Disappointment @ Sea

A few weeks ago, in the torment of a nasty cold, I drove up the coast in search of fresh sea air to blow the siege of snot from between my ears. It was a beautiful autumn day, colours spread across the mountains that Japan is famous for, lit up with delicate rays of sunshine to their best advantage.
However I diverge from the true point of my story, to get sharply to the point; on the way back I saw mastheads in the distance, a multitude of masts and stays rolling with the faint swell. You cannot imagine my excitement. Before coming here one of my primary goals was to learn to sail in Japanese, a goal that has so far proved elusive, with only the temptation of empty leads to raise my blood pressure.
I drove in the general direction and came across a swanky building with maybe 50 or so vessels stationed on the hardstand in her lee, with another 20 or 30 or so tethered to the floating docks. A real yacht club, though somewhat deserted.
I ventured inside in search of someone, anyone, who might know how to plant me on a boat. I followed a sign that said information, helpfully in English, up the stairs to an empty vestibule. Looking around I spotted a lone woman working in an office and I proceeded to loiter with intent, finding the courage to approach her vanish. Presently she came out, looked at me questioningly and may have said something for all I can remember.
I stammeringly introduced myself, said I was from Australia, sailed in Melbourne, and was currently living here. Though I may be giving myself too much credit for how much information I actually imparted successfully. However, having made it through the necessary formalities, the next bit was the most important. That week I had been studying the –tai verb conjugation. There being no verb for ‘to want to do’ that I have yet discovered, my understanding is that one conjugates the verb to the –tai form and it infers a want to do that verb.
“Watashi wa sayringu o shitai.” I want to do sailing, I ventured. It worked. She understood. Then came the tricky bit. I got a full-length reply about something or other that was met by a blank face on my part. “Racingu o arimasuka.” Do you have racing, I tried next, and congratulated myself heartily for understanding something about how it being wintertime they weren’t racing now but would be again in spring. I offered my stock standard response that I was very sorry but only spoke a little Japanese but am studying very hard, or something like that, unfairly leaving it to her to make the next conversational play. At which point she did something very Japanese: excused herself and ran off to find somebody else who might be able to help!
She came back and took my phone number. I thought that would be the last of it and vowed to come back in the spring when there might be some racing going on. However, a couple of days later, I received a phone call from a man introducing himself as Minami San. We had an interesting conversation until I made my usual apology for my bad Japanese, at which point he confessed he could speak a little English, which made things so much easier. I was being invited to go sailing with him and some friends, two weeks hence, to an island to spend the night and then return the next day. More details than this I was unable to attain, however I effusively accepted and spent the next couple of days in a funk as to how I was going to get out of work.
Chucking a sickie would be the most obvious option, however, currently sick and having taken a couple of mornings off work, it would be less than plausible. Knowing the nature of my boss, being caught in a lie would be inexcusable. There was nothing for it but to pick my timing and rely on her generosity, hoping she understood how badly I needed to go sailing. I gambled well. Nettie helped me ring Minami San back, ascertained the time we would be leaving and what I would need, and told him I would be there. I would have time to teach my Saturday morning classes and could go to the boat to meet Minami San from there. She would deal with my afternoon classes.
Yippee! I was finally going sailing.
There are yachties and there are people who own boats. Until last weekend I never realised how great that gulf can be. I’ve been extremely lucky to have known some exceptional and experienced sailors. I’ve also met some interesting characters whose acquaintance has provided some challenges.
Put two yachties together and they will talk about nothing but sailing, boats, tactics, efficiency, engine repairs, sail repairs, hull repairs, equipment, destinations, the weather, marina costs and conditions. It constantly amazes me the variety of conversations possible connected with sailing. The only exception to this rule I’ve ever witnessed was during the Rugby World Cup. We were in Malaysia, a couple hundred sailors and ninety percent of the fleet was English or Australian. Naturally some strong rivalries came to the fore and sailing was forgotten for a couple of hours. Even I got into some heated barracking!I never pretend to know more than the first thing about sailing. However I know how to get a boat from point A to point B, when to keep my mouth shut and when it’s okay to ask questions. I’m also often the lightest and nimblest person on a yacht. This makes me useful. Weight distribution is important, especially when racing. I get sent forward in rough seas to unhitch the snag, up the mast, preferably not in rough seas, and pushed off the boat to clamber or leap onto a shaky landing pier to secure lines. I like this. It means that I get sent forward before Dave, the experienced foredecky, because he’s 40kgs heavier than me. A boat is the only place where it’s not offensive to get asked your weight.
