The Unseen Hand of Fate (or Bad Luck)

The sun, a benevolent, if slightly mocking, eye in the vast blue canvas, beat down upon Santiago’s weathered brow. He squinted, not just against the glare, but against the gnawing suspicion that the universe itself seemed to be in a perpetual state of mild annoyance with him. He’d finally wrestled the colossal marlin into submission, a victory so monumental it had practically sent seismic waves of pride through his scrawny frame. Now, with the magnificent, albeit somewhat mangled, carcass lashed to the side of his skiff, he was sailing home. Home, and glory, and perhaps even a decent plate of rice and beans that didn’t taste faintly of desperation.

But the sea, as it so often did, had a sense of humor. A particularly dark, twisted, and utterly unfunny sense of humor, in Santiago’s opinion. It began with the rope. One of the ropes, the one that was supposed to be holding the marlin securely, had, with an almost theatrical sigh of frayed cotton, decided to loosen itself. A gentle breeze, no more than a sigh from a sleepy giant, nudged the marlin’s tail. The great fish, now little more than a colossal, silver-scaled promise, swung ponderously, its enormous tail slapping against the hull of the skiff with a sound that was less a triumphant thwack and more a mournful *thump*.

Santiago, who had been humming a tuneless sea shanty, stopped mid-croon. “Ay, caramba!” he exclaimed, his voice a gravelly rasp. “You there, rope! Have you no respect for a man’s hard-earned lunch?” He glared at the offending rope, as if it were a recalcitrant grandchild. The rope, predictably, offered no reply. It simply continued its indolent unraveling.