The fog stuck to the outer layer of the ocean like a cover as Santiago paddled
his little, squeaking boat into the sunrise. Each muscle in his matured body
strained, both from the work of paddling and from a feeling of something tricky
sneaking just past sight. The air was thick with salt, and the skyline extended
wide and mysterious.
"Today," he mumbled, his voice scarcely stronger than the beat of the waves.
"Today, I feel it. There's an out thing there."
Santiago's endured hands held the paddles with a commonality that was