I arrived at the marina shortly before the appointed time and did some more loitering with intent. Standing in front of the docks I hoped someone would spot the obvious gaigin with blonde hair and come racing over to introduce themselves. All I did was attract a few suspicious glances. Just after twelve I headed back up to the “information”, hoping someone would know who Minami San was. It turned out they did; he worked there, though wasn’t in today, and didn’t seem to be expected, but I didn’t know how to ask if he was coming though not working. I started to panic. However someone appeared who knew something of the affair and I was taken to meet a friend of Minami San who was to take me sailing.
All along, from first being invited, I was never sure how many people were going on this excursion. It sounded like a few, but this was all supposition. I was led down the dock to one of the more expensive yachts in the harbour. A beautiful cruising vessel, just over 40” long, built for a retired couple to sail around the world in, with minimum hardship. I was introduced to Mura San and the owner, who asked me to call him Shin San, though all his friends I later met, called him Naka San. One of the many puzzles I never worked out.
To board someone else’s boat, without being asked, is the height of rudeness. So I stood on the dock waiting for an invitation, whilst they looked at me like I was an idiot for not climbing aboard.My bag was heaved on board, which they remarked was very heavy. I had my wet weather gear inside and two complete changes of clothes. I’m used to sailing on Port Phillip Bay which gets rough, and in the wrong mood the ocean dumps buckets of Antarctic seawater down your neck every minute or so. I was expecting to be quizzed later about sailing in Australia so I didn’t offer an explanation at this point. My dictionary was in my bag, which I’d just been separated from.
We filled up with fuel and motored out the harbour. I was shown over the boat, given my own cabin and offered a beer. I was introduced to peanuts and asked if I’d eaten them before! I pulled out the fruit and Pringles I’d brought along as a contribution, but left the bottle stashed in my bag for a time more appropriate. Going sailing with people for the first time is always awkward, however things were looking up. However it seemed odd that beer was a greater priority than getting the sails hoisted. I’d already donned my sorely neglected sailing gloves, checked over the rigging, found the main halyard and thought it odd that though the cabin and woodwork were immaculate, the sails and sheets at first glance seemed old and tatty.
Over beer I was shown the chart, happily in English and Japanese. Where we had left, were going, our current position and where I lived were all pointed out to me with many accompanying “sooo desu ne”s on my part, agreeable interruption being a common facet of Japanese conversation. It would take 2.5 to 3 hours to reach our destination. That chart was to come out every five minutes or so for the rest of the voyage, GPS position taken and points precisely plotted. I looked longingly at the sails and the end of the peninsular we were sailing alongside that was sheltering us somewhat from the wind. We must be waiting to get out of the wind shadow before setting sail, I thought reflectively.
I was asked if I had had lunch. I hate trick questions like that. I had snacked beforehand, so I would be prepared to eat or not eat. Eventually it was ascertained that they had not eaten either and I was offered ramen, cup noodles. I happily accepted and my offers to help were rejected. So I sat on deck sipping the last of my beer and looking at the bare mast. I rejected the proffered fork and spoon, asked for o-hashi and was later complimented on my use of chopsticks. For some reason that always bugs me. Maybe because it happens every time I eat in public. I want to start complimenting Asians on their use of knives and forks. Its like being asked if I eat bread or rice. Japanese truly think Westerners live on sandwiches and hamburgers.
Small talk was had. Both men were over 60 and retired. Mura San spoke pretty good English and had little patience for letting me practice my Japanese. I found out that Shin San, the owner of this rather expensive boat, was previously, as Mura San phrased it, the head policeman in Kagawa Ken. A ken or prefecture in Japan is similar to a state in Australia or the US. A quiet demure man in his pristine Helly Hansen sailing clothes, he didn’t look capable of kicking in the necessary heads to get to a position like that.
I finally asked when we would hoist the sails. I was told the wind was blowing in the wrong direction; as we were sailing directly into the wind we would be motoring the whole way. My stomach contracted several sizes as the imaginary fist buried itself within. I felt like vomiting bitterness and didn’t know whether to laugh in derision or cry. That explained the ropes that were frayed where they had been continually flogging against the safety rails. That explained so much I didn’t want to know.
