“It was only his turn,”he said.“ He'll take it.”
He had pushed his straw hat hard down on his head before he hooked the fish and it was cutting his forehead.He was thirsty too and he got down on his knees and,being careful not to jerk on the line,moved as far into the bow as he could get and reached the water bottle with one hand.He opened it and drank a little.Then he rested against the bow. He rested sitting on the unstepped mast and sail and tried not to think but only to endure.
The fish never changed his course nor his direction all that night as far as the man could tell from watching the stars. It was cold after the sun went down and the old man's sweat dried cold on his back and his arms and his old legs.During the day he had taken the sack that covered the bait box and spread it in the sun to dry.After the sun went down he tied it around his neck so that it hung down over his back and he cautiously worked it down under the line that was across his shoulders now.The sack cushioned the line and he had found a way of leaning forward against the bow so that he was almost comfortable.The position actually was only somewhat less intolerable;but he thought of it as almost comfortable.I can do nothing with him and he can do nothing with me,he thought.Not as long as he keeps this up.