In 1952, Life Magazine published Ernest Hemingway’s last significant work, his novella ‘The Old Man and the Sea’.

Many of us of course have read it, perhaps more than once. In it, the old and unlucky fisherman Santiago goes out fishing after 12 weeks without a catch.

When he finally hooks a massive marlin, it drags him until he harpoons it and lashes it to the boat. After this, a shark takes a huge bite of the carcass. Then another shark, then two more. When Santiago eventually returns home, he has nothing but a huge skeleton to show for his efforts. His young friend promises to always take him out in the future.

I am struck by the focus most who read this put on the Marlin, the sharks, and Santiago himself. Maybe they are right to see these as most important. But I see a different focus. To me, the small, all-but-overwhelmed boat is vitally important to the tale. And therein lies the parable.

Despite nearly foundering amid the endless waves; regardless of the size and weight of the marlin Santiago fought from and lashed to its deck; overcoming the endless attacks of the sharks; and making the arduous voyage back home with a rapidly disappearing catch, the boat brings Santiago home. And it will take him out again, until the end of his days. The boat is unsinkable, eternal. It is so essential, the novella doesn’t even need to include it in the title, making room for the interplay between its voyager and the place of voyage.

Perhaps it is only me, but I see the boat as our ancestral land, the marlin as the seemingly unreachable dream of peace, the sharks as our implacable adversaries, the sea as the sometimes violent and always unpredictable world, and Santiago as the eternal people of Israel.

No matter the rain, the clouds, or the waves, the boat will sail. No matter how many sharks, the boat will carry its catch and its skipper. No matter how elusive the marlin, Santiago will still go after it, and no matter how heavy or light the burden the boat will still carry it.

We and our land, Santiago and his boat, are indivisible.

Did Hemingway have this in mind when he wrote the story, wistfully reminiscing about his wartime exploits and drowning his regrets in a bottle of whiskey? Probably not. But I’d like to think he’d give it a serious thought before telling another tall tale to all who’d listen.

Shabbat shalom