It was a dreary Sunday night and the heavy clouds blocked out the moonlight. The old man made his way along the dock, sea calm and steady, with the dim lights of the bar in his sight. As normal, he was going there to drink and marvel at his picture that hung on the wall, covered in a dusty frame, that showed him holding a large fish. He held the record for the largest fish caught in the nearby cove. When he arrived, music playing and drunks stumbling around, the alcohol was all there. The picture, however, was not. Angry, he questioned the local fishermen. They told him someone had caught an even bigger fish than him and he was to be replaced. The empty spot on the wall laughed in his face. He paced about the bar, infuriated, and drank until he could not walk. In his drunken slur, he announced he would return to fishing once more and restore his self-proclaimed honor. After his speech, the old man stumbled home in the dark, guided by the little fires that were scattered across the sky. If his vision wasn’t blurred, he would have seen a shooting star cut across the blue velvet. He wouldn’t have cared anyways. He was already drunk; his wish had been made.
The next morning, the old man awoke to the early tide. The moon still hung low, too tired to continue it’s journey across the sky, and the salty air blew through the open window. The old man shrugged off his drowsiness, and his hangover, and prepared for his journey. He made sure to pack a lot of food; he wasn’t coming back until he caught his fish. When he finished, he broke free of his rusted shack and made his way to the grey beach, his true home. When he arrived to wake his old boat from it’s slumber and guide it into the foggy water, he was greeted by many of the other fisherman. Some were staring, some were laughing, most never even noticed him. He slipped away into the white blanket, thinking of himself as a hero.
The old man fished in his boat for several days, eating and sleeping very little, undisturbed by the commotion of land. He preferred the continuous rolling waves, he found comfort in it’s unstableness. He continued fishing, unsuccessful, and a week after his descent from land and living, a small boat came by, disturbing his peaceful aura. The two men on the boat told him that there were rumors of a storm blowing through. The old man was far from land, only the mountains peaked out from the horizon, and the fishermen warned him that he may be caught in the storm if he wasn’t cautious. He grumbled and went off into a story of his younger days when he tamed the sea. The fishermen sped away and as the little wooden boat got smaller and smaller, the old man took out a silver flask and took a drink. The fishermen were too straight, they were too symmetrical and perfect. The old man needed flaws.
At tranquility once more, the old man sat at sea for another week, drifting farther and farther each day. The fish came and went, but they seemed less important now. The dark, menacing clouds that rested on the northern skyline seemed to have no importance to the old man, either. The soothing waves rocked the boat and the old man fished and ate and slept, then continued the cycle once more. This circle of peace and work went uninterrupted for two more days, until another fishing boat, much larger than the last, passed by the old man. The fishermen hollered over the deck, urging the man to return to shore. They said the storm was coming in fast and that it would be the biggest one all year. The old man could not answer, though, for he had forgotten why he was out at sea, but he knew it was for something important. As the large boat sailed away, the man took several large drinks from his silver flask and began to mutter profanities under his breath. He was starting to remember his reason for being so far out at sea. He was starting to remember the burden of the fish he knew he would never catch. The salty ocean breeze brushed past the old man and he started slipping away from the outside world once more. Sitting in solitude, he felt like he was becoming part of his boat. His boat was becoming part of the sea. He was becoming part of the sea.
A few more days passed, days not measured by the old man. He could no longer tell time, he only saw the black sky overhead, painting the ocean a dark, gloomy color, and causing waves to rise higher and higher. Day and night began to melt into one, until all that was left was a single, unending day. The old man ever slept, his eyes were focused on his old fishing pole, connected to the sea, awaiting something he did not know of. A fish would tug at the pole and the old man would rise with power and grace, swiftly end his battle with the fish, examine the specimen, then throw it back to his home. It was not worthy of something, but the old man couldn’t remember why. While sitting on his throne one day, examining the old boat, a giant fishing vessel slowly lugged by. It was bustling with fishermen, all running and jumping and yelling. Seeing this, the old man took out his silver flask. Some of the fishermen began yelling at the old man, telling him it was not safe and that he needed to go back to the shore. They said he would be killed if he did not retreat to the shore. He simply stared at them, amazed at their complex features and dialect. They seemed so unfamiliar and for a few brief moments he could not understand their words. The giant fishing vessel slowly passed the old man, leaving him in their large wake. He slowly raised his silver flask and began drinking. The men running. He took a drink. The men jumping. He took several more. The men yelling. He began to shove down the alcohol. There was a loud sound of thunder and, almost synchronized with the sound, the line of his pole tugged into the ocean. He was part of the sea and the sea told him to reel in the fish. Something told him he would need it.
