“We're different,”the old man said.“I let you carry things when you were five years old.”
“Que va.”The boy said.“ It is what a man must do.”
“He was a great manager,”the boy said.“My father thinks he was the greatest.”
“Do you remember when he used to come to the Terrace? I wanted to take him fishing but I was too timid to ask him.Then I asked you to ask him and you were too timid.”
“I can remember it,”the old man said.“ I'll waken you in time.”
“We'll put the gear in the boat and then get some.”
“So do I,”the boy said.“Now I must get your sardines and mine and your fresh baits.He brings our gear himself.He never wants anyone to carry anything.”
“I thanked him already,”the boy said.“You don't need to thank him.”
“I think so.”
“I know.It was a great mistake.He might have gone with us.Then we would have that for all of our lives.”
“I don't know,”the boy said.“All I know is that young boys sleep late and hard.”
The boy was back now with the sardines and the two baits wrapped in a newspaper and they went down the trail to the skiff,feeling the pebbled sand under their feet,and lifted the skiff and slid her into the water.
He walked off,barefooted on the coral rocks,to the ice house where the baits were stored.