Islands in the Stream

by Ernest Hemingway

  “Fish!” Thomas Hudson heard young Tom shout. “Fish! Fish! There he comes up. Behind you, Dave. Watch him!”

  Thomas Hudson saw a huge boil in the water but could not see the fish. David had the rod butt in the gimble and was looking up at the clothespin on the outrigger line. Thomas Hudson saw the line fall from the outrigger in a long, slow loop that tightened as it hit the water and now was racing out at a slant, slicing the water as it went.

  “Hit him, Dave. Hit him hard,” Eddy called from the companionway.

  “Hit him, Dave. For God’s sake hit him,” Andrew begged.

  “Shut up,” David said. “I’m handling him.” He hadn’t struck yet and the line was steadily going out at that angle, the rod bowed, the boy holding back on it as the line moved out. Thomas Hudson had throttled the motors down so they were barely turning over.

  “Oh for God’s sake, hit him,” Andrew pleaded. “Or let me hit him.”

  David just held back on the rod and watched the line moving out at the same steady angle. He had loosened the drag.

  “He’s a broadbill, papa,” he said without looking up. “I saw his sword when he took it.”

  “Honest to God?” Andrew asked. “Oh boy.”

  “I think you ought to hit him now,” Roger was standing with the boy now. He had the back out of the chair and he was buckling the harness on the reel. “Hit him now, Dave, and really hit him.”

  “Do you think he’s had it long enough?” David asked. “You don’t think he’s just carrying it in his mouth and swimming with it?”

  “I think you better hit him before he spits it out.”

  David braced his feet, tightened the drag well down with his right hand, and struck back hard against the great weight. He struck again and again bending the rod like a bow. The line moved out steadily. He had made no impression on the fish.

  “Hit him again, Dave,” Roger said. “Really put it into him.”

  David struck again with all his strength and the line started zizzing out, the rod bent so that he could hardly hold it.

  “Oh God,” he said devoutly. “I think I’ve got it into him.”

  “Ease up on your drag,” Roger told him. “Turn with him, Tom, and watch the line.”

  “Turn with him and watch the line,” Thomas Hudson repeated. “You all right, Dave?”

  “I’m wonderful, papa,” Dave said. “Oh God, if I can catch this fish.”

  Thomas Hudson swung the boat around almost on her stern. Dave’s line was fading off the reel and Thomas Hudson moved up on the fish.

  “Tighten up and get that line in now,” Roger said. “Work on him, Dave.”

  David was lifting and reeling as he lowered, lifting and reeling as he lowered, as regularly as a machine, and was getting back a good quantity of line onto his reel.

  “Nobody in our family’s ever caught a broadbill,” Andrew said.

  “Oh keep your mouth off him, please,” David said. “Don’t put your mouth on him.”

  “I won’t,” Andrew said. “I’ve been doing nothing but pray ever since you hooked him.”

  “Do you think his mouth will hold?” young Tom whispered to his father, who was holding the wheel and looking down into the stern and watching the slant of the white line in the dark water.

  “I hope so. Dave isn’t strong enough to be rough with him.”

  “I’ll do anything if we can get him,” young Tom said. “Anything. I’ll give up anything. I’ll promise anything. Get him some water, Andy.”

  “I’ve got some,” Eddy said. “Stay with him, old Dave boy.”

  “I don’t want him any closer,” Roger called up. He was a great fisherman and he and Thomas Hudson understood each other perfectly in a boat.

  “I’ll put him astern,” Thomas Hudson called and swung the boat around very softly and easily so the stern hardly disturbed the calm sea.

  The fish was sounding now and Thomas Hudson backed the boat very slowly to ease the pressure on the line all that he could. But with only a touch of reverse with the stern moving slowly toward the fish the angle was all gone from the line and the rod tip was pointing straight down and the line kept going out in a series of steady jerks, the rod bucking each time in David’s hands. Thomas Hudson slipped the boat ahead just a thought so that the boy would not have the line so straight up and down in the water. He knew how it was pulling on his back in that position, but he had to save all the line he could.

