Hemingway is Fishing for ‘Something’ …
The seas were too heavy to sail again today. Anyhow, Papa was exhausted from months of fruitless fishing for Marlin or U-Boats whilst the Brisa wind walloped his beloved Pilar off the coast of Cojima…r in the Gulf stream, so he headed east. To the Milk lagoon. An oasis of calm in the wetlands where the trade wind would blow itself out by nightfall. And he found his little blue flaking rowing boat safely nestled amongst the flocks of pink flamingos and bright white pelicans with their inky black wingtips. Gliding across the expanse of calm cloudy freshwater, a spray of fine rain brushed his face. The clear Bunsen burner flames of light from the village’s bars on the far shore became a blur of dirty yellow, no longer able to guide him towards warmth and hospitality. He released both oars, removed his glasses and wiped the lenses dry. It was difficult, since the rain, though soft, fell towards him. The boat wobbled and he struggled and cursed. On his way again, he noticed a movement from the shoreline. Running along a path by the side of the lake was a pale thin horse. Like an arc of crystals, its mane gleamed under the moon-lit sky. Behind its tail trailed a line of dust as fine as smoke. Its head stretched forward as though it too were journeying towards the village. Papa laughed. Ha! Only from the lake was it possible to see that the path would soon suddenly drop into a forest of spiky rocks. Then the rain picked up and he grew so weary and felt so utterly desolate that he lay down on the boat’s damp wooden floor and fell asleep.
Tina Bexson 