He was an old man who fished alone in a small boat on the sea and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking 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 told him that the old man was now salao, which was the worst form of unluck, and the boy had gone with another boat which caught three good fish the first week. It made the boy sad to see the old man come in each day with his boat empty. The sail looked like the flag of failure forever.
The old man was thin with deep wrinkles(皱纹)in the back of his neck. His face was terribly brown because of the strong sunlight on the sea every day and his hands had the deep scars(伤疤)from dealing with heavy fish on the lines. But none of these were fresh. Everything about him was old except his eyes and they were the same colour as the sea and were cheerful.
"Santiago," the boy said to him as they climbed the bank from the sea. "I could go with you again. We've made some money."
The old man had taught the boy to fish and the boy loved him.
"No, "the old man said." You're with a lucky boat. Stay with them."
"But remember how you went eighty-seven days without fish and then we caught big ones every day for three weeks."
"I remember," the old man said.
"It was papa who made me leave. I am a boy and I must follow him."
"I know," the old man said. "It is quite normal."
"He hasn't much faith(信心)."
"No," the old man said." But we have. Haven't we?"
"Yes," the boy said. "Can I offer you a beer on the Terrace?"
"Why not?" the old man said. "Between fishermen."