  “I can’t put any more drag on or it will break,” David said. “What will he do, Mr. Davis?”

  “He’ll just keep on going down until you stop him,” Roger said. “Or until he stops. Then you’ve got to try to get him up.”

  The line kept going out and down, out and down, out and down. The rod was bent so far it looked as though it must break and the line was taut as a tuned cello string and there was not much more of it on the reel.

  “What can I do, papa?”

  “Nothing. You’re doing what there is to do.”

  “Won’t he hit the bottom?” Andrew asked.

  “There isn’t any bottom,” Roger told him.

  “You hold him, Davy,” Eddy said. “He’ll get sick of it and come up.”

  “These damned straps are killing me,” David said. “They cut my shoulders off.”

  “Do you want me to take him?” Andrew asked. “No, you fool,” David said. “I just said what they were doing to me. I don’t care about it.”

  “See if you can rig him the kidney harness,” Thomas Hudson called down to Eddy. “You can tie it on with line if the straps are too long.”

  Eddy wrapped the broad, quilted pad across the small of the boy’s back and fastened the rings on the web straps that ran across it to the reel with heavy line.

  “That’s much better,” David said. “Thank you very much, Eddy.”

  “Now you can hold him with your back as well as your shoulders,” Eddy told him.

  “But there isn’t going to be any line.” David said. “Oh Goddam him, why does he have to keep on sounding?”

  “Tom,” Eddy called up. “Ease her a little northwest. I think he’s moving.”

  Thomas Hudson turned the wheel and moved her softly, slowly, softly out to sea. There was a big patch of yellow gulf weed ahead with a bird on it and the water was calm and so blue and clear that, as you looked down into it, there were lights in it like the reflections from a prism.

  “You see?” Eddy told David. “You’re not losing any now.”

  The boy could not raise the rod; but the line was no longer jerking down into the water. It was as taut as ever and there weren’t fifty yards left on the reel. But it was not going out. David was holding him and the boat was on his course. Thomas Hudson could see the just perceptible slant of the white line deep down in the blue water as the boat barely moved, its engines turning so quietly he could not hear them.

  “You see, Davy, he went down to where he liked it and now he’s moving out to where he wants to go. Pretty soon you’ll get some line on him.”

  The boy’s brown back was arched, the rod bent, the line moved slowly through the water, and the boat moved slowly on the surface, and a quarter of a mile below the great fish was swimming. The gull left the patch of weed and flew toward the boat. He flew around Thomas Hudson’s head while he steered, then headed off toward another patch of yellow weed on the water.

  “Try to get some on him now,” Roger told the boy. “If you can hold him you can get some.”

  “Put her ahead just a touch more,” Eddy called to the bridge and Thomas Hudson eased her ahead as softly as he could.

  David lifted and lifted, but the rod only bent and the line only tightened. It was as though he were hooked to a moving anchor.

  “Never mind,” Roger told him. “You’ll get it later. How are you, Davy?”

  “I’m fine,” David said. “With that harness across my back I’m fine.”

  “Do you think you can stay with him?” Andrew asked.

  “Oh shut
up,” David said. “Eddy, can I have a drink of water?”

  “Where’d I put it?” Eddy asked. “I guess I spilled it.”

  “I’ll get one,” Andrew went below.

  “Can I do anything, Dave?” young Tom asked. “I’m going up so I won’t be in the way.”

  “No, Tom. Goddam it, why can’t I lift on him?”

  “He’s an awfully big fish, Dave,” Roger told him. “You can’t bull him around. You’ve got to lead him and try to convince him where he has to come.”

  “You tell me what to do and I’ll do it until I die,” David said. “I trust you.”

  “Don’t talk about dying,” Roger said. “That’s no way to talk.”

  “I mean it,” David said. “I mean it really.”

  Young Tom came back up on the flying bridge with his father. They were looking down at David, bent and harnessed to his fish, with Roger standing by him and Eddy holding the chair. Andrew was putting the glass of water to Dave’s mouth. He took some in and spat it out.

  “Pour some on my wrists, will you, Andy?” he asked.

