他是个独自在湾流一条小船上打鱼的老人，现已出海八十四天，一条鱼也没捉到。头四十天，有个男孩跟他在一起。可是，过了四十天还没钓到一条鱼，孩子的父母便对他说，老人如今准是极端salao
，就是说倒霉透顶，那孩子便照他们的吩咐，上了另一条船，头一个星期就捕到三条好鱼。孩子看见老人每天划着空船回来，心里很难受，总要走下岸去，帮他拿卷起的钓绳，或者鱼钩和鱼叉，还有绕在桅杆上的帆。帆上用面粉袋打着补丁，卷起后看上去像是标志着永远失败的旗子。
老人又瘦又憔悴，后颈上凝聚着深深的皱纹。两边脸上长着褐斑，那是太阳在热带海面上的反光晒成的良性皮肤瘤。褐斑顺着两腮蔓延下去，由于常用绳索拉大鱼的缘故，两手都留下了很深的伤疤。但是这些伤疤中没有一块是新的，全都像没有鱼的沙漠中被侵蚀的地方一样年深月久。
他身上的每一部分都是老迈的，除了那双眼睛，它们跟海一个颜色，喜盈盈的，从不认输。
“圣地亚哥，”他们俩从停船的地方爬上岸时，孩子对他说。“我又能跟你出海了。我家挣到了一些钱。”
老人教会了这孩子捕鱼，孩子很爱他。
“别，”老人说。“你跟了一条交好运的船。就跟下去吧。”
“可是你该记得，你有一回接连八十七天钓不到一条鱼，接着我们有三个星期天天都逮到大鱼的。”
“我记得，”老人说。“我知道你不是因为信不过而离开我的。”
“是爸爸叫我走的。我是个孩子，不能不听他的话。”
“我知道，”老人说。“这很正常。”
“他没多大信心。”
“是的，”老人说。“可是我们有。是不是？”
“是的，”孩子说。“我请你到露台酒馆喝杯啤酒吧，然后把东西拿回家。”
“干吗不？”老人说。“都是打鱼的嘛。”
他们坐在露台酒馆，不少渔夫拿老人开玩笑，老人并不生气。另外一些上了年纪的渔夫望着他，心里很难过。但是他们并不流露出来，只是客气地谈论海流，谈论钓绳投入水中的深度、持续不变的好天气以及他们的见闻。当天交了好运的渔夫都已回来，把他们的马林鱼剖开，横放在两块木板上，每块木板的一头由两个人抬着，踉踉跄跄地送到收鱼站，在那里等着冷藏车把它们送往哈瓦那的市场上。捕到鲨鱼的人们把鲨鱼送到海湾对面的鲨鱼加工厂去，吊在带钩的滑车上，除去肝脏，割掉鱼鳍，剥去外皮，把鱼肉切成一条条，以备腌制。
刮东风的时候，从海港那边的鲨鱼加工厂飘来一股腥味；但今天只有一点淡淡的气息，因为风转向了北方，后来又渐渐平息，露台上和煦宜人。
“圣地亚哥，”孩子说。
“哎，”老人说。他握着酒杯，想着多年前的事情。
“我去弄点沙丁鱼来给你明天用好吗？”
“别。你去打棒球吧。我还能划船，罗赫略会替我撒网的。”
“我很想去。我即使不能跟你一起打鱼，也想替你做点事儿。”
“你给我买了一瓶啤酒，”老人说。“你已经是个大人了。”
“你头一回带我上船时，我有多大？”
“五岁，那天我把一条活蹦乱跳的鱼拖上船，它差一点把船撞得粉碎，你也差一点送了命。你还记得吗？”
“我记得鱼尾巴吧嗒吧嗒地直扑打，船上的坐板给打断了，还有你拿棍子打鱼的声音。我记得你把我直往船头上推，那儿放着湿漉漉的钓绳卷，我觉得整条船都在颤抖，听到你噼里啪啦用棍子打鱼的声音，像在砍倒一棵树，我浑身上下散发着一股甜丝丝的血腥味儿。”
“你当真记得那回事呢，还是我告诉你的？”
“打从我们头一回一起出海的时候起，什么事儿我都记得清清楚楚。”
老人用他那常年日炙、充满自信和慈爱的眼睛望着他。
“你要是我的孩子，我就会带你出去闯一闯，”他说。“可你是你爸爸妈妈的孩子，你又跟了一条交好运的船。”
“我去弄沙丁鱼来好吗？我还知道上哪儿去弄四份鱼饵来。”
“我还有我今天剩下来的。我把它们放在盒子里腌上了。”
“我给你弄四条新鲜的来吧。”
“一条，”老人说。他的希望和信心从没消失过，这时就像微风乍起时那样给鼓得更足了。
“两条吧，”孩子说。
“就两条，”老人同意了。“你不是偷来的吧？”
“我倒想去偷，”孩子说。“不过我是买来的。”
“谢谢你，”老人说。他心地单纯，不会去捉摸自己什么时候变得如此谦虚。但他知道他已经变谦虚了，还知道这并不丢脸，也无损于真正的自尊。
“看这海流，明天会是个好日子，”他说。
?