He slowly fought the fish, it’s strength greater than that of the old man. The waves were rising and rain had started crashing into the sea. The old man could tell the fish was large, larger than anything he had ever caught before. He knew this meant something, but he could not remember what or why it was so meaningful. He simply continued his battle, anchored to the sea by a thin fishing line. The fish had turned the boat around and was traveling with the large waves. They were heading straight toward land and the old man’s vision started to blur. He started to stumble around and slip away from everything, but he was still attached to the sea and continued to fight. The waves got higher and higher, the rain poured down, and the dark clouds showed no mercy. The old man and the fish were traveling fast, and by now, the fish was pulling the boat and the old man had lost all control. The mountains became taller and taller, the rocky bluffs become closer and closer. The old man started to lose his boat. He stated to lose the sea. He started to lose the fish. His boat was being thrashed around, but the old man managed to remain his grip. The old man looked up, looked at the tearful sky, and on the rocky cliffs he saw people. He saw all the fishermen of the cove. They were standing there, watching, pointing, running, yelling. The old man searched for his silver flask but he found the boat empty and full of water. He looked up again and could hear the voices of the fishermen, carried with the wind, piercing his ears. The old man slipped away from the world, he stumbled around and then lost his footing. He was still holding on to the old fishing pole, though, and by now the fish had turned around once more to avoid the jagged rocks. The old man was carried into the sea and dragged underwater, still clutching the old fishing pole, and his old boat crashed into the rocks, sending splinters into the air like little birds learning how to fly. The fishermen watched as the old man slowly faded away into the dark sea.
Back at the bar, the owner put the picture of the old man back up on the wall. He had lost the picture of the new, larger fish and decided to give the old man back his glory. This was the only part of the old man that would ever return to the bar. The only part of the man that would ever return to land.
The next morning, the old man awoke to the early tide. The moon still hung low, too tired to continue it’s journey across the sky, and the salty air blew through the open window. The old man shrugged off his drowsiness, and his hangover, and prepared for his journey. He made sure to pack a lot of food; he wasn’t coming back until he caught his fish. When he finished, he broke free of his rusted shack and made his way to the grey beach, his true home. When he arrived to wake his old boat from it’s slumber and guide it into the foggy water, he was greeted by many of the other fisherman. Some were staring, some were laughing, most never even noticed him. He slipped away into the white blanket, thinking of himself as a hero.
The old man fished in his boat for several days, eating and sleeping very little, undisturbed by the commotion of land. He preferred the continuous rolling waves, he found comfort in it’s unstableness. He continued fishing, unsuccessful, and a week after his descent from land and living, a small boat came by, disturbing his peaceful aura. The two men on the boat told him that there were rumors of a storm blowing through. The old man was far from land, only the mountains peaked out from the horizon, and the fishermen warned him that he may be caught in the storm if he wasn’t cautious. He grumbled and went off into a story of his younger days when he tamed the sea. The fishermen sped away and as the little wooden boat got smaller and smaller, the old man took out a silver flask and took a drink. The fishermen were too straight, they were too symmetrical and perfect. The old man needed flaws.
