Redefining Faith, Hope and Success in Hemingway’s Greatest Novel
The Old Man and the Sea
On the surface, The Old Man and the Sea is a story about a fisherman, Santiago, catching the biggest fish of his life, only to lose it to sharks as he returns to shore. It could easily be read as a tragedy. Santiago, down on his luck, not having caught a fish for 84 days. Beginning and ending, both poor and tired. One could easily think, Give up, old man. It’s time to move on to other things. You’re too old. You don’t have what it takes anymore.
At a deeper level, though, this story is infused with multiple layers of meaning and beauty. It’s almost parabolic in the sense that it challenges our definitions of true friendship, faith, and what it means to be successful.
There is the relationship between the boy, Manolin, and Santiago. Manolin loves Santiago because he taught him to fish. Santiago humbles himself in accepting the boy’s help and unconditional love. Manolin, like a student before his master, only wants to serve Santiago and learn from him. He is the only one who knows the greatness of Santiago as a fisherman, in spite of everyone else’s opinions.
“Qué va,” the boy said. “There are many good fishermen and some great ones. But there is only you.”
“Thank you. You make me happy. I hope no fish will come along so great that he will prove us wrong.”
“There is no such fish if you are still strong as you say.”
“I may not be as strong as I think,” the old man said. “But I know many tricks and I have resolution.” (23)
Manolin has faith that Santiago is one of the greatest fishermen, and Santiago believes he will catch a great fish, in spite of having caught nothing for 84 days. They both display the true essence of faith, if faith is — as the writer of Hebrews said — “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”
To the old man, being a fisherman is not about how many fish one catches. It is a craft. A disposition of spirit. He fishes because he must, not caring about success, if success means becoming rich from one’s craft.
Santiago’s spirit has been shaped by a lifetime at sea, working in union with her. Not forcing himself upon her like some of the younger fisherman do with their buoys and motorboats. Santiago lets her give herself over to him when she is ready, calling her la mar, “which is what people call her in Spanish when they love her.”
Santiago eventually hooks what he knows to be the biggest fish of his life. It soon becomes clear, that even though his intent is to kill the marlin, he has great respect for him as he patiently lets him drag his boat across the ocean and away from land.
There is a beautiful progression throughout the novel as Santiago gradually confesses his love and admiration for the fish. He knows they are brothers.
“The fish is my friend too,” he said aloud. “I have never seen or heard of such a fish. But I must kill him.
[…]
Then he was sorry for the great fish that had nothing to eat and his determination to kill him never relaxed in his sorrow for him. How many people will he feed, he thought. But are they worthy to eat him? No, of course not. There is no one worthy of eating him from the manner of his behaviour and his great dignity.
I do not understand these things, he thought. […] It is enough to live on the sea and kill our true brothers. (75)
He admits he does not understand the mystery of man’s relationship with that which we do not deserve to kill for sustenance.
Maybe it is a stretch, but the progression toward the climax of catching the fish is almost sensual. It is as though Santiago were making love with the sea. Letting the sea consume him and giving himself over entirely to her.
Earlier in the novel, Hemingway writes,
But the old man always thought of her as feminine and as something that gave or withheld great favours, and if she did wild or wicked things it was because she could not help them. The moon affects her as it does a woman, he thought. (30)
He does not fight with the fish or the ocean. He gives himself over to both, as lover. He does not give up, in spite of his weariness and pain. He does not even think of letting the marlin go. To give up would be to end prematurely. He would rather die.
As both Santiago and the marlin grow weaker and weaker, he admits,
You are killing me, fish […] But you have a right to. Never have I seen a greater, or more beautiful, or a calmer or more noble thing than you, brother. Come on and kill me. I do not care who kills who. (92)
Here, Santiago relinquishes all hold on his life. He gives himself up completely. Security and the need to go on living are nothing to him. One of them must die, and it does not matter which. He does not need to prove himself. It is not about catching the fish for money, or even sustenance. He fishes as one who cannot do otherwise.
If you’ve read the story you know that it is the fish, in the end, who dies, and that it is here that Santiago’s true struggle begins. As he returns to shore the sharks come, smelling the trail of blood. And one by one they eat away at his marlin, even as he fights back, killing a few of them. By the time he sees the pale haze of light emanating from the city at night, there is nothing left of his catch but an eighteen foot carcass.
Yes it is sad, having spent all that time and patience catching it, only to lose it before returning. Now there is nothing to boast about. Nothing to sell. He must go on living in poverty, and depending on the boy for help.
This, though, is the enduring genius of the novel in that Hemingway could paint triumph and success in spite of loss. Triumph because Santiago has performed a miracle in catching an eighteen foot marlin. Success, because he did not give up. He continued in spite of everything. He risked everything, even his life, to do what he was born to do.
He gave himself over entirely to every part of the process, present in each moment. Showing, rather than telling, the meaning of what it is to be a fisherman. Of what it means to have faith and the beauty of perfecting one’s craft. That success is not about results, but perseverance.
When Santiago returns, there is no bitterness in his heart. Yes, he is beyond weary. Maybe too tired to feel sorry for himself. Though he maintains a beautiful hope when he says,
And what beat you, he thought.
“Nothing,” he said aloud. “I went out too far.” (120)
He does not feel defeated in spite of his loss. He has let go of everything: his need to prove himself. His need to provide for himself. Even his very life. To live, for Santiago, is to give himself over entirely to his calling. To his craft. To the sea. He gave himself that he might find himself.
He slowly ascends the hill to his shack, carrying his mast over his shoulder as though he were carrying his cross. Alone in the night. No one watching. When he finally arrives home, he lays “face down on the newspapers with his arms out straight and the palms of his hands up.” His bloody hands, like a crucified fisherman.
When Manolin finds him in the morning laying face down, he cries and begins tending to his needs, bringing him food and a clean shirt. He is now convinced beyond a doubt — after seeing the carcass still lashed to the side of his boat — that Santiago is, indeed, the greatest of fisherman. He knows that he has much to learn, saying,
“You must get well fast for there is much that I can learn and you can teach me everything.” (126)
