Three Days on the Water
Gustavo’s stomach tightened. He had been on rougher seas. This was nothing.
Two men pushed the skiff off before the first light. The stones were slick with weed and the keel made a soft grinding sound that Gustavo hated. He held the bow line and stepped in careful, feeling for the slats under his feet. The wood was damp and cool.
Raúl came down from the road slow. He had on the same faded shirt he wore most mornings, the one with the pocket that sagged. The shirt was clean. His hat sat low and the brim hid his eyes. He carried the bait bucket in one hand and the coffee tin in the other.
Gustavo watched the way he placed his foot on the plank and shifted his weight. It was not the way he used to step in. He steadied himself on the gunwale with the back of his fingers and then let go like it was nothing.
“You want the stern?” Gustavo said.
Raúl shook his head. “You take it.”
Gustavo climbed to the oars without arguing. He set them in the locks and began to row out, the blades dipping clean and silent. The village was still asleep. The only light was the orange lamp at the end of the pier and a thin strip of pale sky above the roofs.