  “Papa, do you think he can really stay with this fish?” Tom said to his father very softly.

  “It’s an awful lot of fish for him.”

  “It scares me,” Tom said. “I love David and I don’t want any damned fish to kill him.”

  “Neither do I and neither does Roger and neither does Eddy.”

  “Well we’ve got to look after him. If he gets in really bad shape, Mr. Davis ought to take the fish or you take him.”

  “He’s a long way from bad shape yet.”

  “But you don’t know him like we do. He would kill himself to get the fish.”

  “Don’t worry, Tom.”

  “I can’t help it,” young Tom said. “I’m the one in the family that always worries. I hope I’ll get over it.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about this now,” Thomas Hudson said.

  “But papa, how is a boy like David going to catch a fish like that? He’s never caught anything bigger than sailfish and amberjack.”

  “This fish will get tired. It’s the fish that has the hook in his mouth.”

  “But he’s monstrous,” Tom said. “And Dave’s fastened to him just as much as he is to Dave. It’s so wonderful I can’t believe it if Dave catches him, but I wish you or Mr. Davis had him.

  “Dave’s doing all right.”

  They were getting further out to sea all the time but it was still a flat calm. There were many patches of Gulf weed now, sunburned so that they were yellow on the purple water, and sometimes the slow-moving taut white line ran through a patch of weed and Eddy reached down and cleared any weed that clung to the line. As he leaned over the coaming and pulled the yellow weed off the line and tossed it away, Thomas Hudson saw his wrinkled red brown neck and old felt hat and heard him say to Dave, “He’s practically towing the boat, Davy. He’s way down there tiring himself and tiring himself all the time.”

  “He’s tiring me, too,” David said.

  “You got a headache?” Eddy asked.

  “No.”

  “Get a cap for him,” Roger said.

  “I don’t want it, Mr. Davis. I’d rather have some water on my head.”

  Eddy dipped a bucket of sea water and wet the boy’s head carefully with his cupped hand, soaking his head and pushing the hair back out of his eyes.

  “You say if you get a headache,” he told him.

  “I’m fine,” David said. “You tell me what to do, Mr. Davis.”

  “See if you can get any line on him,” Roger said.

  David tried and tried and tried again but he could not raise the fish an inch.

  “All right. Save your strength,” Roger told him. Then to Eddy, “Soak a cap and put it on him. This is a hell of a hot day with the calm.”

  Eddy dipped a long-visored cap in the bucket of salt water and put it on Dave’s head.

  “The salt water gets in my eyes, Mr. Davis. Really. I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll wipe it out with some fresh,” Eddy said. “Give me a handkerchief, Roger. You go get some ice water, Andy.”

  While the boy hung there, his legs braced, his body arched against the strain, the boat kept moving slowly out to sea. To the westward a school of either bonito or alba-core were troubling the calm of the surface and terns commenced to come flying, calling to each other as they flew. But the school of fish went down and the terns lit on the calm water to wait for the fish to come up again. Eddy had wiped the boy’s face and now was dipping the handkerchief in the glass of ice water and laying it across David’s neck. Then he cooled his wrists with it and then, with the handkerchief soaked in ice water again, wrung it out while he pressed it against the back of David’s neck.

  “You say if you have a headache,” Eddy told him. “That ain’t quitting. That’s just sense. This is a hell of a goddam hot sun when it’s a calm.”

  “I’m all right,” David told him. “I hurt bad in the shoulders and the arms is all.”

  “That’s natural,” Eddy said. “That’ll make a man out of you. What we don’t want is for you to get no sunstroke nor bust any gut.”

  “What will he do now, Mr. Davis?” David asked. His voice sounded dry.

  “Maybe just what he’s doing. Or he might start to circle. Or he may come up.”

  “It’s a damn shame he sounded so deep at the start so we haven’t any line to maneuver him with,” Thomas Hudson said to Roger.

  “Dave stopped him is the main thing,” Roger said. “Pretty soon the fish will change his mind. Then we’ll work on him. See if you can get any just once, Dave.”

