Over the next few days, Cade, from Sand Dollar, and I went hunting often with Cobi. We gringos learned soon that this kid is as close as one can come to being a fish and still have lungs. Under water, with his beat-up old fins, he was jet-propelled, and with a rusty spear gun you'd think could never work, he dove deep, stalked fish, anticipated their moves, aimed perfectly and shamed us big guys who were always straggling behind him. Our first day out together, in 10 minutes, he had two fish. Mister Cade and I had none. In 20 minutes, he had two more and I'd only nicked the hind end of a hogfish. Deferentially, Cobi waited until I muffed that shot. Then he chased after and plugged it through the eye. One day, as a school of rainbow runners swept by us at about 20 feet, Cobi never shot, just swam down another 10 feet and hid behind a rock, knowing they'd circle back. Sure enough they did, and he snagged the largest one right away. Later on that afternoon, he whispered a few pieces of important advice to me: "You know, Mister Douglas, dose tail shots a'yours doane never work. You gotta hit'em in de brain. You gotta stop'em cold. De brain, sir. Dat's where de action is."