A few weeks earlier I had been overjoyed and puzzled at seeing two yachts out on the sea near my house. Neither yacht had its sails raised. I live at the mouth of Dokigawa, Doki River. It flows into the Seto Ohashi Inland Sea that separates Shikoku, Kyushu and Honshu, three of the four main islands of Japan. Guidebooks describe the Seto Ohashi as one of the most beautiful pieces of water in the world. Personally I’d rank it below the Andaman Sea and Halong Bay, but it leaves Sydney Harbour for dead. Right at the mouth of Dokigawa there is a small island. I go running out there along the water and dream of taking a small dhingy around the island. The Seto Ohashi is one big archipelago of such islands of differing sizes. Winds blow across her at about 5-10 knots with gusts up to 15. Once when it was really windy I saw white caps out there. Otherwise it’s as flat as my local swimming pool. The sort of conditions Savage would kick arse in. Savage was the boat I crewed on in Melbourne. Too light for heavy seas she was at her happiest with 7 knots of wind and a flat bay. We would cream the rest of the fleet on afternoons like those.
One cannot sail closer than 45 degrees into the wind. So one zig zags along turning 90 degrees across the wind slowly going in a round about way towards the wind. Yacht races are designed to make one sail into the wind to test skill. One doesn’t go sailing in order to arrive at a destination any more than long distance runners are concerned with the final locale. A destination is purely an excuse to do what you love.
Sailing conditions on the Seto Ohashi are close to perfect. So many days I have ridden over the bridge, looked out on this sea and yearned to be on a boat, feeling the play of the wind in the sails. Here I was, on that boat, but with no sails to play with. Because the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. I wanted to jump ship that very minute and swim to shore. We were still alongside the peninsular. It was less than a kilometre away. The sea was flat. I could make it!
We motored into a little fishing harbour on the isle of Shiraishi. A gorgeous place, Shin San and I took a walk around. There were few cars; tiny alleyways flanked by traditional houses and mountains on the west side stretching up to shelter the hamlet from the worst of the weather. Mandarins covered trees in front courtyards and we bought a bag for 100 yen. A tiny idyll. On the way back to the boat Shin San wondered if the other boat had arrived yet. Ahh another boat. This was the first of it. We were all to go out to dinner together at a minshuku on the beach at the next cove.
I had been dreading this moment. On the car all the way up to the boat I had been considering my vegetarian status. I have a policy when overseas of compromising my vegetarianism if it would be rude or culturally insensitive not to. This was one of those times. I still wanted to impress these men. They might have friends who liked sailing even if they were more into the image than the practice. We made our way to the restaurant and a lot of alcohol was brought out. They were sailors in that respect anyway! The meal was all fish. Weird bits of seafood and sashimi (raw fish) were brought out. I downed my first beer very quickly hoping to find some courage to eat in the bottom of the glass.
We ate and we drank and we laughed and they took photos of the gaigin to put in their club newsletter. The non-sailing almost didn’t matter. And then we went back to the boat and I crashed out in my private cabin. Unfortunately I woke some hours later to find my stomach fighting with the seafood I had forced inside it. I had forgotten how much effort it took to cleanse my body of the Mongolian mutton. I was very, very sick. The alcohol didn’t help much either.
The next morning I slept in, my body exhausted from throwing up quietly all night. I politely refused breakfast, wanting to rest my poor overworked stomach. We went for a walk that turned into a hike up the mountains and witnessed beautiful views. I was left pretty much to myself, which was fine by me. I was much happier soaking in the breeze and the sunshine than struggling with language.
On the return journey the wind was blowing in the ‘right’ direction and my paranoid self was wondering if I was being punished for not being able to hold my alcohol as they clearly saw it. Trying to explain otherwise would sound lame and in the light of day I had less need for these men’s approval. I retreated forward, pulled out my iPod and tried to enjoy the ride.
The other yacht raised a main sail and I excitedly glanced back to the cockpit to see if we would do likewise. Shin San merely pulled out his GPS and checked our position, though it was blatantly obvious in which direction we were going. As I wondered why the other yacht hadn’t raised a jib (the second front sail that funnels the wind into a high pressure system that pulls the main sail and the boat forward) they did so and I watched it flap about, badly trimmed, for ten minutes or so until they gave up and yanked it down.
Back in the pens at Neo Cho, the boys said “sayonara”, literally, didn’t help with my bags and I didn’t glance back as I walked to my car. The next day in the supermarket I had to walk through the extensive fish department and I nearly threw up all over again. I think my cravings for seafood have been well and truly cured. As for my cravings for sailing, they will have to wait until xmas when I’m coming home to see my mum and sister, my half share of a laser dhingy and a beautiful lake.