The sail was patched with flour sacks and, furled, it looked like the flag of permanent defeat.
But none of these scars were fresh. They were as old as erosions in a fishless desert.
Everything about him was old except his eyes and they were the same color as the sea and were cheerful and undefeated.
His hope and his confidence had never gone. But now they were freshening as when the breeze rises.
He was too simple to wonder when he had attained humility. But he knew he had attained it
and he knew it was not disgraceful and it carried no loss of true pride.
The old man opened his eyes and for a moment he was coming back from a long way away.
He smelled the tar and oakum of the deck as he slept and he smelled the smell of Africa that the land breeze brought at morning.
He took the bait like a male and he pulls like a male and his fight has no panic in it. I wonder if he has any plans or if he is just as desperate as I am？
I wish I was the fish, he thought, with everything he has against only my will and my intelligence.
The thousand times that he had proved it meant nothings. Now he was proving it again. Each time was a new time and he never thought about the past when he was doing it.
But man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated.
Fishing kills me as it keeps me alive.