  David tried but he could not raise him at all.

  “He’ll come up,” Eddy said. “You’ll see. All of a sudden there won’t be anything to it, Davy. Want to rinse your mouth out?”

  David nodded his head. He had reached the breath-saving stage.

  “Spit it out,” Eddy said. “Swallow just a little.” He turned to Roger. “One hour even,” he said. “Is your head all right, Davy?”

  The boy nodded.

  “What do you think, papa?” young Tom said to his father. “Truly?”

  “He looks pretty good to me,” his father said. “Eddy wouldn’t let anything happen to him.”

  “No, I guess not,” Tom agreed. “I wish I could do something useful. I’m going to get Eddy a drink.”

  “Get me one, too, please.”

  “Oh good. I’ll make one for Mr. Davis, too.”

  “I don’t think he wants one.”

  “Well I’ll ask him.”

  “Try him once more, Davy,” Roger said very quietly, and the boy lifted with all his strength, holding the sides of the spool of the reel with his hands.

  “You got an inch,” Roger said. “Take it in and see if you can get some more.”

  Now the real fight began. Before David had only been holding him while the fish moved out to sea and the boat moved with him. But now he had to lift, let the rod straighten with the line he had gained, and then lower the rod slowly while he took the line in by reeling.

  “Don’t try to do it too fast,” Roger told him. “Don’t rush yourself. Just keep it steady.”

  The boy was bending forward and pulling up from the soles of his feet, using all the leverage of his body and all of what weight he had on each lift; then reeling fast with his right hand as he lowered.

  “David fishes awfully pretty,” young Tom said. “He’s fished since he was a little boy but I didn’t know he could fish this well. He always makes fun of himself because he can’t play games. But look at him now.”

  “The hell with games,” Thomas Hudson said. “What did you say, Roger?”

  “Go ahead on him just a touch,” Roger called up.

  “Ahead on him just a touch,” Thomas Hudson repeated and on the next lift, as they nudged slowly forward, David recovered more line.

  “Don’t you like games either, papa?” Tom asked.

  “I used to. Very much. But not a
nymore.”

  “I like tennis and fencing,” Tom said. “The throw-and-catch ball games are the ones I don’t like. That’s from being brought up in Europe I guess. I’ll bet David could be a fine fencer if he wanted to learn because he has so much brains. But he doesn’t want to learn. All he wants to do is read and fish and shoot and tie flies. He shoots better than Andy does in the field. He can tie beautiful flies too. Am I bothering you, papa, talking so much?”

  “Of course not, Tom.”

  He was holding to the rail of the flying bridge and looking aft as his father was and his father put one hand on his shoulder. It was salty from the buckets of sea water the boys had thrown over each other on the stern before the fish struck. The salt was very fine and felt faintly sandy under his hand.

  “You see I get so nervous watching David I talk to take my mind off it. I’d rather have David catch that fish than anything on earth.”

  “He’s a hell of a fish. Wait till we see him.”

  “I saw one one time when I was fishing with you years ago. He hit a big mackerel bait with his sword and he jumped and threw the hook. He was enormous and I used to dream about him. I’ll go down and make the drinks.”

  “There’s no hurry,” his father told him.

  Down in the backless fighting chair, set in its swivel base, David braced his feet against the stern and lifted with his arms, back, withers, and thighs; then lowered and reeled and lifted again. Steadily, an inch, two inches, three inches at a time he was getting more and more line on the reel.

  “Is your head all right?” Eddy, who was holding the arms of the chair to steady it, asked him.

  David nodded. Eddy put his hand on the top of the boy’s head and felt his cap.

  “Cap’s still wet,” he said. “You’re giving him hell, Davy. Just like a machine.”

  “It’s easier now than holding him,” David said, his voice still dry.

  “Sure,” Eddy told him. “Something gives now. Other way it was just pulling your back out by the roots.”

  “Don’t work him any faster than you can,” Roger said. “You’re doing wonderfully, Dave.”

  “Will we gaff him when he comes up this time?” Andrew asked.

  “Oh keep your mouth off of him, please,” David said.