He let his hand dry in the air then grasped the line with it and eased himself as much as he could and allowed himself to be pulled forward against the wood so that the boat took the strain as much,or more,than he did.
He rested for what he believed to be two hours. The moon did not rise now until late and he had no way of judging the time. Nor was he really resting except comparatively.He was still bearing the pull of the fish across his shoulders but he placed his left hand on the gunwale of the bow and confided more and more of the resistance to the fish to the skiff itself.
“He is tiring or he is resting,”the old man said.“Now let me get through the eating of this dolphin and get some rest and a little sleep.”
Once in the afternoon the line started to rise again.But the fish only continued to swim at a slightly higher level.The sun was on the old man's left arm and shoulder and on his back.So he knew the fish had turned east of north.
Under the stars and with the night colder all the time he ate half of one of the dolphin fillets and one of the flying fish, gutted and with its head cut off.
I could go without sleeping,he told himself.But it would be too dangerous.
“I'll lash the two oars together across the stern and that will slow him in the night,”he said.“ He's good for the night and so am I.”