Hemingway

Round 7: "Men Without Women"

One Morning, just as the sun also rose, Ernest was pounding on our door. Floyd Gibbons and I wanted to sleep. But try and do it. If you didn't let him in he would break the door down. Never saw a man with such energy in all my life. It was May and we were in the tropics where everybody takes it easy. But that's not the Hemingway of life. He wants action wherever he is. And he gets it. So we got up and went fishing.

We took Gib's boat, Ernest's tackle. There were five of us men without women; the captain, the three of us and a native bait-cutter. Ernest tried to get his Cuban mate to come along but the boy had more sense. He was tired after that storm session and you can't blame him. Said he wanted to see that the rudder was repaired and stayed in bed.

As you head out to sea from the Bimini jetty you pass the partly submerged wreck of a big steel freighter. Gib thought it would be a pretty good spot to fish and so did I. But Ernest had other ideas.

"Where do you think you are?" he said. "In Lake Michigan? We are going after tuna, not perch."

The only way Gib and I had ever gone after tuna was in a tin can. So we went after tuna the hard way. From the time it took to get to the spot, I thought we must be going to Miami for a tuna sandwich. We were almost a full bottle out of Bimini before we slowed down. But it was a beautiful ride just the same. The sea had calmed down over night and the sun coming up between the palm trees on the island made it look like those like those colored postal cards they sell you in Miami.

Then Ernest started strapping the harness on me. It's a sort of strait-jacket affair that goes around your waist and over your shoulders and has a socket to hold the end of the fishing pole like the color sergeants in the army use to carry the flags in a parade. And you should have seen the fishing pole. It was as big around as a clothes pole and had a reel as big as a hand organ. Weighed a ton. The line wrapped around it looked more like telephone cable than fish line. There must have been miles of it from the size of the spool. And when I got a look at the bait I thought I had caught a fish already. It was the biggest one I had ever had on a line. Must have weighed over three or four pounds and it was all trussed up on a three-pronged hook that reminded you of the hooks in a meat market. Big as your fist. I thought they were kidding me. Fish hooks are little bits of things, like bent pins, with a barb on them that always get caught in your pants. I'd hate to have that thing get caught on my pants, I thought.

I said aloud, "What are we after, elephants?"

"This is no joking matter," Hemingway said. "That tackle set me back 900 bucks. If you lose it you go right overboard after it."

Then he tossed the bait over the side, and went up on the flying bridge to get a bird's eye view of the fish. Gib was sitting alongside of me to help out with a little expert advice of his own. He knew about as much about deep sea fishing as I did, so we were even.

"I'll tell you when they are coming," Ernest said.

Can you imagine that? I thought. He's going to tell me when the fish are coming. What's he got? A diver's helmet? Or does he think this is a glass-bottomed boat? Or maybe he's got an X-ray machine up there to see a fish away down in that dark green water. Must have been a mile deep where we were. Then he tells me that when I feel something tickle the bait a little I should slip the release and not jerk the pole but let the line run out until I count 10. "Wait until he swallows it," he says.

How the hell am I going to know when he swallows it, I thought. You'd think I was the fish's doctor out there in the water telling him to say "Ah." Just then I saw something white about 50 feet off the stern. I didn't feel anything but saw something splash. Gib saw it too. "You got him, reel in," he yelled. I jerked the pole back so hard it beaned me on the forehead. But I had the fish all right, Saw him jump right out of the water. I started reeling.

"That's your bait," Ernest said. "We're trolling on the surface."

He was right, that time anyway. I let the line out again and could see the bait following us like he was alive. I took a good look at him so I'd know him the next time. A drink or two later Ernest yelled again, "Look out. Couple of big ones are flirting with it." Better do it his way this time, I thought. Then I felt something. Just a slight tug on the line. That can't be a big fish, I thought. Feels like a perch nibbling. It came again. So I released the catch, let the line run out and counted 10. Hope I'm counting that fish out the way I did Disraeli, I thought. I gave him the long count too. At 12 I snapped the catch back on and jerked that pole as hard as I could.

And then it happened. Somebody jerked back so hard the tackle and I nearly went overboard together. And you should have seen that line run out. Straight down it went toward China. In two seconds flat Ernest was beside me yelling in my ear, "Hold on. You got a quarter of a ton of fish on there. Let him sound."

I couldn't hear any sound from the fish but I held on for dear life just the same and that line kept on going out so fast it started to smoke. Ernest grabbed the pitcher of ice water and poured it on the reel. "If it slackens a little, pump and reel," he said.

