The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway

by Ernest Hemingway

  The stream was in nearly to soundings and as we came toward the edge you could see her running nearly purple with regular whirlpools. There was a light east breeze coming up and we put up plenty of flying fish, those big ones that look like the picture of Lindbergh crossing the Atlantic when they sail off.

  Those big flying fish are the best sign there is. As far as you could see, there was that faded yellow gulfweed in small patches that means the main stream is well in and there were birds ahead working over a school of little tuna. You could see them jumping; just little ones weighing a couple of pounds apiece.

  “Put out any time you want,” I told Johnson.

  He put on his belt and his harness and put out the big rod with the Hardy reel with six hundred yards of thirty-six thread. I looked back and his bait was trolling nice, just bouncing along on the swell and the two teasers were diving and jumping. We were going just about the right speed and I headed her into the stream.

  “Keep the rod butt in the socket on the chair,” I told him. “Then the rod won’t be as heavy. Keep the drag off so you can slack to him when he hits. If one ever hits with the drag on he’ll jerk you overboard.”

  Every day I’d have to tell him the same thing but I didn’t mind that. One out of fifty parties you get know how to fish. Then when they do know, half the time they’re goofy and want to use line that isn’t strong enough to hold anything big.

  “How does the day look?” he asked me.

  “It couldn’t be better,” I told him. It was a pretty day all right.

  I gave the nigger the wheel and told him to work along the edge of the stream to the eastward and went back to where Johnson was sitting watching his bait bouncing along.

  “Want me to put out another rod?” I asked him.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I want to hook, fight, and land my fish myself.”

  “Good,” I said. “Do you want Eddy to put it out and hand it to you if one strikes so you can hook him?”

  “No,” he said. “I prefer to have only one rod out.”

  “All right.”

  The nigger was still taking her out and I looked and saw he had seen a patch of flying fish burst out ahead and up the stream a little. Looking back, I could see Havana looking fine in the sun and a ship just coming out of the harbor past the Morro.

  “I think you’re going to have a chance to fight one today, Mr. Johnson,” I told him.

  “It’s about time,” he said. “How long have we been out?”

  “Three weeks today.”

  “That’s a long time to fish.”

  “They’re a funny fish,” I told him. “They aren’t here until they come. But when they come there’s plenty of them. And they’ve always come. If they don’t come now they’re never coming. The moon is right. There’s a good stream and we’re going to have a good breeze.”

  “There were some small ones when we first came.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Like I told you. The small ones thin out and stop before the big ones come.”

  “You party-boat captains always have the same line. Either it’s too early or too late or the wind isn’t right or the moon is wrong. But you take the money just the same.”

  “Well,” I told him, “the hell of it is that it usually is too early or too late and plenty of time the wind is wrong. Then when you get a day that’s perfect you’re ashore without a party.”

  “But you think today’s a good day?”

  “Well,” I told him, “I’ve had action enough for me already today. But I’d like to bet you’re going to have plenty.”

  “I hope so,” he said.

  We settled down to troll. Eddy went forward and lay down. I was standing up watching for a tail to show. Every once in a while the nigger would doze off and I was watching him, too. I bet he had some nights.

  “Would you mind getting me a bottle of beer, Captain?” Johnson asked me.

  “No, sir,” I said, and I dug down in the ice to get him a cold one.

  “Won’t you have one?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” I said. “I’ll wait till tonight.”

  I opened the bottle and was reaching it toward him when I saw this big brown bugger with a spear on him longer than your arm burst head and shoulders out of the water and smash at that mackerel. He looked as big around as a saw log.

  “Slack it to him!” I yelled.

  “He hasn’t got it,” Johnson said.

  “Hold it, then.”

  He’d come up from deep down and missed it. I knew he’d turn and come for it again.

  “Get ready to turn it loose to him the minute he grabs it.”

