A Saturday Morning with Santiago
Table of Contents
I hadn’t read The Old Man and the Sea in years. One Saturday morning this past February, before the noise of the day could catch up to me, I pulled it from the shelf, and by pulling it from the shelf I mean I opened my Kindle. I sat down with it and didn’t get up until it was finished.
It’s a short book, but not an easy one. Not emotionally. Reading it now, in my fifties, it hit me differently than it did when I was younger. Now, I see a man alone. A man who keeps going when no one is watching. A man who’s lost much, but still shows up.
What Changes When You Come Back to a Story
Revisiting this book after years away felt like checking in with someone you once thought you understood. But this time, you’re older. More worn in. More aware of what life can take from you quietly, without ceremony.
Reading it now, I noticed the silences. The way Santiago talks to himself, not out of madness but because he has no one else to talk to. The aching slowness of his hands. His rituals. The way he remembers the boy who no longer fishes with him. There’s pride there, but not the kind that shouts. It’s quiet. Intentional. Unshakable.
“No one should be alone in their old age, he thought. But it is unavoidable.”
That thought feels heavier now. When I was younger, I might have read past it. Now, I understand the truth in it. It’s not pessimism. It’s just the way life plays out for many people. And yet, Santiago doesn’t wallow. He just keeps going.
Another line that struck me:
“It is better to be lucky. But I would rather be exact. Then when luck comes you are ready.”
That idea isn’t just about fishing. It’s about preparation and pride. The older I get, the more I believe that discipline matters more than talent. Consistency outlasts the spotlight.
Quiet Struggles in a Loud World
Santiago’s struggle feels modern, not because of the setting but because of what he represents. He labors in silence. There are no updates, no validation, no audience. Just the work. Just the sea.
“The thousand times that he had proved it meant nothing. Now he was proving it again. Each time was a new time and he never thought about the past when he was doing it.”
There’s no coasting on past wins. Each day resets the score. That’s how it feels in real life, too. You do the work. You show up again. And again.
The Sea, the Moon, and the Fight
There’s a softness in the way Santiago thinks about the sea that I never fully appreciated before:
“But the old man always thought of her as feminine and as something that gave or withheld great favours, and if she did wild or wicked things it was because she could not help them. The moon affects her as it does a woman, he thought.”
Even in hardship, Santiago doesn’t blame the sea. He respects it. He recognizes its power, its indifference, and its beauty. That kind of posture feels rare now. We’re always looking for someone to blame. Santiago looks for balance.
Why It Still Matters
We don’t have many stories like this anymore. Ones that sit in the quiet and let the reader do the work. Hemingway doesn’t hand us meaning. He offers us a man, a boat, and a fish. And in that stripped-down frame, we find something profound.
Reading it again reminded me that success doesn’t always look like winning. Sometimes, it looks like staying in the fight long after it’s reasonable to do so. Sometimes, it looks like rowing home with nothing but your pride intact.
Santiago never complains, not really. He never asks for pity. He just keeps going.
I felt a kind of kinship with him. Not because I’ve ever been out to sea, but because I’ve been through quiet struggles that leave marks and quiet struggles that don’t. I think a lot of us have.
We need stories like this. Stories that remind us it’s enough to show up, to endure, and to return home with your head up, even if your hands are empty.