The bird looked at him when he spoke. He was too tired even to examine the line and he teetered on it as his delicate feet gripped it fast.
"It's steady," the old man told him. "It's too steady. You shouldn't be that tired after a windless night. What are birds coming to?"
The hawks, he thought, that come out to sea to meet them. But he said nothing of this to the bird who could not understand him anyway and who would learn about the hawks soon enough.
"Take a good rest, small bird," he said. "Then go in and take your chance like any man or bird or fish."
It encouraged him to talk because his back had stiffened in the night and it hurt truly now.
Tonight, I got really drunk. You see, I do a podcast, and the main gimmick is that the hosts drink heavily and talk about Christmas books and poetry and stories. Tonight, the spirit of choice was sherry. The particular brand of sherry I chose contained 20% alcohol. After three-plus glasses, I kept calling my cohost by the wrong name and repeating the phrase "I am so drunk."
I only do this once a month, and, usually, I get just a little bit inebriated. Tonight, I got so hammered that I ended up with my head in the toilet bowl. Twice. I just finished recording, and I'm surprised I can even string three coherent words together for this post. All I really want to do is lie on the couch until the room stops spinning.
I sort of feel like that little bird, trying to catch its breath on Santiago's boat. Too tired and/or drunk to even stumble to my bedroom. So, I'll stay put, like the bird.
Saint Marty's blessing today: a friend who drinks and talks somewhat incoherently about literature with him.
Addendum: I held off for a day before publishing this post. I wanted to make sure I had a chance to proofread it when I was sober.
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