It did slacken a little after what seemed hours. The fish must have hit the bottom, I thought. Three quarters of the line, I could see from the reel, was straight down in the ocean and the reel held 400 yards of line. That meant the water was about as deep as the Empire State Building is tall. All I had to do now was to pull that fish up again. And if you ask me, I'd rather climb the steps of the Empire State Building, step by step, any time.

The reeling wasn't so hard. It was geared down a lot. But pumping with the left was murder. I stood it as long as I could and then threw in the sponge. They say it was 25 minutes. My arm hurt so I could hardly get out of the harness. While I was wriggling out and groaning Hemingway took the pole and with those big feet of his gripping the deck, played that whale, or whatever it was, like a brook fisherman playing a trout. I watched him for half an hour. Then it seemed to get easier. He was pumping and reeling like a steam engine. What a left.

"Sharks are after him," he said.

There he goes again with that fortune telling stuff, I thought. The fish is still a hundred feet down in the ocean and he tells us the sharks are biting him. Better go after him while his hands are busy, I thought. Gib must have been thinking the same thing.

"How do you know?" he said.

I said aloud, "why, it's very simple, Gib, Mr. Hemingway and Mr. Fish have a sort of Morse code between them. The fish taps out on SOS over that telegraph line in his mouth and Mr. H. receives it over the line in his hands."

"That's right," Ernest said.

And he went on pumping and reeling like a madman. You could see it was a lot easier than when I had the pole. The line was coming in now almost as fast as it went out. I started pouring ice water on it as a gag and got a kick in the shins for my trouble. Imagine kicking anybody with your bare toes. I wouldn't kick a pillow with that ingrown toe-nail of mine. The guy has concrete toes like a statue, I thought.

Hurt me more than it did him.

Then things really started to happen. He had the fish so close to the surface you could see him. It was a tuna all right and what a tuna. Looked like a whale and he wasn't alone. There were three or four other guys as big as he was with him only they were charging and snapping at him like a hungry man snapping at a tuna sandwich.

Sharks and what sharks! That marine telegraph wasn't so far off after all, I thought. The captain and our bait-cutter grabbed long wicked-looking gaffs and went into action. Gib and I went into hiding.

Sharks, they say, are no match for a big tuna unless he's hurt or hooked but once they get him helpless on a line it's different. The only friend the tuna had was Hemingway and the way he jerked that big fish away from those sharks was something to see. Said he was afraid the sharks would cut the line. Their skin is like rough sandpaper made of powdered glass. If one just brushes against you. you start bleeding.

You could see the poor tuna was all in when they finally got him on the winch. Somebody had taken a 50-pound bite out of him. That must have been when he sent the wire to Hemingway, I thought. Even as they pulled him on the big winch one of the sharks jumped five feet out of the water and took a bite out of him as though he were cheese. You could hear the shark's teeth snap like a steel trap. Some teeth. Some tuna too. He was 10 feet long and must have weighed 500 pounds even with the two bites out of him.

I felt pretty good about my catch. After all I had hooked him first. The bait-cutter brought us a round of drinks to celebrate. But Hemingway was sore. He took his drink but said he hated sharks. The bait-cutter hated them too. Kept shaking his fist at the water. Who doesn't hate sharks, I thought. You could see them hanging around the boat watching us to see if we were going to throw out another line. It gave you could shivers just to look at them. But Papa Hemingway fooled them.

"No use fishing around here any more," he said. "I'll show you landlubbers some real he-man sport. We will go back and get the tools. We've got 500 pounds of bait and from now on we're after sharks."

Well, I thought, you would certainly need a pretty big hook to carry that tuna as bait and a telegraph pole to fish with, not to mention a two-inch hawser for a line. But I didn't say anything. When you are fishing with Hemingway you don't say much. He doesn't either.

But on the way back he told us his father had given him a fishing pole for (continued on page 60) Hemingway (continued on page 52) his birthday when he was only two less in Paris that time. He didn't care years old and a double-barreled shot-gun when he was 10.

The trip back was relaxing. Except for the blood all over the deck you'd have thought we were just sitting around in some quiet bar. And you should have seen Papa that day. Naked, except for a pair of old blood-stained shorts, with a stubble on his chin just long enough to look untidy. A tuna is a red-blooded fish and he had so much blood on him he might have been a tuna himself. You'd certainly never take him for a writer. I never did anyway, I thought.

I said aloud, "What's this I hear about your telling Who's Who that your favorite sports were fishing, hunting and drinking?"

"That's right," he said, "but they changed it to 'Fishing, Hunting and Reading."

"Hear you got 100 grand for the rights to Farewell to Arms." I said.

"That's all," he said. "Should have asked 200."

That's all, I thought. Where does he get that stuff? You'd think 100 grand was peanuts. That was too much for Gib. He went below to take a nap. I was plenty tired too. The sea and the sun and the excitement get you tired when you are out with Ernest. But he was full of pep. Started cleaning his tackle while we chatted. You could see he loved it. And he breathed in that sea air like an old tar.

