Not that he expected anything else.
“Not many fish biting, eh?”
Again, no answer.
“Think we should head home?”
The dog just looks at him.
“Yeah, I figure we’ll head home.”
He turns the boat around, the old motor puttering away.
The dog sits at the front of the boat, catching what little wind there is in his face.
The dock in his town appears over the horizon.
The dog whimpers, gets down off the front.
“What’s wrong, old boy?”
The dog says nothing, just hides under the seat.
“C’mon, boy. Get outta there.”
He looks up, his eyes grow wide.
Thirty feet high, a hundred yards away.
And moving fast.
Gabbling meaninglessly, he puts the motor into reverse.
It putters out.
He yanks furiously on the cord.
It starts up again, slowly.
The boat eases back, slowly.
He grabs the oars and paddles, quickly.
The wave was closer now.
Paddling, motor buzzing, more paddling.
It’s no use. He lays down the oars.
Hope the wave misses us.
Hope the boat is strong enough.
Hope God is forgiving.
He closes his eyes, waits for impact.
He looks up.
The wave is gone. Nothing sits before him.
Except his dog, drooling on the seat cover.
Later, he will tell his friends.
They all think he’s crazy, he knows.
Crazy, or drunk.
He knows he’s right, though.
As he’s telling his tale, a boy appears on the dock.
Though he appears to have come out of the sea, he’s not wet.
His suit looks nice – too nice for a fisherman’s boy.
It’s all wrinkled and tattered, though.
The boy taps in the code on the giant’s hut.
Easy as pie.
Later, he tells his wife about the wave.
And the boy.
She doesn’t believe the wave either.
His excuse for no fish, she says.
“Maybe the boy was his son. The giant’s.”
Maybe she’s right.
Didn’t look like him, though.
The next day, the giant leaves town.
Packs up everything, sells the house.
The boy was with him.