Old Solomon’s Fish
(a short story of Macabre Suspense)
Within the Caribbean waters outside of Havana, in a depth of perhaps eighty fathoms, Solomon Parra Tapia was fishing off his new 1987, small twenty-five foot yacht, with his wife, Rosalina Nayelis, he was on deck near the bow (front), she was below towards the stern (back), he did a literary version of the event in Hemingway’s book: “The Old Man and the Sea,” meaning, he was in his sixties, she in her fifties, and he was well off as a restaurant owner (although the opposite of Hemingway’s Santiago), on the Caribbean island, Cuba, and having all the necessary fishing gear—such as hooks and rod and reel, deep dropping tackle for the most part, and there he was with a big fish on his line—likened to Santiago, which wasn’t all that dramatic for the moment, but it did matter; although he was not a great fisherman—again, perhaps more clumsy than most, and not as chancy as most, and quickly taken back if any great challenges appeared. Nor did he wish to be considered a great seaman, of the Caribbean or the Gulf of Mexico, or the Mediterranean. But he liked fishing and boating, and drinking, and so forth.
There was no magic in the moment (not Yet anyway)—the boat was drifting with the current in the bluish-green waters, its two-hundred horsepower Mercury engine, was shut down—and the sunburst over the old man’s rusty balled looking head: just a big tug on the fishing line, and the fish fathoms below, zoomed down to the bottom of the sea with a plunge, and then he knew it was a predatorily, it had to be, the pull the wildness, and to reach the bottom as fast as it did he assumed it was a swordfish—perhaps near size of the yacht, he knew they went up to sixty-miles per hour, fifteen feet in length. And when it hit the bottom, it was like a ripple effect all the way up the line to his hands, to the other end of his fishing rod—a quivering ripple. And did it matter now, gosh yes, now nothing mattered, but the fish, forgetting his wife was down below in the cabin, he took in several breaths like a race horse, at the end of the race, and this was just his beginning; whatever it was it was big and strong and fast. ‘Maybe it’s a shark,” he concluded, ‘no,’ he went on to say, ‘must be a Marlin, like in Hemingway’s book?’ of course he was guessing. Old Solomon might have drunk a beer too many this day, as he had been doing all morning into the afternoon, but he dare not reach over to get another out of the cooler, or even call his wife, he had several already—near intoxication, but not quite, not quite drunk, no, not yet—although he was sweating like a boxer in the tenth round race horse.
This was his fundamental problem—he was a coward, luckily, the fish stopped to ponder a moment; this allowed Old Solomon, to catch his breath—he was near hyperventilating—his line stiff as a board. Meanwhile, he thought: what kind of fish is this, I’ll make him into a trophy, certainly, this was God sent, and the old sixty-two year old man was now daydreaming. I mean, this had not been his idea to catch such a big fish; it had been his brother Harry Tapia, who had pointed out this spot, said there were some big swordfish out this way, and he liked the meat of the swordfish, it was tender, he had caught a few before, ones with sixteen inch swords on their nose, and perhaps several feet long, and four or five hundred pounds, but surely this one was bigger, if indeed it was a swordfish, and if it was bigger, well, if indeed it was, could he handle it? I mean, the two he had caught before, Harry was with him, helped him, clubbed the fish, held tight the rod and reel for him. This one had pulled him closer to the bow, forward a few feet. He looked to the port side of the boat, then to the starboard side, and the fish hadn’t gone either way, there was an awful lot of line loose, he could have.
“I’m going to go to sleep,” yelled his wife Rosalina, she had the lower berth, and lower of the bunk bed.
“Ye s, ye s, go oo to sl eep, I’ve g ot a big-g on e!” said Solomon, too erratic to respond any other way. She only heard “…go to sleep… (his voice was trembling, and low it was)” most of his message was gobbledygook, and what she could make out, suggested to her it was of no consequence, and consequently, she fell to sleep instantly. She was a heavy woman and the mattress sank near the floor, and she also had had several beers and so she slept soundly.
Above, the summer heat was getting to the old man, and he and the fish hadn’t progressed one iota in twenty-minutes, it was as if the fish had got his sword stuck in the sand below him, because if it was a swordfish, if in reality it really was one, he would have been irritated with him to no avail, and most likely had a vehement disposition towards him now, in its frustration and ill-temper the fish skyrocketed—at that very instant—out of the water, jumping several feet into the air, no, several yards into the air, with its long flat bill and rounded body. And it would have seen him even from a distance clearly, it had those select heated eyes and brain, that only a few species in the sea had, origins by the eyes thus allowing it edge on its pry—and when it hit the water its tail slapping and banging and body clubbing against the boat.