"How did you like the picture?" I said aloud.

"What picture?" he said.

"Farewell," I said.

"Didn't see it," he said.

"What?" I said. "You didn't see your own picture?"

"That's right," he said.

"Why?" I said.

He said, "If you see if you might not like it. Then you might not want to write another."

How does he know all this dope? I thought. Makes sense but where does he get it? Seems to know Hollywood and everything else inside out, I thought.

"Did you go out to Hollywood?" I said.

"No," he said.

"Why not?" I said.

"Why should I?" he said. "If you go out there they get you writing as though you were looking through a camera lens. All you think about is pictures when you ought to be thinking about people. You've got to live the life of your characters to write about them."

There's the guy's secret, I thought; living the life of his characters. That's why he was running around with the countess in Paris that time. He didn't care anything about her. He just stuck a pin in her like those butterfly collectors do. Wanted to see what made her tick. The guy, I realized for the first time, is a perfectionist. That's what he is. Whether or not you like his style of writing doesn't mean a thing. The point is he knows what he is writing about and you know it. He's not a fiction writer. He's a reporter of emotions. And he never writes about any emotion he has not experienced himself.

Take this Farewell to Arms. It's about the Italian Army. Well, he ought to know something about that. He got himself shot up in the Italian Army, didn't he? They say his stuff is full of tragedy. So what? He lived across from the cemetery long enough to know about death. And how about that tomb-like house he has in Key West. Maybe that's why he lives there. And he has been courting death himself enough to know just how it feels when your number is up. Going out in that storm in that little boat of his showed the guy's curiosity about danger. And look at him going up. against those three rumrunners in the Bucket of Blood. Bet he felt like running out of the joint when the fight started. But he didn't run because the desire to learn how it feels to be on the spot was the stronger urge. Wanted to feel it so he could write about it some day. Living the life of his characters is the guy's trade. To Have and Have Not, they tell me, was a book about a tough guy just like the one who broke the glass off in that very fight. He just used the guy as a guinea pig.

Look at Death in the Afternoon. You look at it. I don't want to. But let me tell you something. That's the one about Spanish bullfighters and they tell me the guy lived with a bullfighter to learn about bullfighting from him. Not only that, he learned to fight the bull himself. He actually got out there in the arena and fought a bull. They say he got gored pretty badly too. And what did he do it for? I'll tell you. He got himself kicked in the pants by that bull so he could find out first hand just how those matadors, or whatever they call them, feel about it themselves. He is a guy who wants to learn about it right from the bull's mouth.

Take Across the River and Into the Trees. And you can take that one too if you want too. I wouldn't stand in your way. As a matter of fact, I thought it was the Civil War story about Stonewall Jackson when he got shot. But they tell me it has a lot of Hemingway's own character in it. Sort of a psychoanalysis of himself between the lines. Mirror writing I guess they call it. I can't read that stuff to save my life. But it just goes to show you.

Take one of his early short stories. Take 'em all if you want to. The one I mean is The Snows of Kilimanjaro. Get a load of that title. You'd think it was about winter sports, wouldn't you? I did. You know, ski-jumping in the Swiss Alps or something. Well, get out your fan. It's about Africa. No kidding. And who the hell ever heard of snow in Africa? I didn't notice Bogart wearing ear muffs and mittens in The African Queen. Did you? I thought he had on a sun helmet and shorts. Must be my eyes. Ever see a safari on snowshoes in a Martin Johnson film? Or Frank Buck skating after a polar bear in the Sahara? It just goes to show you, I say.

Let's look into the significance of that screwy word Kill-a-man-jaro. Why, it's nothing but the old cemetery influence working again and again and again. Death never takes a holiday with that guy. Always killing somebody. You know, some people think because they kill a lot of guys they are great writers – like Shakespeare or Jack Webb. But I don't see these two letting their characters die in bed the way he does in The Killers and The Snows. Hamlet and his friend Macbeth didn't take it lying down. They were in there in the last round slugging it out with knives and poison. What's new about a guy dying in bed? If you ask me, the author should have stood in bed. I say, let this bird Jaro, or whatever his name is, die with his boots on. But try and tell him that!

Let's skip quickly over The Green Hills of Africa. Ever read it? I didn't. It's an old one of his. First it's green hills and then it's white snow; in Africa. It's the title that crabbed it. Look at those Foreign Legion pictures in Technicolor. Those green hills of his are yellow sand dunes. Must have written that one with a green fountain pen.

So much for literary criticism. Better soft-soap him now, I thought.

