"Agua mala," the man said. "You whore."
From where he swung lightly against his oars he looked down into the water and saw the tiny fish that were coloured like the trailing filaments and swam between them and under the small shade the bubble made as it drifted. They were immune to its poison. But men were not and when some of the filaments would catch on a line and rest there slimy and purple while the old man was working a fish, he would have welts and sores on his arms and hands of the sort that poison ivy or poison oak can give. But these poisonings from the agua mala came quickly and struck like a whiplash.
The iridescent bubbles were beautiful. But they were the falsest thing in the sea and the old man loved to see the big sea turtles eating them. The turtles saw them, approached them from the front, then shut their eyes so they were completely carapaced and ate them filaments and all. The old man loved to see the turtles eat them and he loved to walk on them on the beach after a storm and hear them pop when he stepped on them with the horny soles of his feet.
He loved green turtles and hawks-bills with their elegance and speed and their great value and he had a friendly contempt for the huge, stupid loggerheads, yellow in their armour-plating, strange in their love-making, and happily eating the Portuguese men-of-war with their eyes shut.
Santiago reminds me of my dad in a lot of ways. My father didn't go fishing a whole lot. However, he used to take me on plumbing service calls with him when I was in high school. I think it was his way of trying to insure that I had some way to support myself. (I became a poet, so that plan didn't work out all that well.) When Santiago says, "Agua mala . . . You whore" in the above passage, it reminds me of listening to my dad when he was trying to solder a leaking pipe or cable a plugged toilet. More than once, I would hear him mutter under his breath, "come on, cocksucker"," or something equally as colorful.
Today was Father's Day in the United States. I spent all day writing scripts, rehearsing, and performing in a radio variety show. Didn't get to see my wife or kids all that much. My daughter and her significant other did drive up to Calumet, Michigan, to see the show. And my son wrote me a poem.
I am far from a perfect father. But I think that's what fatherhood is all about. Trying to do your best. Sometimes you succeed. (I went for a stroll with my 13-year-old son this morning, and he walked next to me, holding my hand.) Sometimes you fail. (Most of my married life, I have lived paycheck-to-paycheck. My kids have heard me say "we can't afford to do that" on more than one occasion.) Lhave been known to lose my temper. Sometimes, I mutter fatherly things under my breath, like, "You have got to be fucking kidding me." But, every once in a while, God gives me the exact right words at the exact right moment that my kids need to hear them, usually some permutation of "I love you."
At the end of this Father's Day, I salute all the fathers reading this post, and I want to remind you that you don't have to be perfect. You just need to be present. That's what is most important.
Here's a poem that Saint Marty wrote a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . .
by: Martin Achatz
When I first heard my daughter's heart
Ten years ago in the doctor's office,
I had no clue how to care for a girl,
Those unwritten rules new fathers
Must learn over time. Make your girl
Sit frog-legged in the bathtub
To allow warm water to flow
Into areas of her body where skin
Turns raw, pink or red as grapefruit,
In the privacy of diaper or panty.
When she turns three or four,
Teach her to wipe front-to-back,
Not back-to-front, to avoid kidney,
Bladder infections. Comb her hair
As soon as she's done bathing.
Slide the teeth through and through,
To remove all tangles, then braid.
Start simple, one ponytail at the back
Of her head. Work to French braids,
Beautiful as sweet, curled loaves
In bakeries at Christmas. Never
Utter the name of the boy she likes
When she's five or seven or ten.
Just watch them play together.
Notice how he always insists
She climb the steps of the slide
Before him, his neck craned upward,
Cheeks flushed, as she goes higher and higher.
Invite said boy to her tenth birthday
Party, watch him squirm when you sit
Beside him and say, "What are your
Plans for the future, son?"
Even though you don't believe
In guns, buy one to hold
In your lap when she goes
On her first date. When he arrives,
Stare at him, the way a lion stares
At a wounded water buffalo.
All these rules I've learned
Since that day the doctor waved
Her wand over my wife, pulled
From the top hat of my wife's belly
That sound: crickets singing
On a summer night, Love me, love me, love me.
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