Hasta Pronto
Prince Freddie returns to the fisherman's flat rock, where a simple gesture holds the whole morning together. Some arrangements don't need explanation.
The fisherman was there.
Prince Freddie had not been certain he would be. He had come to the western end of the beach on purpose. This was different from the first time, when he had simply stopped. Coming on purpose meant something was expected. He was not sure expectations were the right approach to flat rocks and patient men. Walking down the shore, he had told himself that he was simply doing his patrol. The rock was on the route.
This was true enough.
The fisherman had his rod in the water and his thermos at his side and his jacket collar up against the morning. He did not turn when Freddie’s paws came across the rock. He moved his hand once, a small gesture, the kind that means: I heard you, sit down.
Freddie sat down.
The sea was doing what it always did. It moved toward the shore and withdrew. It had before they were born and would after. It was patient and indifferent and somehow, this morning, exactly right. A gannet worked the water fifty metres out. It folded and dropped with precision. The boats in the harbour were already out. Their engines were faint and southward.
They had been sitting for perhaps twenty minutes when they heard the other boat.
A small one, rowing, came from around the headland with unhurried progress. The man at the oars was broad and content with his morning. He had a tin under the seat. It contained two coffees. He pulled up alongside the flat rock. He handed one across without ceremony. He nodded at Freddie in the way of someone being introduced to a regular arrangement they had already heard about.
“Mateo,” the fisherman said.
“I know,” Freddie said.
Mateo pulled his boat up to a comfortable angle. He propped his oars and opened his own coffee. He appeared to have no programme for the morning except this. It seemed to Freddie like extremely good planning.
The three of them sat while the sun got properly up. Mateo was the kind of person who did not need to fill a silence. This made him good company. He watched the water with the particular attention of someone who had spent a long time looking at it. He still found it interesting. Now and then he and the fisherman said something. They spoke in the economical manner of people who have known each other long enough that most things do not need saying.
Freddie’s tail moved in a slow arc.
He was thinking about the first time. He had come then by accident and stayed.
The line moved.
The fisherman stood and held it differently. It was the same modest conversation with the sea as before. He drew it in carefully.
A fish, similar in size to the last one. Freddie suspected it might be the same fish. He kept this observation to himself. The fisherman held it a moment. Looked at it without triumph. Lowered it to the water and held it there until it swam.
Mateo watched this without comment. It was clearly not new to him.
“Hasta pronto,” the fisherman said, not quite to the fish and not quite to Freddie. The way he had said it to Freddie at the end of the first morning.
Mateo began to think about rowing home. He took his time about it. He and the fisherman exchanged a few words. Their manner suggested the next visit was not arranged. It would happen anyway. Mateo rowed off around the headland. He was unhurried. The oars were steady.
Freddie stood to go. The rock was warm under his paws now, the morning properly under way.
“Hasta pronto,” the fisherman said, without turning.
“Hasta pronto,” Freddie said.
He walked home along the shore in the full morning light. The beach was coming to life. The yoga man was folding his mat at the top of the sand. He was ready for his swim. Children at the far end with a ball. Two women with coffee walking along the waterline. The village above it was beginning its own day. Its shutters were opening. Its smells of bread and coffee filled the air. The particular warmth of stone was already heating.
Freddie reached the cottage garden and stopped at the gate for a moment. The spare cup was back in the fisherman’s bag, for next time.
His human was inside, already at something in the kitchen. Freddie went in and ate. He went to the bed. He moved like someone who had completed a full morning. He was comfortable with how it went.
He circled once, twice, three times. Lay down slowly on his side. His front paws tucked. The afternoon was ahead. His eyes went heavy in the way of a good tiredness. His human’s hand came to rest on him. He had not finished settling. The hand was already there, warm and still.
At the western end, the flat rock held the morning sun. The sea kept moving.
The End
Rest well, Prince Freddie. The flat rock at the western end holds the morning sun.
