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Finding Hemingway

A Writer's Dream

By Sändra AlexanderPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 4 min read
2

I thought I was dressed for the occasion. Sports pants and bra, ball cap and sunglasses. Water shoes. I struggled a bit as I unloaded the bulky kayak from my trunk, almost dragging it to its launching spot on the Colorado mountain lake. A perfectly still lake that morning. Yes, I was dressed for a morning of sport, but I might have lavished a little more attention on myself if I had known--on that day, I would be finding Hemingway.

I saw him out of the corner of my eye as my feet hit the cold water, setting down the oars next to the kayak in preparation. He greeted me first.

“Good morning. Taking a ride?” He walked toward me, lumbered really, a more accurate description.

“Yeah,” I said. Couldn’t resist this beautiful morning.”

“Don’t blame ya. Neither could I,” he said as he settled himself atop a close-by picnic table.

“You look like Ernest Hemingway,” I told him. And he really did. Stout, but not overly so. Imposing feet in his leather flip flops. Craggy face, but not old. Weathered skin. Bushy hair, slightly thinning. Grey beard and darker bushy, unkempt brows. His eyes were kind, though his words betrayed the kindness. He came across a bit harsh. Just a bit. Mitts for hands like a puppy that never grew into his paws. Plentiful body hair, easily visible. He wore shorts and a black t-shirt.

“Yeah, I get a lot of that,” he said, and I wasn’t sure if I had offended or just bored him by the Hemingway reference. He seemed to read my discomfort.

“It’s good though. I consider it a compliment. I’m a writer, by God, so I better take it as a compliment. And I better believe I’m good at it--ya know. The writing. But mostly I don’t believe that.”

And that was that. I settled into my kayak, ever so gingerly. I was hardly an expert yet, and this vessel was only a beginner’s model. Aware that he was still watching me, I tried not to appear as awkward and inept as I felt.

I shoved off somewhat gracefully, and took a short trial run out into the trees, through the lake and back, feeling eager to make it back to shore. When I paddled myself in just 20 minutes later, he was right where I left him. Still sitting. Still watching.

“That was fast.”

“Yeah, I explained, “I’m still learning. I think I finally have it worked out so that I can control it instead of it controlling me.” I laughed at myself, and he chuckled, too, a deep Hemingway chuckle.

I’m surprised you can handle it,” he said. “That thing definitely looks like it could have a mind of its own.”

I felt it right away. A bit of that arrogance and know-it-all-ness, but, nevertheless, I moved closer to him and his perch on the picnic table, close enough to read the imprint on his T-shirt.

“What I do isn’t easy, isn’t safe. I am a bullfighter till I die. I will work my hardest through the blood sweat and tears.”

The image there of the bull and matador wasn’t bloody, or gory. They seemingly posed no real threat to one another. No knives or weapons. Just a benign challenge, like a writer who faces the blank page. Daunting but most times manageable.

I continued the conversation by asking his advice.

“What upgrade would you recommend?”

This question clearly opened something inside him. From that point on, he had much to say.

He began by explaining that he had given up all inauthentic pursuits recently, to become who he really is. He lives by the ocean now. Just visiting this little mountain town and not for long. His vessel of choice was a sea kayak, among his collection of boats, designed for deep sea fishing. He rises with the sun, he told me, and by 5:30am is one with the sea, catching his ample feast for the rest of the day. I would be amazed, he was sure, to feel what a sea kayak could do.

“I’ve been out there in some pretty heavy storms, wind, rain. Nothing has ever phased that boat.”

Nothing much has phased that old man and the sea either, I thought to myself, but not saying so out loud. Not wanted to refer to him as old, or God forbid, repeating the Hemingway reference again.

“After the catch,” he continued, “I head inside to my nook and write. I’ve never thought I was any good, but I guess that’s not something a writer should say.”

He writes for a few hours before cooking up the fish. Mostly mackerel, he told me, but every once in a while, he’d get lucky and bring in a cod or flounder from the deeper waters.

He asked about me, too, and I shared, but just a little. I sensed that he asked to be polite, but he was more of a talker than a listener, and I knew he would lose interest easily.

Our lives mirrored one another’s pretty closely. He talked about needing to make a difference. To have a life with meaning, otherwise, why bother. I wondered when and if his life would lose meaning. If it already had.

He talked for quite a while, about how he felt about the earth and the sea. Then, we said our farewell, exchanging the usual pleasantries about how nice it was to meet one another.

As I pulled away, kayak in tow, my rear-view mirror reflected the lake, the mountains, and him. He was standing at the water’s edge now, knee deep in the watery mirror, the moss, and his own thoughts. He didn’t look back. His image had begun to fade, and in that moment, I stopped looking back, too, and drove away, before my heart could be forced to watch him disappear.

"There is nothing to writing. All you have to do is sit down at the typewriter and bleed." Ernest Hemingway

fact or fiction
2

About the Creator

Sändra Alexander

Sandra has self- published several non fiction titles. She holds a Bachelor's degree in Literary Journalism and a Master's Degree in Spiritual Counseling. Sandra currently resides in a small mountain town in Southern Colorado.

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