  Then I saw him coming from behind under water. You could see his fins out wide like purple wings and the purple stripes across the brown. He came on like a submarine and his top fin came out and you could see it slice the water. Then he came right behind the bait and his spear came out too, sort of wagging clean out of water.

  “Let it go into his mouth,” I said. Johnson took his hand off the reel spool and it started to whiz and the old marlin turned and went down and I could see the whole length of him shine bright silver as he turned broadside and headed off fast toward shore.

  “Put on a little drag,” I said. “Not much.”

  He screwed down on the drag.

  “Not too much,” I said. I could see the line slant up. “Shut her down hard and sock him,” I said. “You’ve got to sock him. He’s going to jump anyway.”

  Johnson screwed the drag down and came back on the rod.

  “Sock him,” I told him. “Stick it into him. Hit him half a dozen times.”

  He hit him pretty hard a couple of times more, and then the rod bent double and the reel commenced to screech and out he came, boom, in a long straight jump, shining silver in the sun and making a splash like throwing a horse off a cliff.

  “Ease up on the drag,” I told him.

  “He’s gone,” said Johnson.

  “The hell he is,” I told him. “Ease up on the drag quick.”

  I could see the curve in the line and the next time he jumped he was astern and headed out to sea. Then he came out again and smashed the water white and I could see he was hooked in the side of his mouth. The stripes showed clear on him. He was a fine fish, bright silver now, barred with purple and as big around as a log.

  “He’s gone,” Johnson said. The line was slack.

  “Reel on him,” I said. “He’s hooked good. Put her ahead with all the machine!” I yelled to the nigger.

  Then once, twice, he came out stiff as a post, the whole length of him jumping straight toward us, throwing the water high each time he landed. The line came taut and I saw he was headed inshore again and I could see he was turning.

  “Now he’ll make his run,” I said. “If he hooks up I’ll chase him. Keep your drag light. There’s plenty of line.”

  The old marlin headed out to the nor’west like all the big ones go, and brother, did he hook up. He started jumping in those long lopes and every splash would be like a speed boat in a sea. We went after him, keeping him on the quarter once I’d made the turn. I had the wheel and I kept yelling to Johnson to keep his drag light and reel fast. All of a sudden I see his rod jerk and the line go slack. It wouldn’t look slack unless you knew about it because of the pull of the belly of the line in the water. But I knew.

  “He’s gone,” I told him. The fish was still jumping and he went on jumping until he was out of sight. He was a fine fish all right.

  “I can still feel him pull,” Johnson said.

  “That’s the weight of the line.”

  “I can hardly reel it. Maybe he’s dead.”

  “Look at him,” I said. “He’s still jumping.” You could see him out a half a mile, still throwing spouts of water.

  I felt his drag. He had it screwed down tight. You couldn’t pull out any line. It had to break.

  “Didn’t I tell you to keep your drag light?”

  “But he kept taking out line
.”

  “So what?”

  “So I tightened it.”

  “Listen,” I told him. “If you don’t give them line when they hook up like that they break it. There isn’t any line will hold them. When they want it you’ve got to give it to them. You have to keep a light drag. The market fishermen can’t hold them tight when they do that even with a harpoon line. What we have to do is use the boat to chase them so they don’t take it all when they make their run. After they make their run they’ll sound and you can tighten up the drag and get it back.”

  “Then if it hadn’t broken I would have caught him?”

  “You’d have had a chance.”

  “He couldn’t have kept that up, could he?”

  “He can do plenty of other things. It isn’t until after he’s made his run that the fight starts.”

  “Well, let’s catch one,” he said.

  “You have to reel that line in first,” I told him.

  We’d hooked that fish and lost him without waking Eddy up. Now old Eddy came back astern.

  “What’s the matter?” he said.

  Eddy was a good man on a boat once, before he got to be a rummy, but he isn’t any good now. I looked at him standing there tall and hollowcheeked with his mouth loose and that white stuff in the corners of his eyes and his hair all faded in the sun. I knew he woke up dead for a drink.

