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."
I was tired from the rowing and was glad to stop. I rubbed my
aching arms as I watched the old man cast his line into the dark
scarlet sea.
My eyes were fixed on the line dangling out of the boat,
figuring that we'd immediately get a strike. But soon my eyes
became as tired as my arms and I slumped down into the boat,
snuggling into the netting to keep warm. Out of the wind, I felt
better, safer. With my excitement ebbing, exhaustion finally crept
up on me and I drifted off to sleep.
I don't know how long I dozed, but when I opened my eyes, I
heard the old man cough and grumble. I felt sorry for him, sitting
up in the cold, damp night, fighting to keep his dream alive of
catching this one great fish before he died. It seemed like a dream
that would go unfulfilled, for the night was passing and he hadn't
had a single bite on his line.
Not a single bite.
My breath caught in my throat. In all that time, it was
impossible that the old man hadn't had a single nibble, unless the
waters here were DEAD. And if that was true . . .
A terrible fear gripped me, and I wanted to tell the old man to
pull up his line. But I didn't get the chance. In that very moment,
he shouted, "I've got a strike!"
The fishing line went so taut it almost snapped. And even
though the old man was letting out more line to let the fish on the
other end run, he couldn't do it fast enough.
The little boat was being pulled through the water!
At first we moved sluggishly across the choppy sea, but then
the boat was pulled still faster and, like a dragon in flight, we soon
found ourselves soaring across the tops of the waves
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