“You see, Davy, he went down to where he liked it and now he’s moving out to where he wants to go. Pretty soon you’ll get some line on him.”
The boy’s brown back was arched, the rod bent, the line moved slowly through the water, and the boat moved slowly on the surface, and a quarter of a mile below the great fish was swimming. The gull left the patch of weed and flew toward the boat. He flew around Thomas Hudson’s head while he steered, then headed off toward another patch of yellow weed on the water.
“Try to get some on him now,” Roger told the boy. “If you can hold him you can get some.”
“Put her ahead just a touch more,” Eddy called to the bridge and Thomas Hudson eased her ahead as softly as he could.
David lifted and lifted, but the rod only bent and the line only tightened. It was as though he were hooked to a moving anchor.
“Never mind,” Roger told him. “You’ll get it later. How are you, Davy?”
“I’m fine,” David said. “With that harness across my back I’m fine.”
“Do you think you can stay with him?” Andrew asked.
“Oh shut up,” David said. “Eddy, can I have a drink of water?”
“Where’d I put it?” Eddy asked. “I guess I spilled it.”
“I’ll get one,” Andrew went below.
“Can I do anything, Dave?” young Tom asked. “I’m going up so I won’t be in the way.”
“No, Tom. Goddam it, why can’t I lift on him?”
“He’s an awfully big fish, Dave,” Roger told him. “You can’t bull him around. You’ve got to lead him and try to convince him where he has to come.”
“You tell me what to do and I’ll do it until I die,” David said. “I trust you.”
“Don’t talk about dying,” Roger said. “That’s no way to talk.”
“I mean it,” David said. “I mean it really.”
Young Tom came back up on the flying bridge with his father. They were looking down at David, bent and harnessed to his fish, with Roger standing by him and Eddy holding the chair. Andrew was putting the glass of water to Dave’s mouth. He took some in and spat it out.
“Pour some on my wrists, will you, Andy?” he asked.
“Papa, do you think he can really stay with this fish?” Tom said to his father very softly.
“It’s an awful lot of fish for him.”
“It scares me,” Tom said. “I love David and I don’t want any damned fish to kill him.”
“Neither do I and neither does Roger and neither does Eddy.”
“Well we’ve got to look after him. If he gets in really bad shape, Mr. Davis ought to take the fish or you take him.”
“He’s a long way from bad shape yet.”
“But you don’t know him like we do. He would kill himself to get the fish.”
“Don’t worry, Tom.”
“I can’t help it,” young Tom said. “I’m the one in the family that always worries. I hope I’ll get over it.”
“I wouldn’t worry about this now,” Thomas Hudson said.
“But papa, how is a boy like David going to catch a fish like that? He’s never caught anything bigger than sailfish and amberjack.”
“This fish will get tired. It’s the fish that has the hook in his mouth.”
“But he’s monstrous,” Tom said. “And Dave’s fastened to him just as much as he is to Dave. It’s so wonderful I can’t believe it if Dave catches him, but I wish you or Mr. Davis had him.
“Dave’s doing all right.”
They were getting further out to sea all the time but it was still a flat calm. There were many patches of Gulf weed now, sunburned so that they were yellow on the purple water, and sometimes the slow-moving taut white line ran through a patch of weed and Eddy reached down and cleared any weed that clung to the line. As he leaned over the coaming and pulled the yellow weed off the line and tossed it away, Thomas Hudson saw his wrinkled red brown neck and old felt hat and heard him say to Dave, “He’s practically towing the boat, Davy. He’s way down there tiring himself and tiring himself all the time.”