January 1: Eighty-Four Days, Hell of a Two Years, 2022

The beginning of Ernest Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea . . . 

He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish. In the first forty days a boy had been with him. But after forty days without a fish the boy's parents had told him that the old man was now definitely and finally salao, which is the worst form of unlucky, and the boy had gone at their orders in another boat which caught three good fish the first week. It made the boy sad to see the old man come in each day with his skiff empty and he always went down to help him carry either the coiled lines or the gaff and harpoon and the sail that was furled around the mast. The sail was patched with flour sacks and, furled, it looked like the flag of permanent defeat.

The old man was thin and gaunt with deep wrinkles in the back of his neck. The brown blotches of the benevolent skin cancer the sun brings from its reflection on the tropic sea were on his cheeks. The blotches ran well down the sides of his face and his hands had the deep-creased scars from handling heavy fish on the cords. But none of these scars were fresh. They were as old as erosions in a fishless desert.

Everything about him was old except his eyes and they were the same color as the sea and were cheerful and undefeated.

"Santiago," the boy said to him as they climbed the bank from where the skiff was hauled up. "I could go with you again. We've made some money."

The old man had taught the boy to fish and the boy loved him.

"No," the old man said. "You're with a lucky boat. Stay with them."

"But remember how you went eighty-seven days without fish and then we caught big ones every day for three weeks."

"I remember," the old man said. "I know you did not leave me because you doubted."

"It was papa made me leave. I am a boy and I must obey him."

"I know," the old man said. "It is quite normal."

"He hasn't much faith."

"No," the old man said. "But we have. Haven't we?"

"Yes," the boy said. "Can I offer you a beer on the Terrace and then we'll take the stuff home."

"Why not?" the old man said. "Between fishermen."

They sat on the Terrace and many of the fishermen made fun of the old man and he was not angry. Others, of the older fishermen, looked at him and were sad. But they did not show it and they spoke politely about the current and the depths they had drifted their lines at and the steady good weather and of what they had seen. The successful fishermen of that day were already in and had butchered their marlin out and carried them laid full length across two planks, with two men staggering at the end of each plank, to the fish house where they waited for the ice truck to carry them to the market in Havana. Those who had caught sharks had taken them to the shark factory on the other side of the cove where they were hoisted on a block and tackle, their livers removed, their fins cut off and their hides skinned out and their flesh cut into strips for salting.

When the wind was in the east a smell came across the harbour from the shark factory; but today there was only the faint edge of the odour because the wind had backed into the north and then dropped off and it was pleasant and sunny on the Terrace.

I truly sympathize with Santiago this first day of 2022.  Eighty-four days of bad luck.  No fish.  First, accompanied by the boy, and then alone on an empty sea.  What I admire is Santiago's attitude.  He keeps fishing, day after day, returning empty-handed night after night.  Yet, he doesn't succumb to self pity or depression.  Ever.

It has been a hell of a two years.  I start 2022 in COVID quarantine.  I'm pretty sure I'm COVID positive.  My wife tested positive on December 30th.  I woke up on December 31st with a runny nose and sore throat.  During the day, I progressively felt worse.  Today, I'm speaking with a Kathleen Turner rasp.  I just went for a short walk with my puppy, and I am absolutely wiped out.  I haven't been able to get tested to confirm my diagnosis.  That will happen in a couple days.

I could feel sorry for myself.  I don't.  Omicron is spreading faster than measles in an anti-vaxxer convention.  For two years, I've avoided getting sick.  Time caught up with me.  Perhaps I let down my guard.  Made a stupid mistake.  Became a little cocky.  I'm fully vaccinated.  I've had my booster.  That is why I'm not in the hospital, waiting for a ventilator.  

Here's the thing.  On January 1, 2020, I said to myself that it was going to be a better year than 2019.  It wasn't.  This year, I have no expectations.  I'm like Santiago, returning after a long day of fishing.  I'm going to tiptoe into this New Year.  Approach 2022 like it's a fawn in my backyard that I don't want to startle.  I'll just sprinkle some feed corn on the ground.  

An offering for 2022 to come in, eat, and maybe bed down for a while against the shelter of Saint Marty's house.