“We must get a good killing lance and always have it on board.You can make the blade from a spring leaf from an old Ford.We can grind it in Guanabacoa.It should be sharp and not tempered so it will break.My knife broke.”
“Thanks,”the boy said.
Finally the old man woke.
Inside the shack he leaned the mast against the wall.In the dark he found a water bottle and took a drink.Then he lay down on the bed.He pulled the blanket over his shoulders and then over his back and legs and he slept face down on the newspapers with his arms out straight and the palms of his hands up.
“Anything more?”
He unstepped the mast and furled the sail and tied it. Then he shouldered the mast and started to climb.It was then he knew the depth of his tiredness.He stopped for a moment and looked back and saw in the reflection from the street light the great tail of the fish standing up well behind the skiff's stern.He saw the white naked line of his backbone and the dark mass of the head with the projecting bill and all the nakedness between.
The old man took it and drank it.
“Of course.With coast guard and with planes.”
“No.Afterwards I will see what he can eat.”