The boy did not go down.He had been there before and one of the fishermen was looking after the skiff for him.
“I'll get another knife and have the spring ground.How many days of heavy brisa have we?”
“Anything more?”
“I do not care.I caught two yesterday.But we will fish together now for I still have much to learn.”
“And the spear?”
As the boy went out the door and down the worn coral rock road he was crying again.
She's good,he thought.She is sound and not harmed in any way except for the tiller.That is easily replaced .
He was asleep when the boy looked in the door in the morning.It was blowing so hard that the drifting-boats would not be going out and the boy had slept late and then come to the old man's shack as he had come each morning.The boy saw that the old man was breathing and then he saw the old man's hands and he started to cry.He went out very quietly to go to bring some coffee and all the way down the road he was crying.
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.