He tries not to think about the marlin, which is half ruined now. As night falls, he knows he will soon see the glow of Havana or one of the new beaches, and he hopes no one has been worried. He thinks at first that there is only Manolin to worry, though he knows the young man would have confidence in him. But then he realizes that some of the older fishermen will worry and some others, too; and he thinks, “I live in a good town.”
Santiago apologizes again to the marlin for going so far out. He tells the fish that together he and it have ruined many sharks and wonders how many sharks the marlin killed in its lifetime with its spear. He believes that if he’d had a hatchet he could have lashed the marlin’s bill to an oar and fought with that, which would have made a formidable weapon. He wonders what he will do now when the sharks come in the night but remains determined to fight them, even until he is dead.
Santiago knows from his pain that he is not dead. He remembers all the prayers he promised to say if he caught the fish but is too tired to say them now. He hopes for some luck to bring in the half of the fish he has left and wonders whether he violated his luck by going out too far. Then he decides that he is being silly and needs to concentrate. He wishes he could buy some luck and wonders whether he might buy it with his broken knife, lost harpoon, and two bad hands. He thinks that might be possible, since he nearly bought some luck with his 84 days at sea without a catch. Then he thinks that he would take some luck in any form and pay whatever price was asked and that right now he wishes to see the glow of Havana’s light.
Around 10 o’clock, he does see the glow. He is stiff and sore and hopes not to fight again. But around midnight, the sharks come in a pack. He can barely see them, although he feels them shaking the skiff as they tear at the marlin. He clubs desperately at what he can only feel in the dark, until something seizes the club. He continues to beat at them with the tiller, until the tiller smashes. Then he lunges at a shark with the splintered butt, driving in the sharp end until the shark rolls away. After that, no more sharks come, for there is nothing left of the marlin to eat.
Injured, Santiago can hardly breathe and has a coppery sweet taste in his mouth. Defiantly, he spits into the ocean, telling the sharks to eat his spit and dream they’ve killed a man. He knows he’s utterly beaten. He fits the damaged tiller into the rudder and continues toward home, trying not to think or feel and ignoring the sharks that occasionally come to pick at the remaining bits of marlin. He notices only how light and fast the skiff is and that the boat is not really harmed except for the tiller, which can be repaired. Following the lights in toward shore, he thinks that the wind can sometimes be a friend, that the sea contains both friends and enemies, that his own bed can be a friend, and that to be beaten is very easy. When he asks himself what really beat him, he answers honestly that nothing beat him; he just went out too far. Long after midnight, when everyone else is asleep, he finally comes ashore.
