Under the stars and with the night colder all the time he ate half of one of the dolphin fillets and one of the flying fish, gutted and with its head cut off.
"What an excellent fish dolphin is to eat cooked," he said. "And what a miserable fish raw. I will never go in a boat again without salt or limes."
If I had brains I would have splashed water on the bow all day and drying, it would have made salt, he thought. But then I did not hook the dolphin until almost sunset. Still it was a lack of preparation. But I have chewed it all well and I am not nauseated.
Salt or limes. Cooked or raw dolphin. Santiago chastises himself for not being more prepared for his current situation. Of course, he had no idea that he was going to hook the big fish. Nor did he know that he would be out in his boat on the sea for days.
That's the way life works, though. Every day is a matter of expectations. Waking up in the morning, I always go through a mental inventory of the day's activities. Then, I plan my wardrobe, meals, and time accordingly. Usually, my plan works perfectly.
But there are days when curve balls are lobbed at me, and I do what Santiago does in this passage--I make do with what I have. No other choice. And I try not to take it personally. There's always the impulse to get angry with God or the universe. It doesn't help anything. Instead, it sort of drives the anger into your skin like a tattoo.
Today, not everything went according to the grand design I created in my head when I woke up. However, nothing catastrophic occurred, either. I count that as a win. In a little while, after I have imbibed in two very strong gin and tonics, I will sit down to record an episode of my podcast Lit for Christmas. I'm not sure how it's going to go. My cohost for the episode is brand new, although she's smart as a whip and funny as hell.
No curve balls tonight. Drunk Saint Marty can't handle it.
And another Lenten poem . . .
In Praise of Silence
by: Martin Achatz
Praise the Lord for the silence of dusk
As it shifts the air from winter sun
To winter moon, the melt of snow
To something hard as onyx or bone.
Praise the ring of eardrum in quiet,
How it vibrates, hums with the memory
Of the day, news of tsunami in Japan,
The lives of thousands swept away
Like crumbs from Friday dinner
Of lentils, crackers, apple juice,
The tablecloth taken outside, shaken,
The way my grandmother taught me,
For lost souls who roam the night,
Tap on black window glass, hungry
For light, warmth, or prayer.
Praise the tide of heart in my chest,
Calm waves of blood, in, out, in, out,
Reminding me this night that I am safe. Alive.
That my tongue doesn’t taste ocean mud.
