“Who gave this to you?”
“Come on and eat.You can't fish and not eat.”
“I must thank him.”
When they reached the old man's shack the boy took the rolls of line in the basket and the harpoon and gaff and the old man carried the mast with the furled sail on his shoulder.
“Because he came here the most times,”the old man said.“If Durocher had continued to come here each year your father would think him the greatest manager.”
“Black beans and rice,fried bananas,and some stew.”
“You ought to go to bed now so that you will be fresh in the morning.I will take the things back to the Terrace.”
“I know.But this is in bottles,Hatuey beer,and I take back the bottles.”
“Age is my alarm clock,”the old man said.“ Why do old men wake so early?Is it to have one longer day?”
He no longer dreamed of storms,nor of women,nor of great occurrences ,nor of great fish,nor fights,nor contests of strength,nor of his wife.He only dreamed of places now and of the lions on the beach.They played like young cats in the dusk and he loved them as he loved the boy.He never dreamed about the boy.He simply woke,looked out the open door at the moon and unrolled his trousers and put them on. He urinated outside the shack and then went up the road to wake the boy.He was shivering with the morning cold.But he knew he would shiver himself warm and that soon he would be rowing.