There are plenty of fishermen
throwing their lines into the sea
along the Paphos Harbour,
but one catches my eye
more than the others.
This fisherman is off on his own
and does not have the same look as the others.
I watch him for some time
and then realize why
I am so curious about him.
His is the image I’ve always carried
in my mind about Hemingway’s Santiago.
This fisherman is wearing a stained grey hat
that was once probably white,
a dirty short-sleeved shirt,
the loose ends tied in a knot at his waist,
grubby shorts,
and leather sandals,
cracked and worn with age.
His skin has the wear and tear of his sandals –
dark brown from the sun, old, worn, wrinkled.
The fisherman’s hands have deep troughs
and are gnarled from
injury, age, or,
most likely, disease.
His crooked fingers manipulate the rod
and fishing line and his unshaded eyes
never leave the water.
His feet are heavily calloused,
deep brown like his sun-drenched legs,
the skin cracked in some places,
and with a few old scars.
He is methodical,
has a system from which he doesn’t deviate,
seems oblivious of the people and chatter
going on around him.
I watch him for a half hour, fascinated.
But, like Hemingway’s Santiago,
this fisherman is having a drought.
Perhaps later,
his marlin will come.