The Old Man and the Sea
He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the GulfStream and
he had gone eighty-four days now withouttaking a fish. In the first
forty days a boy had been with him.But after forty days without a
fish the boy’s parents had toldhim that the old man was now
definitely and finally salao,which is the worst form of unlucky,
and the boy had gone attheir orders in another boat which caught
three good fish thefirst week. It made the boy sad to see the old
man come in eachday with his skiff empty and he always went down to
help himcarry either the coiled lines or the gaff and harpoon and
thesail that was furled around the mast. The sail was patchedwith
flour sacks and, furled, it looked like the flag of
permanentdefeat.
The old man was thin and gaunt with deep wrinkles in theback of his
neck. The brown blotches of the benevolent skincancer the sun
brings from its reflection on the tropic sea wereon his cheeks. The
blotches ran well down the sides of his faceand his hands had the
deep-creased scars from handling heavyfish on the cords. But none
of these scars were fresh. They wereas old as erosions in a
fishless desert.
Everything about him was old except his eyes andthey were the same
color as the sea and were cheerful andundefeated.
“Santiago,” the boy said to him as they climbed the bankfrom where
the skiff was hauled up. “I could go with you again.We’ve made some
money.”
The old man had taught the boy to fish and the boy lovedhim.
“No,” the old man said. “You’re with a lucky boat. Stay
withthem.”
“But remember how you went eighty-seven days withoutfish and then
we caught big ones every day for three weeks.”
“I remember,” the old man said. “I know you did not leaveme because
you doubted.”
“It was papa made me leave. I am a boy and I must obeyhim.”
“I know,” the old man said. “It is quite normal.”
“He hasn’t much faith.”
“No,” the old man said. “But we have. Haven’t we?”
“Yes,” the boy said. “Can I offer you a beer on the Terraceand then
we’ll take the stuff home.”
“Why not?” the old man said. “Between fishermen.”
They sat on the Terrace and many of the fishermen madefun of the
old man and he was not angry. Others, of the olderfishermen, looked
at him and were sad. But they did not showit and they spoke
politely about the current and the depthsthey had drifted their
lines at and the steady good weather andof what they had seen. The
successful fishermen of that daywere already in and had butchered
their marlin out and carriedthem laid full across two planks, with
two men staggering atthe end of each plank, to the fish house where
they waited forthe ice truck to carry them to the market in Havana.
Thosewho had caught sharks had taken them to the shark factoryon
the other side of the cove where they were hoisted on a blockand
tackle, their livers removed, their fins cut off and theirhides
skinned out and their flesh cut into strips for salting.
When the wind was in the east a smell came across theharbor from
the shark factory; but today there was only thefaint edge of the
odor because the wind had backed into thenorth and then dropped off
and it was pleasant and sunny onthe Terrace.
“Santiago,” the boy said.
“Yes,” the old man said. He was holding his glass andthinking of
many years ago.
“Can I go out to get sardines for you for tomorrow?”
“No. Go and play baseball. I can still row and Rogelio willthrow
the net.”
“I would like to go. If I cannot fish with you, I would like
toserve in some way.”
“You bought me a beer,” the old man said. “You are alreadya
man.”
“How old was I when you first took me in a boat?”
“Five and you nearly were killed when I brought the fishin too
green and he nearly tore the boat to pieces. Can
youremember?”
“I can remember the tail slapping and banging and thethwart
breaking and the noise of the clubbing. I can rememberyou throwing
me into the bow where the wet coiled lines wereand feeling the
whole boat shiver and the noise of you clubbinghim like chopping a
tree down and the sweet blood smell allover me.”
“Can you really remember that or did I just tell it to you?”
“I remember everything from when we first went together.”
The old man looked at him with his sunburned, confidentloving
eyes.
“If you were my boy I’d take you out and gamble,” he said.“But you
are your father’s and your mother’s and you are in alucky
boat.”
“May I get the sardines? I know where I can get four
baitstoo.”
“I have mine left from today. I put them in salt in the box.”
“Let me get four fresh ones.”
“One,” the old man said. His hope and his confidence hadnever gone.
But now they were freshening as when the breezerises.
“Two,” the boy said.
“Two,” the old man agreed. “You didn’t steal them?”
“I would,” the boy said. “But I bought these.”
“Thank you,” the old man said. He was too simple towonder when he
had attained humility. But he knew he hadattained it and he knew it
was not disgraceful and it carried noloss of true pride.
“Tomorrow is going to be a good day with this current, ”
hesaid.
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