The man strides forward, his eyes on the sea. He favors his left leg and avoids the soft sand that would suck in his bare feet and slow him down. He looks up and tilts his head, as if he’s sniffing the air or listening for something. He swipes his forearm across his brow and scans the surface of the waves, from left to right and back. He seems oblivious of the setting sun’s golden shimmer from horizon to shore. His body is like a stick of burnt cane, jointed at the knees and shoulders. There is no hair on his head; his beard is white. He wears brown cut-off pants and a sleeveless T-shirt, faded to off-white, with Save the Turtles printed across the back. He carries a homemade fishing rod and a blue bucket. To his left, beyond the breaking waves, a dark rippling shape appears, like hundreds of leaves fluttering under water. In three swift paces, he’s there. He wades in up to his thighs and sweeps his line in an expert arc, almost careless. A moment later, he whips it out with a small, silver fish attached. He turns to his right with a wide-open smile to the two children sitting well back on the beach, next to a pile of washed-up driftwood, away from the manchineel tree and its skin-blistering apples. He holds up the rod with the fish spinning and thrashing, its scales catching the sun’s dying rays. His other hand, palm forward, fingers splayed, warns the children to stay where they are. The sea has no back door. The little girl claps her hands and wriggles her toes in the sand. She wears a yellow dress and has a white ribbon in her hair. The boy, in frayed khaki pants, is taller but just as bony. He punches the air with his fist, but the man is busy reloading bait. Out goes the line and back it comes with another fish, and another, each looking larger than the one before. With a flick of his wrist, the man twists fish off the hook and tosses them into the bucket. The boy covers the girl’s feet with handfuls of sand and pats them down, as if he’s building a pair of heavy boots. He decorates one and gives her broken bits of coral stone and seashell for the other, strands of seaweed to tie as laces. With a piece of driftwood, he draws a tight circle around her in the sand. He crawls towards the bucket; it must be half full by now. His shadow traces a sundial line to the girl. She kicks off her sand-boots and crosses the circle. The man looks up, over his left shoulder. A dark cloud looms over the manchineel tree. Back in goes his line. He jerks it up, over and over. Nothing. He adds more bait and flings it again, the small lead weight taking the hook deeper out.

中文翻译：

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没有后门

男人大步向前，目光注视着大海。他偏爱左腿，避开柔软的沙子，沙子会吸进他的赤脚，让他慢下来。他抬起头来，歪着头，好像在嗅着空气，或者在听着什么。他用前臂扫过额头，从左到右再向后扫视海浪表面。他似乎没有注意到从地平线到海岸的落日余晖。他的身体就像一根烧焦的手杖，膝盖和肩膀相连。他的头上没有头发；他的胡子是白的。他穿着棕色剪裁长裤和一件褪色为灰白色的无袖 T 恤，背面印有 Save the Turtles。他带着一个自制的钓鱼竿和一个蓝色的水桶。在他的左边，在碎浪之外，出现了一个黑色的涟漪形状，就像数百片叶子在水下飘扬。以三个快速的步伐，他在那里。他涉水到他的大腿，以专业的弧线扫过他的线，几乎是粗心大意。片刻之后，他把它甩了出来，身上系着一条银色的小鱼。他转过身去，对着坐在沙滩上的两个孩子微笑着转向右边，旁边是一堆被冲刷过的浮木，远离芒果树和皮肤起泡的苹果。他举起钓竿，鱼在旋转和颠簸，鱼鳞捕捉到太阳即将死去的光芒。他的另一只手，手掌朝前，手指张开，警告孩子们待在原地。大海没有后门。小女孩拍了拍手，脚趾在沙子里扭动。她穿着一件黄色的连衣裙，头发上系着一条白色的丝带。男孩穿着破烂的卡其色裤子，个子更高，但同样瘦骨嶙峋。他用拳头猛击空气，但那人正忙着装饵。出线，然后又带着另一条鱼回来，又一条鱼，每条看起来都比以前大。男人一甩手腕，把鱼从钩子上拧下来，扔进桶里。男孩用一把沙子盖住女孩的脚，然后轻轻拍打，仿佛在制作一双沉重的靴子。他装饰了一个，给了她碎碎的珊瑚石和贝壳作为另一个，海藻束作为鞋带系在一起。他用一块浮木在沙滩上围绕她画了一个紧密的圆圈。他爬向水桶；它现在应该是半满的。他的影子沿着日晷线向女孩走去。她踢掉她的沙靴，穿过圆圈。男人抬起头，越过他的左肩。一朵乌云笼罩在芒果树上。回到他的路线。他一遍又一遍地把它拉起来。没有什么。