Ahead of him was another yacht, in the distance, reflecting from its mirrors, and it was to a high-intensity for the old man, the sun illuminating so brightly that he let go of his rod and reel slightly, just a moment, and it slipped halfway out of his grips, as the fish jumped out of the water even higher, split the water at fifty-miles per hour, zooming as high as a lower building, it was a dreary mental moment for him, whishing Harry was there, listening to the afternoon wind rustle by his ears, and his palms sweaty, and he exclaimed “Yes, oh yes, it’s a swordfish!” But it was humungous; perhaps sixteen-feet long, perchance, 1500-pounds of pure fish, with a forty-in plus, sword on the end of its nose—a huge cold blooded predator.
“You weren’t supposed to be so cleaver,” murmured old Solomon, out loud trying to grab his fishing rod, that is, clutch onto the part that had slipped down from his hands, “Don’t” he said to the fish “get away, let me have you! Don’t jump no more, I can’t handle you…!” But that was followed by another thump and jump, almost dragging the old man over the edge of the bow (a bow that was spoon like), bouncing him like a toy ball. The creature’s anger was like something combustible, the old man found it utterly terrifying—the creature had a lack of emotion for a kill, or perhaps too much for revenge—so it would seem, those warm eyes and brain, made him one-hundred and twenty percent faster than without it, he was apologizing to his second-self for letting go the grip he had once had on the fishing rod, that helped him win the first round with the fish, but now hanging over the bow, loosely on the fishing rod’s end, leisurely the fish came closer to the boat to get a better look at the old man, the old man’s heart rapidly beating, he wasn’t surprised to see the fish sizing him up, only that suspense that the fish all of a sudden sensed something beyond him and then quickly snapped the water with a solid blow moving slowly over to the port side of the boat, and to the old man’s dismay, he dropped the rod out of fright, into the water, surprisingly, actually almost delicate—and deliberately, as if he wanted to get rid of the pain and fear and the puffing of his heart the fish had created within him: ‘Where is Harry…? He murmured, as if he didn’t know.
He heard the swordfish shifting its sleek body under the boat, I think he’s going to defuse his rage; the old man conjured in his mind, and he sense the fish was closing in. Then there was the sound of a blow against the bottom of the boat, the fish was hitting it with its tail to see how strong it was—testing. There the old man stood, nearly in a daze, frighten of the fish, did he dare go down and wake his wife up? If he didn’t was it possible the fish could do harm to the belly of the boat? Was she in any danger? If he didn’t, Rosalina might wake up and panic and the fish hear her—and then what He asked himself. Perchance, he was trying to avoid, no interfere—
But if not…?
And he cried into the palms of his hands “Please don’t hurt my wife!” He clenched his fists and thought: wake up and run Rosalina, run, run… he was frozen with fear—he said what said but he said it in a whisper as if the fish might hear, and he couldn’t move, and now the fish was hitting the bottom of the boat harder and harder—his heart sank, and the boat rolled, rocked and rolled, sideways, and the door to the cabin locked, the latch outside of the door locked and Rosalina woke up, “Solomon!” she cried “what is going on?” And before he could answer her, he actually turned away, plugged his ears, before an idea could occur to him to go around the boot to the stern, and down into the cabin area and unlock the door, in fear the fish would get him.
It is not to say, these thoughts had any coherent or direct passage way to his brain—they just got there zigzagging: some people freeze, while others can face such dilemmas: some people cannot hold spiders or snakes, or look down fifty-story buildings, the mind closes, and the hands perspire, and fear grips them like nothing else, this was the case, this was it in a nutshell. He took three steps to the front, and stooped down low his head near touching his knees, and hid from the sounds of his wife, then the swordfish hit the boat—plunged into the boat with all its force, after it had submerged, 250-feet, driving its sword into the boat’s fiberglass body, all its forty-plus inches of hard bone extended out like a sword from its face, through the back spine of Rosalina, as she arched her back, her spine split in two, the fish unable to dislodge itself, and she screamed bloody murder.