At tranquility once more, the old man sat at sea for another week, drifting farther and farther each day. The fish came and went, but they seemed less important now. The dark, menacing clouds that rested on the northern skyline seemed to have no importance to the old man, either. The soothing waves rocked the boat and the old man fished and ate and slept, then continued the cycle once more. This circle of peace and work went uninterrupted for two more days, until another fishing boat, much larger than the last, passed by the old man. The fishermen hollered over the deck, urging the man to return to shore. They said the storm was coming in fast and that it would be the biggest one all year. The old man could not answer, though, for he had forgotten why he was out at sea, but he knew it was for something important. As the large boat sailed away, the man took several large drinks from his silver flask and began to mutter profanities under his breath. He was starting to remember his reason for being so far out at sea. He was starting to remember the burden of the fish he knew he would never catch. The salty ocean breeze brushed past the old man and he started slipping away from the outside world once more. Sitting in solitude, he felt like he was becoming part of his boat. His boat was becoming part of the sea. He was becoming part of the sea.
A few more days passed, days not measured by the old man. He could no longer tell time, he only saw the black sky overhead, painting the ocean a dark, gloomy color, and causing waves to rise higher and higher. Day and night began to melt into one, until all that was left was a single, unending day. The old man ever slept, his eyes were focused on his old fishing pole, connected to the sea, awaiting something he did not know of. A fish would tug at the pole and the old man would rise with power and grace, swiftly end his battle with the fish, examine the specimen, then throw it back to his home. It was not worthy of something, but the old man couldn’t remember why. While sitting on his throne one day, examining the old boat, a giant fishing vessel slowly lugged by. It was bustling with fishermen, all running and jumping and yelling. Seeing this, the old man took out his silver flask. Some of the fishermen began yelling at the old man, telling him it was not safe and that he needed to go back to the shore. They said he would be killed if he did not retreat to the shore. He simply stared at them, amazed at their complex features and dialect. They seemed so unfamiliar and for a few brief moments he could not understand their words. The giant fishing vessel slowly passed the old man, leaving him in their large wake. He slowly raised his silver flask and began drinking. The men running. He took a drink. The men jumping. He took several more. The men yelling. He began to shove down the alcohol. There was a loud sound of thunder and, almost synchronized with the sound, the line of his pole tugged into the ocean. He was part of the sea and the sea told him to reel in the fish. Something told him he would need it.
He slowly fought the fish, it’s strength greater than that of the old man. The waves were rising and rain had started crashing into the sea. The old man could tell the fish was large, larger than anything he had ever caught before. He knew this meant something, but he could not remember what or why it was so meaningful. He simply continued his battle, anchored to the sea by a thin fishing line. The fish had turned the boat around and was traveling with the large waves. They were heading straight toward land and the old man’s vision started to blur. He started to stumble around and slip away from everything, but he was still attached to the sea and continued to fight. The waves got higher and higher, the rain poured down, and the dark clouds showed no mercy. The old man and the fish were traveling fast, and by now, the fish was pulling the boat and the old man had lost all control. The mountains became taller and taller, the rocky bluffs become closer and closer. The old man started to lose his boat. He stated to lose the sea. He started to lose the fish. His boat was being thrashed around, but the old man managed to remain his grip. The old man looked up, looked at the tearful sky, and on the rocky cliffs he saw people. He saw all the fishermen of the cove. They were standing there, watching, pointing, running, yelling. The old man searched for his silver flask but he found the boat empty and full of water. He looked up again and could hear the voices of the fishermen, carried with the wind, piercing his ears. The old man slipped away from the world, he stumbled around and then lost his footing. He was still holding on to the old fishing pole, though, and by now the fish had turned around once more to avoid the jagged rocks. The old man was carried into the sea and dragged underwater, still clutching the old fishing pole, and his old boat crashed into the rocks, sending splinters into the air like little birds learning how to fly. The fishermen watched as the old man slowly faded away into the dark sea.
Back at the bar, the owner put the picture of the old man back up on the wall. He had lost the picture of the new, larger fish and decided to give the old man back his glory. This was the only part of the old man that would ever return to the bar. The only part of the man that would ever return to land.
