Ernest Hemingway by Keith Ferrell

Author:Keith Ferrell
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781590773536
Publisher: M. Evans & Company

TENSUCCESS

KEY WEST, FLORIDA, in 1928 had a population of less than 10,000 scattered across its four-mile length. During the war there had been nearly three times that many people on the island, the growth a result of the booming navy yard there. Now the island, the southernmost city in the United States, had a sleepy tropical feel to it. Its tallest building was a seven-story hotel; most of the structures were considerably smaller, low houses, many of them with white surrounding walls, shaded by palms. Key West’s hotels catered to tourists who were taken by the island’s vaguely New England charm, its cupolas and porches—and, in contrast, the Bahamian settlers, known as “Conchs,” whose accents, attitudes, and recipes contributed much to Key West’s atmosphere.

Arriving near the end of the first week in April, Hemingway was immediately taken with the island’s reality as he had been by others’ recollections and descriptions of it. Uncle Gus Pfeiffer’s car had not yet arrived, and the apologetic automobile dealer arranged for an apartment for the Hemingways. The apartment was small and hot, Pauline was miserable, but although railroad passage linked Key West to the mainland, Hemingway decided that they would stay on the island. He was already responding to it.

He soon established a routine that mixed creation with recreation. In the early mornings, when the apartment was still cool from the night breezes, he worked on his novel, writing in pencil for several hours. He broke off by early afternoon to walk the streets, getting to know the people, making himself known at the local bars. One spot in particular, a Conch bar called Sloppy Joe’s after its owner, Joe Russell, became a favored spot. Above all, when he was not writing, Hemingway fished.

This was not the slow, graceful fly fishing he had loved since childhood. The waters around Key West, so near the Gulf Stream, were filled with strong fighting fish. Barracuda, permit, snapper, tarpon that weighed over one hundred pounds, and, farther out, sailfish and giant marlin—these were fish that challenged not only the fisherman’s skills but also his endurance, determination, and sheer physical strength. This kind of fishing was a contest, even a battle, and it was precisely the sort of fishing Hemingway had been searching for. He got to know boat owners who ferried him to choice spots, learned the lore of ocean tackle and bait, and set himself the goal of becoming the finest sport fisherman the area had ever seen.

Hemingway seemed determined to fit into Key West and to accomplish his amalgamation quickly. He got rid of the necktie and jacket he’d worn during the voyage from Havana, and almost before his bags were unpacked had adopted a new uniform. Just as he’d strode through Paris in sweat shirt and tennis shoes, garb of the bohemian, he now dressed as a dockside tough, hard drinker, and hard fisherman—baggy trousers or shorts held up by a length of rope, torn shirt stained with the blood of fish, a shapeless billed cap pulled low over his eyes.

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