终于静下心来想更新the old man and sea了，除了想过嘴瘾，更重要的是想督促自己把原著刷完（微笑）。

114'

he was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish. In the first forty days a boy had been with him. But after forty days without a fish the boy's parents had told him that the old man was now definitely and finally salao, which is the worst form of unlucky, and the boy had gone at their orders in another boat which caught three good fish the first week. It made the boy sad to see the old man come in each day with his skiff empty and he always went down to help him carry either the coiled lines or the gaff and harpoon and the sail that was furled around mast. The sail was patched with flour sacks and, furled, it looked like the flag of permanent defeat.
The old man was thin and gaunt with deep wrinkles in the back of his neck. The brown blothes of the benevolent skin cancer the sun brings from its reflection on the tropic sea were on his cheeks. The blotches ran well down the sides of his face and his hands had the deep-creased scars from handling heavy fish on the cords. But none of these scars were fresh. They were as old as erosions in a fishless desert.
Everything about him was old except his eyes and they were the same color as the sea and were cheerful and undefeated.
特意查了下salao，原来是西班牙语salado演变而来，这也跟作者本人会西班牙语并且参与过西班牙战争，喜爱西班牙斗牛有关吧，对西班牙的热忱，在他的另一部中篇小说“战地钟声”就能可见一斑了。
👇是百度查到的关于salao的解释，供参考：
西班牙文salao正确的拼写应为salado,意为加了盐的,咸的,苦的,转义为倒霉的、不吉利的.译者在译文中保留了这个西班牙语词汇（海明威原文中运用的其他西语词汇,译界前辈赵少伟先生均无一例外地保留了）,笔者以为这样处理颇为得当,译者理解并尊重了原作者的创作初衷,同时,也为读者尽可能多地保留了拉美的独特色彩,让他们,尤其是多少懂点儿西班牙语的读者读了感到过瘾、够味儿.窃以为,这不啻处理译文的一个妙招.salado之所以变成salao,少了一个d,译者解释说“这是被古巴人念白了的一个词儿”.当然,这也不失为可以讲通的一种说法；不过,更为准确的解释,经笔者向秘鲁当代著名作家胡安·莫里略·加诺萨（Juan Morillo Ganoza）教授请教,他认为这是古巴人吃音所致,他们把d吃掉了,而这也正是海明威用这个“破残”的西班牙语词汇的意图：显示古巴下层老百姓的身份.

142'

“Santiago,” the boy said to him as they claimed the bank from where the skiff was hauled up. "I could go with you again. We've made some money."
The old man had taught the boy to fish and the boy loved him.
"No," the old man said. "You're with a lucky boat. Stay with them."
"But remember how you went eighty-seven days without fish and then we caught big ones every day for three weeks."
"I remember," the old man said. "I know you did not leave me because you doubted."
"It was papa made me leave. I am a boy and I must obey him."
"I know," the old man said. "it is quite normal."
"He hasn't much faith."
"No," the old man said. "But we have. Haven't we?"
"Yes," the boy said. "Can I offer you a beer on the Terrace and then we'll take the stuff home."
"Why not?" the old man said. "Between fishermen."
They sat on the Terrace and many of the fishermen made fun of the old man and he was not angry. Others, of the older fishermen, looked at him and were sad. But they did not show it and they spoke politely about the current and the depths the had drifted their lines at and the steady good weather and of what they had seen. The successful fishermen of that day were already in and had butchered their marlin out and carried them laid full length across two planks, with two men staggering at the end of each plank, to the fish house where they waited for the ice truck to carry them to the market in Havana. Those who had caught sharks had taken them to the shark factory on the other side of the cove where they were hoisted on a block and tackle, their liver removed, their fins cut off and their hides skinned out and their flesh cut into strips for salting