No: 669 (8-24-2010)
(a short story of Macabre Suspense)
Within the Caribbean waters outside of Havana, in a depth of perhaps eighty fathoms, Solomon Parra Tapia was fishing off his new 1987, small twenty-five foot yacht, with his wife, Rosalina Nayelis, he was on deck near the bow (front), she was below towards the stern (back), he did a literary version of the event in Hemingway’s book: “The Old Man and the Sea,” meaning, he was in his sixties, she in her fifties, and he was well off as a restaurant owner (although the opposite of Hemingway’s Santiago), on the Caribbean island, Cuba, and having all the necessary fishing gear—such as hooks and rod and reel, deep dropping tackle for the most part, and there he was with a big fish on his line—likened to Santiago, which wasn’t all that dramatic for the moment, but it did matter; although he was not a great fisherman—again, perhaps more clumsy than most, and not as chancy as most, and quickly taken back if any great challenges appeared. Nor did he wish to be considered a great seaman, of the Caribbean or the Gulf of Mexico, or the Mediterranean. But he liked fishing and boating, and drinking, and so forth.
There was no magic in the moment (not Yet anyway)—the boat was drifting with the current in the bluish-green waters, its two-hundred horsepower Mercury engine, was shut down—and the sunburst over the old man’s rusty balled looking head: just a big tug on the fishing line, and the fish fathoms below, zoomed down to the bottom of the sea with a plunge, and then he knew it was a predatorily, it had to be, the pull the wildness, and to reach the bottom as fast as it did he assumed it was a swordfish—perhaps near size of the yacht, he knew they went up to sixty-miles per hour, fifteen feet in length. And when it hit the bottom, it was like a ripple effect all the way up the line to his hands, to the other end of his fishing rod—a quivering ripple. And did it matter now, gosh yes, now nothing mattered, but the fish, forgetting his wife was down below in the cabin, he took in several breaths like a race horse, at the end of the race, and this was just his beginning; whatever it was it was big and strong and fast. ‘Maybe it’s a shark,” he concluded, ‘no,’ he went on to say, ‘must be a Marlin, like in Hemingway’s book?’ of course he was guessing. Old Solomon might have drunk a beer too many this day, as he had been doing all morning into the afternoon, but he dare not reach over to get another out of the cooler, or even call his wife, he had several already—near intoxication, but not quite, not quite drunk, no, not yet—although he was sweating like a boxer in the tenth round race horse.
This was his fundamental problem—he was a coward, luckily, the fish stopped to ponder a moment; this allowed Old Solomon, to catch his breath—he was near hyperventilating—his line stiff as a board. Meanwhile, he thought: what kind of fish is this, I’ll make him into a trophy, certainly, this was God sent, and the old sixty-two year old man was now daydreaming. I mean, this had not been his idea to catch such a big fish; it had been his brother Harry Tapia, who had pointed out this spot, said there were some big swordfish out this way, and he liked the meat of the swordfish, it was tender, he had caught a few before, ones with sixteen inch swords on their nose, and perhaps several feet long, and four or five hundred pounds, but surely this one was bigger, if indeed it was a swordfish, and if it was bigger, well, if indeed it was, could he handle it? I mean, the two he had caught before, Harry was with him, helped him, clubbed the fish, held tight the rod and reel for him. This one had pulled him closer to the bow, forward a few feet. He looked to the port side of the boat, then to the starboard side, and the fish hadn’t gone either way, there was an awful lot of line loose, he could have.
“I’m going to go to sleep,” yelled his wife Rosalina, she had the lower berth, and lower of the bunk bed.
“Ye s, ye s, go oo to sl eep, I’ve g ot a big-g on e!” said Solomon, too erratic to respond any other way. She only heard “…go to sleep… (his voice was trembling, and low it was)” most of his message was gobbledygook, and what she could make out, suggested to her it was of no consequence, and consequently, she fell to sleep instantly. She was a heavy woman and the mattress sank near the floor, and she also had had several beers and so she slept soundly.
Above, the summer heat was getting to the old man, and he and the fish hadn’t progressed one iota in twenty-minutes, it was as if the fish had got his sword stuck in the sand below him, because if it was a swordfish, if in reality it really was one, he would have been irritated with him to no avail, and most likely had a vehement disposition towards him now, in its frustration and ill-temper the fish skyrocketed—at that very instant—out of the water, jumping several feet into the air, no, several yards into the air, with its long flat bill and rounded body. And it would have seen him even from a distance clearly, it had those select heated eyes and brain, that only a few species in the sea had, origins by the eyes thus allowing it edge on its pry—and when it hit the water its tail slapping and banging and body clubbing against the boat.
