Theoldman'shands,gnarledandweatheredfromdecadesofpullingfishinglines,grippedthecoarseropewithquietdetermination.Hissun-brownedfaceboredeepcreasesthattoldstoriesofcountlessbattleswiththesea,eachwrinkleatestamenttoyearssquintingagainsttheglareoftropicalsunonwater.Thefadedblueshirthunglooseonhisthinframe,smellingfaintlyofsaltandsweat,thefabricwornsoftfrommanywashings.Aroundhim,thewoodenboatcreakedgentlywiththerhythmofthewaves,itspaintchippedandpeelingwhereyearsofseawaterhadlickedatitssides.Inthedistance,thehorizonstretchedendlessly,thatperfectlinewhereskymetseathathaddrawnhimbackdayafterday,yearafteryear,asinevitableasthetidesthemselves.
