I must let the first one get a good hold and hit him on the point of the nose or straight across the top of the head,he thought.
He put his hands in the water again to soak them.It was getting late in the afternoon and he saw nothing but the sea and the sky.There was more wind in the sky than there had been,and soon he hoped that he would see land.
He jerked the tiller free from the rudder and beat and chopped with it,holding it in both hands and driving it down again and again.But they were up to the bow now and driving in one after the other and together,tearing off the pieces of meat that showed glowing below the sea as they turned to come once more.
The old man saw the brown fins coming along the wide trail the fish must make in the water.They were not even quartering on the scent.They were headed straight for the skiff swimming side by side.
“You're tired,old man,”he said.“ You're tired inside.”
I cannot be too far out now,he thought.I hope no one has been too worried. There is only the boy to worry, of course.But I am sure he would have confidence.Many of the older fishermen will worry.Many others too,he thought.I live in a good town.
One came,finally,against the head itself and he knew that it was over.He swung the tiller across the shark's head where the jaws were caught in the heaviness of the fish's head which would not tear.He swung it once and twice and again. He heard the tiller break and he lunged at the shark with the splintered butt.He felt it go in and knowing it was sharp he drove it in again.The shark let go and rolled away.That was the last shark of the pack that came.There was nothing more for them to eat.