Ahead of him was another yacht, in the distance, reflecting from its mirrors, and it was to a high-intensity for the old man, the sun illuminating so brightly that he let go of his rod and reel slightly, just a moment, and it slipped halfway out of his grips, as the fish jumped out of the water even higher, split the water at fifty-miles per hour, zooming as high as a lower building, it was a dreary mental moment for him, whishing Harry was there, listening to the afternoon wind rustle by his ears, and his palms sweaty, and he exclaimed “Yes, oh yes, it’s a swordfish!” But it was humungous; perhaps sixteen-feet long, perchance, 1500-pounds of pure fish, with a forty-in plus, sword on the end of its nose—a huge cold blooded predator.
“You weren’t supposed to be so cleaver,” murmured old Solomon, out loud trying to grab his fishing rod, that is, clutch onto the part that had slipped down from his hands, “Don’t” he said to the fish “get away, let me have you! Don’t jump no more, I can’t handle you…!” But that was followed by another thump and jump, almost dragging the old man over the edge of the bow (a bow that was spoon like), bouncing him like a toy ball. The creature’s anger was like something combustible, the old man found it utterly terrifying—the creature had a lack of emotion for a kill, or perhaps too much for revenge—so it would seem, those warm eyes and brain, made him one-hundred and twenty percent faster than without it, he was apologizing to his second-self for letting go the grip he had once had on the fishing rod, that helped him win the first round with the fish, but now hanging over the bow, loosely on the fishing rod’s end, leisurely the fish came closer to the boat to get a better look at the old man, the old man’s heart rapidly beating, he wasn’t surprised to see the fish sizing him up, only that suspense that the fish all of a sudden sensed something beyond him and then quickly snapped the water with a solid blow moving slowly over to the port side of the boat, and to the old man’s dismay, he dropped the rod out of fright, into the water, surprisingly, actually almost delicate—and deliberately, as if he wanted to get rid of the pain and fear and the puffing of his heart the fish had created within him: ‘Where is Harry…? He murmured, as if he didn’t know.
He heard the swordfish shifting its sleek body under the boat, I think he’s going to defuse his rage; the old man conjured in his mind, and he sense the fish was closing in. Then there was the sound of a blow against the bottom of the boat, the fish was hitting it with its tail to see how strong it was—testing. There the old man stood, nearly in a daze, frighten of the fish, did he dare go down and wake his wife up? If he didn’t was it possible the fish could do harm to the belly of the boat? Was she in any danger? If he didn’t, Rosalina might wake up and panic and the fish hear her—and then what He asked himself. Perchance, he was trying to avoid, no interfere—
But if not…?
And he cried into the palms of his hands “Please don’t hurt my wife!” He clenched his fists and thought: wake up and run Rosalina, run, run… he was frozen with fear—he said what said but he said it in a whisper as if the fish might hear, and he couldn’t move, and now the fish was hitting the bottom of the boat harder and harder—his heart sank, and the boat rolled, rocked and rolled, sideways, and the door to the cabin locked, the latch outside of the door locked and Rosalina woke up, “Solomon!” she cried “what is going on?” And before he could answer her, he actually turned away, plugged his ears, before an idea could occur to him to go around the boot to the stern, and down into the cabin area and unlock the door, in fear the fish would get him.
It is not to say, these thoughts had any coherent or direct passage way to his brain—they just got there zigzagging: some people freeze, while others can face such dilemmas: some people cannot hold spiders or snakes, or look down fifty-story buildings, the mind closes, and the hands perspire, and fear grips them like nothing else, this was the case, this was it in a nutshell. He took three steps to the front, and stooped down low his head near touching his knees, and hid from the sounds of his wife, then the swordfish hit the boat—plunged into the boat with all its force, after it had submerged, 250-feet, driving its sword into the boat’s fiberglass body, all its forty-plus inches of hard bone extended out like a sword from its face, through the back spine of Rosalina, as she arched her back, her spine split in two, the fish unable to dislodge itself, and she screamed bloody murder.
No: 669 (8-24-2010)
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