I said aloud, "Nice piece of reporting you did in Death in the Afternoon."

Something told me I should not have said it. The fellow is funny about compliments. Doesn't like them. Thinks you are yessing him.

"Forget it," he said. "That's not you talking. It's Hollywood. The minute you heard I got 100 Gs for Farewell you began to think I could write. I'm no better now than I was when I lived over the cemetery. Just getting more dough. That's all,"

Maybe it is like that, I thought. When you know somebody well you don't think they can be so hot. Because you know them. Then when they make good you begin to think they must be good. Well, I still didn't think much of The Killers. (concluded on page 66) Hemingway (continued from page 60) Felt like asking him what had become of it if it was so good. He wrote it 10 years before over the cemetery but I certainly had never heard of the thing since. But he couldn't sell that one to the movies, I thought.

As we passed the old wreck on our way in we noticed a swank little cruiser anchored over there. So we headed over to see who our visitors were. The boat was a little honey. I was sure glad we were in The Adventurer instead of Ernest's boat. More class. The cruiser was lying in the lee of the wreck and the water was as smooth as glass. It was spick and span the way a boat ought to be. You could see two fellows fishing from easy chairs in the stern. They had a table between them and each held a highball in one hand and a slender little one-handed perch-pole in the other. It was sure a swell set-up. Wonder what they will say when they get a look at our blood-stained pirate, I thought.

"Some sportsmen," he said. He thought that still-fishing for pan fish was strictly for the birds unless you were doing it for bait.

The captain shut off our motors and we drifted in on them. They had not seen us as yet when one of them let out a yell. He had taken a fish. But he did not reel in. Didn't want to take the glass out of his other hand, I guess. He just jerked the toy rod and up popped a brightly colored little fish about six inches long. Instead of taking the fis off the hook he swung the pole in a wide arc like a fellow casting backwards. Then we knew why he had yelled. A grinning black face in a cook's white hat appeared at an open window in the back of him and a capable hand caught the line on the fly. A knife flashed in the sunshine. The odor of frying fish caught our nostrils.

This was too much for Hemingway. He let out a roar that brought Gib rushing up on deck. Probably thought we were sinking. The two hardy fishermen looked up and didn't even bat an eye. All there of us recognized them as Messrs. Wooly Donahue and Ben Finney, old friends and erstwhile men about towns like Paris and Palm Beach.

"You're just in time for lunch," Wooly said. "Come aboard and pick your dish."

We tied up to them and in a few minutes had been provided with easy chairs and a fresh bottle of Scotch. This is the life, I thought. Gib liked it too. No excitement. Just solid comfort. Ernest didn't like anything about it but the Scotch which was the real uncut Nassau vintage. He wouldn't even sit down. When he saw the cook baiting the hooks you could see it was almost too much for him. The bait was strips of red flannel! No fooling. Looks like the boys will be without underwear next winter, I thought.

We looked over the side. The water was about 30 or 40 feet deep but you could see right to the bottom. And you could see hundreds of little fish of all colors fighting to get at that bait. You had to jerk it away from them. Ben held his flannel-baited hook out of the water.

"Which one do you want for lunch?" he asked Gib.

"I'll take the yellow one over there," Gib said.

And as we watched Ben threw his line in, jerked the hook away from three or four baby bluefish until the yellow-tail bit. Took about 30 seconds in all. It was like taking a fish out of one of those tanks they have in seafood restaurants in New York. Up he came over Ben's shoulder right into the waiting hands of the cook.

We had hardly ordered our dinner when there it was on the table. Quickest service you ever saw. And what fish. Ernest shook his head sadly but I noticed it didn't interfere with his appetite. Gib and I were all for making a day of it. But not Ernest. "Make a softy out of you," he said.

When we took off for shore the two sportsmen were still at it. Betting 10 bucks on which could take a certain fish first. Some fun.

"That's what dough does to you," Hemingway said.

"It can do it to me any time it wants to," I said.

"Me too," Gib said.

The reception committee was on the jetty when we docked. Any time Papa docks the whole island turns out. They pitched in and helped us get our tuna on the scales. I had my picture taken standing along side of it with the harness, big tackle, our bait-cutter and everything. Some picture. Some tuna too. Weighed 520 pounds.

Ernest told the natives to help themselves. That's enough food for a year, I thought. At least a million sandwiches. But what do you think? All they took was a small filet off the belly weighing not over a few pounds. Some waste, I thought. But Ernest explained that the meat wasn't good in the tropics at this time of the year. It seems you got to catch them up North in the cold water for canning. But he said he knew somebody who would like it.

"Who?" I said.

"The sharks," he said. "We will feed it to them with lead sauce."

That gentleman-fishing was too much for Ernest.