a glass.

The old man took it and drank it.

"They beat me, Manolin," he said. "They truly beat me."

"He didn't beat you. Not the fish."

"No. Truly. It was afterwards."

"Pedrico is looking after the skiff and the gear. What do you want done with the head?"

"Let Pedrico chop it up to use in fish traps."

"And the spear?"

"You keep it if you want it."

"I want it," the boy said. "Now we must make our plans about the other things."

I finished and submitted my final grades at 12:17 p.m. this afternoon.  That's 17 minutes past the time they were due.  An hour later, I received an email from the Registrar's Office saying that I hadn't submitted my grades.  That's the way a large bureaucratic organization works.  It's all about finding mistakes and placing blame.  I quickly responded, telling them to recheck their information.

Hosted an astronomy program for the library this evening.  Only event this week.

And now, I have a week of empty schedules.  No programs to host.  No classes to teach.  The beginning of summer.

Sant Marty's koan for today:  sharks try to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

May 2: What a Fish, End of Semester, Ivory Tower

Santiago sleeps and becomes a hero . . . 

He was asleep when the boy looked in the door in the morning. It was blowing so hard that the drifting-boats would not be going out and the boy had slept late and then come to the old man's shack as he had come each morning. The boy saw that the old man was breathing and then he saw the old man's hands and he started to cry. He went out very quietly to go to bring some coffee and all the way down the road he was crying.

Many fishermen were around the skiff looking at what was lashed beside it and one was in the water, his trousers rolled up, measuring the skeleton with a length of line.

The boy did not go down. He had been there before and one of the fishermen was looking after the skiff for him.

"How is he?" one of the fishermen shouted.

"Sleeping," the boy called. He did not care that they saw him crying. "Let no one disturb him."

"He was eighteen feet from nose to tail," the fisherman who was measuring him called.

"I believe it," the boy said.

He went into the Terrace and asked for a can of coffee.

"Hot and with plenty of milk and sugar in it."

"Anything more?"

"No. Afterwards I will see what he can eat."

"What a fish it was," the proprietor said. "There has never been such a fish. Those were two fine fish you took yesterday too."

"Damn my fish," the boy said and he started to cry again.

"Do you want a drink of any kind?" the proprietor asked.

"No," the boy said. "Tell them not to bother Santiago. I'll be back."

"Tell him how sorry I am."

"Thanks," the boy said.

The end of semester grading is in sight.  I have one more set of exams and papers to finish.  I don't think students realize the amount of work that goes into these last days of the semester.  While they're out celebrating, professors are chained to their laptops.  Full-time professors work hard.  Contingent professors (who often have second and third jobs to pay the bills) work even harder.  That may not be a popular opinion in academia, but it's true.  There's an ivory tower, and adjuncts and contingents are in the dungeon.

Saint Marty's koan for tonight:  sometimes, it is the size of the fish that matters.

May 1: Slept Face Down, End-of-Semester Craziness, T-I-R-E-D

Santiago makes it home . . . 

Finally he put the mast down and stood up. He picked the mast up and put it on his shoulder and started up the road. He had to sit down five times before he reached his shack.

Inside the shack he leaned the mast against the wall. In the dark he found a water bottle and took a drink. Then he lay down on the bed. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders and then over his back and legs and he slept face down on the newspapers with his arms out straight and the palms of his hands up.

I understand this kind of exhaustion.  I'm in the battle of end-of-semester craziness.  Today, I graded 70 original myths and two sets of exams.  Tomorrow, I have 70 original fairy tales to grade, plus more exams.  My eyes are t-i-r-e-d.

Saint Marty's koan for tonight:  sleep is more precious than fish.