He waved to Josefa, then vanished into the little
94
A Miracle of Small Fishes
cabin below the bridge. Moments later he reappeared and tossed the line over the side. He could still vault the ship’s rail, and did. But the vault was lower than it had once been, the hand on the rail taking more care in its grip. And he did not bend as easily as before when he stooped to make fast the line to the rusty red cleat.
Grandfather had a long brown face, with smooth lines in it like the crinkled sand dunes in the Desert Vizcaino to the south. His hair was nearly all gone gray now, and when he smiled his teeth flashed many colors besides white. But the light in the back of his eyes still winked as regularly as the old buoy marking the bay entrance. And although Josefa was no longer a baby, but a fine slim girl of nine, the powerful muscles under the stained shirt could still lift her a thousand meters high for a friendly shake, bring her close for a warm kiss redolent of garlic and onions.
Josefa preferred Grandfather’s breath to the new-linen smell of roses in the church garden. He did not take her hand as they walked into town—that would have been unseemly. But he slowed his pace carefully so that she would not have to run to keep up.
Grandfather’s body was cold steel—until he coughed. Then the sun dimmed a little and the shadows of the houses moved closer.
“How was the fishing today, Grandfather?” She knew the answer, but any break in this ritual would have worried him.
“Not too bad, querida. A few yellowtail, some bo-nita, one good shark—”