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The Old Man flaked the crusty net onto the deck. He cast off the lines and pulled the heavy oars through the still, pre-dawn harbor water. Would there be fish enough to feed his family for another day? Would another squall come and blow him off shore like it had so many times before? Why wouldn’t Maria let him fuck the little brown boy from the village? Once clear of the quay, he set the canvas and made fast the frayed hemp sheet. He wished the boy were there.

Two miles off shore he cast the net and let out the sheet for a slow downwind run. Out of habit and nostalgia for the days of his youth, he dropped a line baited with smelt, though it hadn’t yielded him a big one in years. But after only a moment in the water, the line started to run. He cleated the end to the center post and watched as it disappeared over the stern. Once the line was gone, the boat lurched to a stop and then began moving aftward quickly. He pulled in the net, which was still empty, just to keep it from getting fouled in the line, and then slowly worked the line hand over hand. But every time he felt he was making some progress the fish would dive and the line would cut through his worn leathery hands. Blood dripped and splattered on the gunwale. He imagined it was the boy out there, and he was ripping the flesh of the Old Man’s leathery hands with a switch. It was good.

And so he continued late into the afternoon, and all the while the fish dragged him further out to sea. If only the boy were there, and he could feel his downy rump against his face, all this fishing wouldn’t be so wearying. The sun set and the moon rose and just as the Old Man felt his hands would hold no longer, the great beast jumped from the water, its rippled sail glistening in the moonlight. He saw the beast’s cold black eyes and he was reminded of the boy. A growing stiffness set in his oilskin trousers and he redoubled his fight on the line. The sting of his hands was gone and all he saw before him was the glory of the fish, the glory of the boy. The hours of fighting had worn the great beast as much as it had the Old Man. The beast rose to the surface, nearly limp, only thrashing his powerful tail now and again. The OLD MAN lashed him to the side of the boat and made sure he was fast. Then he peeled off his grimy oilskins, climbed over the bloody gunwale and fucked that fish with his worn, leathery penis. And it was good.

Date Written: July 15, 2004
Author: Ewan Snow
Average Vote: 3.5556