I wish I could feed the fish, he thought. He is my brother. But I must kill him and keep strong to do it. Slowly and conscientiously he ate all of the wedge-shaped strips of fish.
He straightened up, wiping his hand on his trousers.
"Now," he said. "You can let the cord go, hand, and I will handle him with the right arm alone until you stop that nonsense." He put his left foot on the heavy line that the left hand had held and lay back against the pull against his back.
"God help me to have the cramp go," he said. "Because I do not know what the fish is going to do."
Santiago has a hand that's cramping and an unpredictable fish on his line. He has no idea what the day has in store for him. Or if he's going to be able to outlast his brother of the sea.
My son is 13 years old. Loves writing and poetry. Has dreams of Pulitzer Prizes and the Nobel Prize. He also wants to be a primatologist. I don't think these goals are mutually exclusive. He could be the first Nobel Prize-winning primatologist poet. The Jane Goodall of verse.
This evening, I introduced my son to the sweet sadness of Dead Poets Society. Like Santiago in his boat, my son had no idea what he was in for. The last time I tried to watch DPS with him, he showed little interest. Tonight, he was totally invested. Didn't miss a second. And, by the time Neil had committed suicide and Ethan Hawke was standing on top of his desk at the end, my son was a sobbing mess. (This after I watched Il Postino with him last week and reduced him to a puddle of tears. Perhaps we need to have a Will Ferrell movie marathon soon.)
My son watched DPS all the way to the end of the credits, and, as the bagpipe music faded, he got up, went into his room, and said he needed to be alone. I gave him his space and then, after a few minutes, checked on him to make sure he was alright.
He had recovered enough to speak to me.
"Are you ever going to watch another movie with me?" I said.
"We'll see," he said.
If you are one of my constant readers, you know the struggles my son has had in the past year or so. Last February, I didn't even want to leave him alone. Ever. I would never have shown him DPS twelve months ago. Now, he's focused and happy. Doing well in school. And he's thrown himself into writing. And poetry.
I know that my son is young, and tomorrow he could wake up and decide that he's going to be a chef. Or a Chippendale dancer. Next weekend, an auto mechanic. (If he becomes a Trump supporter, I may have to put him in foster care.) Like Santiago, I have no idea where the fish is going to pull my boat.
But, right now, Saint Marty enjoying his sensitive, poetry-loving son who isn't afraid to cry at the end of sad movies.
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