I could just drift, he thought, and sleep and put a bight of line around my toe to wake me. But
today is eighty-five days and I should fish the day well.
Just then, watching his lines, he saw one of the projecting green sticks dip sharply.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes,” and shipped his oars without bumping the boat. He reached out for the
line and held it softly between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He felt no strain nor
weight and he held the line lightly. Then it came again. This time it was a tentative pull, not solid nor
heavy, and he knew exactly what it was. One hundred fathoms down a marlin was eating the
sardines that covered the point and the shank of the hook where the hand-forged hook projected
from the head of the small tuna.