Again, he said, and I told the joke again

On a Friday evening on Playa de los Muertos I told a joke in my broken Spanish to a group of fishermen, certain nothing good would come of it. One of them laughed. Properly, wheezing, holding on to the boat. I do not know whether the joke worked or my accent did. He said, again. I said it again. He laughed harder. We have done this on six Fridays now. I have not learned any new jokes. He has not asked for any.