“Tiburon,”the waiter said,“Eshark.”He was meaning to explain what had happened.
As the boy went out the door and down the worn coral rock road he was crying again.
Finally he put the mast down and stood up.He picked the mast up and put it on his shoulder and started up the road.He had to sit down five times before he reached his shack.
That afternoon there was a party of tourists at the Terrace and looking down in the water among the empty beer cans and dead barracudas a woman saw a great long white spine with a huge tail at the end that lifted and swung with the tide while the east wind blew a heavy steady sea outside the entrance to the harbor.
“Don't sit up.”the boy said.“Drink this.”He poured some of the coffee in a glass.
“I'll bring the food and the papers,”the boy said.“Rest well,old man.I will bring stuff from the drugstore for your hands.”
“One on the first day. One the second and two the third.”
“Now we fish together again.”
“Very good.”
“No.Truly.It was afterwards.”
“Nothing,”he said aloud.“ I went out too far.”
“I'll get another knife and have the spring ground.How many days of heavy brisa have we?”
“Anything more?”
“Of course.With coast guard and with planes.”
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.