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TOKYO--Drab olive green yet well beloved Gonbei had his
(the name doesn't really lend itself to "her") first taste
of the open North Pacific today. A tiny tiny slice but salty
nevertheless. At Iioka fishing harbor, near Choshi, at the
very north end of that interminable boat-hostile
Kujukurihama crescent.
The algae slime-covered slope looks serviceable as a
launching pad. The weather forecast is good, which for this
area means fairly steady two-meter waves, kept from the
harbor basin by utilitarian breakwater tetrapods. There is
only a very light breeze; the sky is slightly hazy but not
in violent motion. The time is early afternoon--why o why do
I never manage the mornings?
Getting out of the harbor isn't much of a challenge for the
ocean-going commercial fishing boats with their burly bows
and potent diesels, but Gonbei is a different story. Having
upgraded from the five horsepower Honda outboard to a 9.8 HP
Tohatsu, the maximum my 10-foot inflatable can take, helps,
but I still nervously eye the wave crests just outside the
harbor entrance. Some of the bigger waves break right there,
and my hand on the throttle twists nervously as I thread
through the shifting hills and dales looking for the smooth
gaps.
Waves still substantial
Once a bit further out, the waves are still substantial but
slightly more predictable and therefore less menacing.
Still, I need to keep a much sharper lookout than when I
putter around some small inlet on Tokyo bay. The movement of
the boat is fairly violent, thanks to some minor crosswise
curls that spring up here and there simply to liven up the
mix.
After about an hour I end up becoming seasick in no
uncertain terms. First time this has ever happened to
anybody on Gonbei. But I console myself that I am in good
company. After all, Dr. Alain Bombard who in the
nineteen-fifties crossed the Atlantic on an early-model inflatable
with just a small sail but no motor and no food or water (to
prove that shipwrecked sailors can subsist on seawater,
plankton, and raw fish--it is despair rather than physical
deprivation that kills them) confessed to having to battle
repeatedly with seasickness.
Not to worry
Now, dear pandits, never you worry, I am not about
to cross the Pacific on a similar quest. In fact, the two
miles I am out, still well within sight of land, are quite
enough for me. More than enough, in fact, because suddenly a
magical thing happens.
Luckily, I have turned off the motor for a bit of a
ricocheting rest, otherwise I probably would not have heard
the strange burbling breathing noises. Startled, I look
around: no other boat is anywhere near. I stand up,
carefully, to get a better look, steadying myself with the
grip of the outboard. I curse the fact that the wooden mast
that I have made just recently for Gonbei had to stay in the
car because I had forgotten to bring the equally handmade
(Tokyu Hands, that is) wooden thwart.
Then I see them
And then, I see them. Brown smooth glistening shapes that
briefly rise above the gray-green surface of the water.
Swimming in pairs and groups of three. Some moving quickly
out of sight, others coming close enough that I can see the
blow hole at the top of the head opening and contracting,
the source of the breathing sound that I heard. My first
thought is whales because this area is famous for
them in summer, but they are supposed to be further out, and
they should be bigger. These are about two meters, with some
smaller ones (calves?) also swimming along. Still, I see
mostly round heads, smooth brownish backs and not the dorsal
fins that one usually associates with dolphins.
Some quick encyclopedia perusal after my return suggests
that I may have met a school of porpoises, although the
brown color doesn't quite fit the picture. In either case,
whales, dolphins, and porpoises are closely related and
equally beguiling creatures. Still seriously queasy in the
stomach but humming nevertheless I turn for the harbor, and
head for home, a bath, a quickie, and the keyboard.
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