The old man sat in a boat pulled ashore on the beach. All that remained of his past as a fisherman was that vessel, now worn and weathered by time. The cracked and discoloured wood told stories of storms faced, nets full of fish, and a life lived to the rhythm of the sea. Yes, he had grown up in a boat like that, learning all the secrets of the winds and currents from the sea. He had courted his first girlfriend, who would later become his wife.
His children had been baptised on the water, and over time he had provided for the growing family, fishing, and fishing... The man thought back to the nights spent under the stars, lulled by the sound of the surf, and to the fish attracted by the light of the lampara, leaping into his nets like silver coins.
Then, little by little, the sea, once a generous friend, became stingy. Fish were scarce, and his efforts were no longer compensated by the gain. The sea seemed to have forgotten its past, failing to recognise the old fisherman who had always sailed upon it.
The children, now grown up, had left home searching for better jobs. They were now owners of a modern trawler, just like the one he could see on the horizon.
His beloved wife had fallen ill, burning out like a candle, until her flickering flame had been extinguished forever. She, too, had left him alone. He had nothing left, no dreams, no illusions. The future was a dark, gloomy place, and only there, in his boat, did he find a bit of peace, looking at that sea that once he had felt a little bit his own.
One day he sat on the boat, thinking of his wife... No, not that wrinkled and withered being, now consumed by illness, but the girl with laughing eyes and hair like the waves of the sea who had reached him so many years ago, walking barefoot in the waves that lapped at the shore, while the warm sun kissed her skin with its golden rays.
Just then, his vision was interrupted by the arrival of a seagull that had landed with some difficulty on the bow of the now derelict boat. One of its wings was deformed, perhaps from some accident.
The old man was resentful at first. How dare that stupid bird intrude on his memories, on the only image of the much-loved woman that still allowed him to carry on? And then - unexpectedly - he remembered: the night she died, his wife had whispered that she would never leave him, that she would be there for him, whenever he needed her. “I will always be with you, in the wind, in the waves, in the song of the birds....”
The old man smiled at the seagull, which approached him trustingly, with an intense gaze in its glaucous blue eyes, waddling and tilting its head to get a better look at him. “Here you are,” said the old man, confused and amazed, yet happy to no longer feel alone. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” And from that day on, until the end of his days, the old man sat in the boat throwing him crusts of bread and scraps of fish, happy to feel useful again, to have a purpose to fill his days.