He is hitting the wire leader with his spear, he thought. That was bound to come. He had to do that. It may make him jump though and I would rather he stayed circling now. The jumps were necessary for him to take air. But after that each one can widen the opening of the hook wound and he can throw the hook.
"Don't jump, fish," he said. "Don't jump."
The fish hit the wire several times more and each time he shook his head the old man gave up a little line.
I must hold his pain where it is, he thought. Mine does not matter. I can control mine. But his pain could drive him mad.
After a while the fish stopped beating at the wire and started circling slowly again. The old man was gaining line steadily now. But he felt faint again. He lifted some sea water with his left hand and put it on his head. Then he put more on and rubbed the back of his neck.
Because of his experience, Santiago knows exactly what the fish is doing. The old man is thinking five or six steps ahead of fish, anticipating each flip of its tail and head. Of course, that doesn't mean that the fish won't surprise Santiago. Even seasoned meteorologists can't predict tornadoes and blizzards with 100 percent accuracy. One of my favorite forecasts from this past winter had a local weatherman saying that between one to twelve inches of snow would fall. He was right.
There's some bad weather coming this week. It could be anywhere from two to 15 inches of snow with 1/4 inch of ice to six inches of snow with a 1/3 inch of ice. So, basically, the weather is a fish that may or may not jump, which is typical for the U. P. of Michigan this time of year.
Of course, being a person who likes to plan things out, I don't really like to live in a space of negative capability. I prefer certainty or near certainty. It makes my life much easier. Yet, the universe doesn't work that way. (Cue Jeff Goldblum talking about chaos theory in Jurassic Park.)
So Saint Marty is waiting for 1/4 inch of rain, 15 inches of snow, and velociraptors to attack some time in the next three days.
And a Lenten Poem . . .
by: Martin Achatz
When I visited her in the hospital, she sat in the lounge with me, brooded, stared out the fifth floor windows, her face empty, hollow as a church bell. I made small talk: "What did you have for dinner?" and "How'd you sleep last night?" and "How'd group therapy go?" Her answers, one or two syllables. A shrug. A nod. I knew my presence irritated her, reminded her of the flannel sheets on our bed, turkey loaf, our daughter's shitty diapers. When I left, walked out the doors, heard them close, lock, I knew she hated me even more, wanted to scratch, claw my skin, make me ache the way she did. She would go back to her room, her bed. Lie down. Stare out her window. Try to draw a map of her mind. Get lost. You are here. Marked with a fat star. Magnetic Street. 1.75 miles from Superior’s shores. Turn left. Maybe right? Me, I drove home, through dusk, listened to the classical station. Bach. Mahler. Mozart. Didn’t pay attention to streets, traffic lights, other cars. I thought about her on our wedding night. Warm against my nakedness. Each curve, path of her body as familiar to me as my breath. I wondered what wrong turn we had taken. When I got home, our house was dark, silent under the starless sky. Foreign. Berlin. Gdansk. Sarajevo. Nagasaki. Baghdad.
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