  “You’d better drink a bottle of beer,” I told him. He took one out of the box and drank it.

  “Well, Mr. Johnson,” he said, “I guess I better finish my nap. Much obliged for the beer, sir.” Some Eddy. The fish didn’t make any difference to him.

  Well, we hooked another one around noon and he jumped off. You could see the hook go thirty feet in the air when he threw it.

  “What did I do wrong then?” Johnson asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “He just threw it.”

  “Mr. Johnson,” said Eddy, who’d waked up to have another bottle of beer— “Mr. Johnson, you’re just unlucky. Now maybe you’re lucky with women. Mr. Johnson, what do you say we go out tonight?” Then he went back and lay down again.

  About four o’clock when we’re coming back close in to shore against the stream, it going like a mill race, us with the sun at our backs, the biggest black marlin I ever saw in my life hit Johnson’s bait. We’d put out a feather squid and caught four of those little tuna and the nigger put one on his hook for bait. It trolled pretty heavy but it made a big splash in the wake.

  Johnson took the harness off the reel so he could put the rod across his knees because his arms got tired holding it in position all the time. Because his hands got tired holding the spool of the reel against the drag of the big bait, he screwed the drag down when I wasn’t looking. I never knew he had it down. I didn’t like to see him hold the rod that way but I hated to be crabbing at him all the time. Besides, with the drag off, line would go out so there wasn’t any danger. But it was a sloppy way to fish.

  I was at the wheel and was working the edge of the stream opposite that old cement factory where it makes deep so close in to shore and where it makes a son of eddy where there is always lots of bait. Then I saw a splash like a depth bomb and the sword and eye and open lower jaw and huge purple-black head of a black marlin. The whole top fin was up out of water looking as high as a full-rigged ship, and the whole scythe tall was out as he smashed at that tuna. The bill was as big around as a baseball bat and slanted up, and as he grabbed the bait he sliced the ocean wide open. He was solid purple-black and he had an eye as big as a soup bowl. He was huge. I bet he’d go a thousand pounds.

  I yelled to Johnson to let him have line but before I could say a word I saw Johnson rise up in the air off the chair as though he was being derricked, and him holding just for a second onto that rod and the rod bending like a bow, and then the butt caught him in the belly and the whole works went overboard.

  He’d screwed the drag tight, and when the fish struck, it lifted Johnson right out of the chair and he couldn’t hold it. He’d had the butt under one leg and the rod across his lap. If he’d had the harness on it would have taken him along, too.

  I cut out the engine and went back to the stern. He was sitting there holding onto his belly where the rod butt had hit him.

  “I guess that’s enough for today,” I said.

  “What was it?” he said to me.

  “Black marlin,” I said.

  “How did it happen?”

  “You figure it out,” I said. “The reel cost two hundred and fifty dollars. It costs more now. The rod cost me forty-five. There was a little under six hundred yards of thirty-six thread.”

  Just then Eddy slaps him on the back. “Mr. Johnson,” he says, “you’re just unlucky. You know I never saw that happen before in my life.”

  “Shut up, you rummy,” I said to him.

  “I tell you, Mr. Johnson,” Eddy said, “that’s the rarest occurrence I ever saw in my life.”

  “What would I do if I was hooked to a fish like that?” Johnson said.

  “That’s what you wanted to fight all by yourself,” I told him. I was plenty sore.

  “They’re too big,” Johnson said. “Why, it would just be punishment.”

  “Listen,” I said. “A fish like that would kill you.”

  “They catch them.”

  “People who know how to fish catch them. But don’t think they don’t take punishment.”

  “I saw a picture of a girl who caught one.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Still fishing. He swallowed the bait and they pulled his stomach out and he came to the top and died. I’m talking about trolling them when they’re hooked in the mouth.”

