The old man unhooked the fish,rebaited the line with another sardine and tossed it over.Then he worked his way slowly back to the bow.He washed his left hand and wiped it on his trousers.Then he shifted the heavy line from his right hand to his left and washed his right hand in the sea while he watched the sun go into the ocean and the slant of the big cord.
I could go without sleeping,he told himself.But it would be too dangerous.
As the sun set he remembered, to give himself more confidence,the time in the tavern at Casablanca when he had played the hand game with the great negro from Cienfuegos who was the strongest man on the docks.They had gone one day and one night with their elbows on a chalk line on the table and their forearms straight up and their hands gripped tight.Each one was trying to force the other's hand down onto the table.There was much betting and people went in and out of the room under the kerosene lights and he had looked at the arm and hand of the negro and at the negro's face.They changed the referees every four hours after the first eight so that the referees could sleep.Blood came out from under the fingernails of both his and the negro's hands and they looked each other in the eye and at their hands and forearms and the bettors went in and out of the room and sat on high chairs against the wall and watched.The walls were painted bright blue and were of wood and the lamps threw their shadows against them.The negro's shadow was huge and it moved on the wall as the breeze moved the lamps.