Four Days with Hemingway's Ghost Read Online Free PDF Page B

Other times, forget it; she can be one heartless, malevolent whore.”
    “I think I know exactly what you mean.” 
    He reached for a green visor hanging next to him on the cabin wall.  Letting go of the wheel for a moment as he slid the visor onto his head and adjusted it, he said, “Have you ever seen a lion take down a zebra?  How about a pack of coyotes finishing off a fawn, or a shark rip apart a hooked marlin?  It’s all about survival.  But wow, it can be incredibly cruel.”
    “Have you ever asked Him about that?  Why things couldn’t have been set up differently?”
    “No, but you know what . . . I will.”
    I thought about what he’d just said for a moment.  Then, knowing that Ernest had ended thousands of lives with his guns and fishing rods, I asked him something against my better judgment.
    “I’ve never been a hunter, Ernest, although I too love to fish.  You’ve been both.  Have you ever regretted taking the lives of so many animals?”
    Instantly I was sorry I’d asked him that. 
    Still looking at me, his eyes narrowed.  Beneath the visor I saw his forehead all scrunched up.  Had I not known the real Ernest Hemingway, I’d have thought he just might be getting ready to let go of the wheel and nail me with a hard right.
    After a short eternity, he’d finally turned away.  His gaze returned to the wide, watery horizon beyond the bow, and the angry expression on his face evolved into something else.  His stormy look lost its ferociousness.  The undulating muscles protruding from his jaw were no longer flexing.  The initial impact of my question was waning.  I couldn’t tell if he was going to ignore my question about killing animals or if he was hunting for just the right words to answer it.  Either way I wished I could take it back. 
    Still looking straight ahead, he held the metal cup in my direction and said, “Would you give me one more small splash, Jack?”
    “Sure.  You bet.”
    I poured a bit from the thermos and handed it back.  He took a sip, rested the cup on the counter behind the wheel, and said, “No, I don’t regret what I’ve done.  I loved what I was doing.  Considering who I was at the time, hunting and fishing were perfectly fine.  It was the right thing to do, fulfill my deepest passions.  But I’ll grant you this . . . you did hit a sore spot.”
    I looked down.  Then like a small boy who was sorry for something he shouldn’t have done, I said in a low tone, “I had no right asking . . . .”
    “Forget it.  Don’t let it eat at you, Jack.  It was a perfectly legitimate question.  It stung like a mean-assed wasp, but it was legitimate.  As a matter of fact, it was a good sign.  A writer must ask the tough questions.  It’s the only way to get to the heart of the truth.”
    “Well, I’m still not too happy,” I said, lifting my head to the windshield just in time to see a flying fish skitter across the water’s indigo surface.  The sun was higher now, allowing the water to take back its natural color.  We’d been running for close to an hour, and the Gulf Stream beneath us was very deep—deep as the feelings that Ernest was about to express.
    “Fish,” he said, nodding to where the flying fish had just ended its flight, “I don’t mind killing fish.  Sure, just as I have written, when you’ve battled a big one for a long time—he on one end of the line, you on the other, you can’t help but to feel connected to him by more than just the line.  You respect that fish, and he respects you.  It’s a personal thing, and the longer the fight goes on the more you respect each other.  The crew and your friends—they can be right alongside the chair with you, but it’s still just you and that fish.  You can actually grow to love a giant marlin, tuna, or swordfish.  And as much as you want to get the gaff into him, once you’ve caught many big fish, you begin to feel somewhat sentimental about ending such a magnificent