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He was an old man who fished alone in a schift in the gulf stream

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 definitely in finally sararo which is the worst form of unlucky

And the boy had gone at their order

Order in another boat

Which caught three good fish

The first week

It made the boys sad to see the old man come in each day with his skiff empty

And he always went down to help him carry either the coil lines or the gaffine harpoon and the sale that was filled around the mast

The sale was patched with flower sacks

And filled it looked like the flag of permanent defeat

The old man was thin in gords with deep prinkles in the back of his neck

The brown blotches of the benelelent skin caner er sun brings from its reflection on the tropicc sea were on his cheeks

The blotches ran well down the sides of his face and his hands

Had the deep creased scars from handling heavy fish on the courts

But none of these scars were fresh

They were resolved 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 santiago

The boy set to him

As they climbed the bank from where the skift was hold out

I could go with you again

You've made some money

The old man had taught the boy to fish

And the boy loved him

No

The old man said you were 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

I know you did not leave me

Because you doubt it

It was pop made me leave

I am a boy

And i must obey him

I know the old man said is quite normal

He hasn't much faith

No

The old man said

But we have

Haven't

We yes

The boy said can i offer you a beer on the terrorist

And then will take the stuff home

Why not the old man said

Between fishermen