The Old Men and the Sea

Once he told me of a struggle between a great man and a great beast, something similar to the way hemmingway told of santiago.
a man at the edge of his pulse with his line finding its way to an end. the struggle of pride and sport and sweat all finding its way into the sea. and there he saw spoonie with his brand new fishing pole at an arch to defy mathmatics, in the bow of a tiny row boat, on the verge of becoming a local hero, and then, just like it started, with the snap of tiny teeth, spoonie was in the hull with half of what he had in his heart and his hand.  the unknown, escaping out into infinity, like dreams and future days and unseen things, a mirage in a desert of distant fins, something lost that had never been.  shadows swiming in the night, like sillouetes of birds in flight, spoonie had fallen with his great new broken fishing staff, and my grandfather told this story many times... and he never forgot to laugh.