  “Well,” said Johnson, “they’re too big. If it isn’t enjoyable, why do it?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Johnson,” Eddy said. “If it isn’t enjoyable, why do it? Listen, Mr. Johnson. You hit the nail on the head there. If it isn’t enjoyable—why do it?”

  I was still shaky from seeing that fish and feeling plenty sick about the tackle and I couldn’t listen to them. I told the nigger to head her for the Morro. I didn’t say anything to them and there they sat, Eddy in one of the chairs with a bottle of beer and Johnson with another.

  “Captain,” he said to me after a while, “could you make me a highball?”

  I made him one without saying anything, and then I made myself a real one. I was thinking to myself that this Johnson had fished fifteen days, finally he hooks into a fish a fisherman would give a year to tie into, he loses him, he loses my heavy tackle, he makes a fool of himself and he sits there perfectly content drinking with a rummy.

  When we got in to the dock and the nigger was standing there waiting, I said, “What about tomorrow?”

  “I don’t think so,” Johnson said. “I’m about fed up with this kind of fishing.”

  “You want to pay off the nigger?”

  “How much do I owe him?”

  “A dollar. You can give him a tip if you want.”

  So Johnson gave the nigger a dollar and two Cuban twenty-cent pieces.

  “What’s this for?” the nigger asks me, showing the coins.

  “A tip,” I told him in Spanish. “You’re through. He gives you that.”

  “Don’t come tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  The nigger gets his ball of twine he used for tying baits and his dark glasses, puts on his straw hat and goes without saying good-bye. He was a nigger that never thought much of any of us.

  “When do you want to settle up, Mr. Johnson?” I asked him.

  “I’ll go to the bank in the morning,” Johnson said. “We can settle up in the afternoon.”

  “Do you know how many days there are?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “No. There’s sixteen with today and a day each way makes eighteen. Then there’s the rod and reel and the line from today.”

  “The tackle’s your risk.”

  “No, sir. Not when you lose it that way.”

  “I’ve
paid every day for the rent of it. It’s your risk.”

  “No, sir,” I said. “If a fish broke it and it wasn’t your fault, that would be something else. You lost that whole outfit by carelessness.”

  “The fish pulled it out of my hands.”

  “Because you had the drag on and didn’t have the rod in the socket.”

  “You have no business to charge for that.”

  “If you hired a car and ran it off a cliff, don’t you think you’d have to pay for it?”

  “Not if I was in it,” Johnson said.

  “That’s pretty good, Mr. Johnson,” Eddy said. “You see it, don’t you, Cap? If he was in it he’d be killed. So he wouldn’t have to pay. That’s a good one.”

  I didn’t pay any attention to the rummy. “You owe two hundred and ninety five dollars for that rod and reel and line,” I told Johnson.

  “Well, it’s not right,” he said. “But if that’s the way you feel about it why not split the difference?”

  “I can’t replace it for under three hundred and sixty. I’m not charging you for the line. A fish like that could get all your line and it not be your fault. If there was anyone here but a rummy they’d tell you how square I’m being with you. I know it seems like a lot of money but it was a lot of money when I bought the tackle, too. You can’t fish like that without the best tackle you can buy.”

  “Mr. Johnson, he says I’m a rummy. Maybe I am. But I tell you he’s right. He’s right and he’s reasonable,” Eddy told him.

  “I don’t want to make any difficulties,” Johnson said finally. “I’ll pay for it, even though I don’t see it. That’s eighteen days at thirty-five dollars and two ninety-five extra.”

  “You gave me a hundred,” I told him. “I’ll give you a list of what I spent and I’ll deduct what grub there is left. What you bought for provisions going over and back.”

  “That’s reasonable,” Johnson said.

  “Listen, Mr. Johnson,” Eddy said. “If you knew the way they usually charge a stranger you’d know it was more than reasonable. Do you know what it is? It’s exceptional. The cap is treating you like you were his own mother.”

  “I’ll go to the bank tomorrow and come down in the afternoon. Then I’ll get the boat day after tomorrow.”