On a small coastal village, old Mateo spent his days mending nets and fishing off the same battered pier where his father and grandfather once cast their lines. Every morning before dawn, he pushed his small boat into the misty waters, humming a tune his mother used to sing to him as a boy.

Years ago, Mateo had a family — a wife who made the best clam chowder on the coast and a daughter who loved to collect seashells. But life, as unpredictable as the ocean, had taken them both too soon. Since then, Mateo’s only company was the sea and the creatures that called it home.

One summer morning, while tossing scraps of fish into the water, Mateo noticed a young pelican floating near his boat, watching him intently. Its wing drooped awkwardly, clearly injured. Mateo knew the wild was unforgiving. If he didn’t help, the pelican would surely die.

With gentle words and slower movements than his arthritic hands liked, Mateo coaxed the pelican onto his boat. He named him Paco. For days, Mateo fed Paco bits of fresh fish and treated his wound with what little he had — clean rags, salt water, and an old fishing knife sterilized in boiling water. Mateo talked to Paco as if he were an old friend returned from the sea. He told him stories of his wife’s laughter, his daughter’s shell collection, and the dreams that still haunted him at night.

As weeks turned into months, Paco’s wing healed, but he didn’t leave. Every morning, Paco perched on the bow of Mateo’s boat, spreading his wings wide as they drifted out to sea. The villagers began to talk: “The old man’s finally lost his mind — he’s talking to a bird now!” But Mateo didn’t care. With Paco by his side, the long days felt less empty.

One winter, the storms came early and fierce. The sea, once Mateo’s friend, turned cruel. One late afternoon, dark clouds swallowed the horizon as Mateo set out, ignoring the warnings. He needed the catch — the sea was his only means to eat, to survive.

Hours later, the storm struck hard. Waves towered over Mateo’s tiny boat, tossing it like driftwood. Rain battered his face, salt stung his eyes, and the wind howled like an angry ghost. As he struggled to keep the boat upright, a wave crashed over the side, sweeping Mateo overboard.

The cold was a knife in his bones. The weight of his wet clothes dragged him down. He gasped, flailed, and glimpsed the distant lights of the village — too far, too dim. Just as his strength failed, something heavy thudded against his back. Mateo felt feathers, wings beating against the storm.

It was Paco.

The pelican screeched and pecked at Mateo’s shoulder, urging him to fight. Between mouthfuls of salty water, Mateo grabbed at Paco’s strong neck. The bird flapped furiously, pushing Mateo’s head above water, guiding him toward the faint glimmer of shore.

Time blurred. Between the raging sea and Paco’s relentless cries, Mateo’s will to live returned. He kicked, sputtered, and clung to the bird’s feathers. Finally, a wave hurled him onto the rocky beach. Mateo lay there, coughing up seawater, staring at the storm-tossed sky. Paco landed beside him, his feathers soaked but his eyes bright and unafraid.

When the villagers found them at dawn, they couldn’t believe their eyes — the old fisherman alive, his hand resting on the pelican’s back. News spread quickly, and soon people came to see the unlikely pair. Some offered food, others money, but Mateo only smiled and asked for fish scraps — for Paco.

Years passed. Mateo grew older, his steps slower, his hair white like the foamy waves. But every morning, he still pushed his boat into the sea, Paco perched on the bow, a silent promise that no one is ever truly alone when they have a friend — even if that friend has feathers and a sharp beak.

Long after Mateo was gone, fishermen said they’d see a lone pelican gliding above the waves at dawn, circling the spot where an old man once cast his nets. And in the gentle hush of the surf, some swore they heard the faint hum of a lullaby, drifting on the wind — a song for the fisherman and the pelican who had saved each other.