The becalmed fishing boat wallowed there, deep in the dip between the two huge waves, dangerously poised within a moment of suspended time. Her skipper frantically tried to bring the vessel about, flinging the throttle lever fully forward, attempting to bring the engine back to life, simultaneously spinning the ship’s wheel. A final effort to gain enough control to face the next surging onslaught.
In his panic he had overcompensated the handling of the rudder, pushing the vessel around to starboard, exposing its portside towards the oncoming wave. The captain desperately tried to correct his mistake, but it was too late to take any meaningful action, as a great wall of water bore into the boat’s side. The men below decks gave a collective terrifying scream as the vessel rolled over, piling everyone against the boat’s right-hand bulkheads.
The force of the massive volume of water pinned the small boat on its side. The sheer power of this part of the great Pacific Ocean was being concentrated along the craft’s length, overcoming the natural inclination of the ship to right itself.
Kurosawa now fully understood their terrifying predicament; he knew that when hard men come to scream in terror like young girls, death was near. Now captured by the sea and surrounded by the deafening storm of noise being generated by the tsunami, they were held there fast, for what seemed an eternity. Kurosawa, along with the petrified souls around him, were forced against the side of the boat’s wheelhouse. Everyone, along with everything that was not secured down, thrashed around in a jumbled melee. Trapped within the confines of the overpowering pressure of water being generated by the tsunami, they were transported inland, riding the illegitimate tide that had been abhorrently born of the sea that day.
The colossal pressure bearing down on the Michi Maru’s portside now began to gradually invert her, its power slowly turning the craft’s sleek hull to face the sky. The men in the bridge began to slide onto what had been the ceiling of the small cabin, as the windows were smashed inwards, and the vessel turned fully upside down. Equal measures of torrents of water and frenzied madness now poured in around them, swirling them in a whirlpool of panic and desperation.
Kurosawa took a breath and attempted to brace himself, making an attempt to stay within the protective confines of the wheelhouse. The buoyancy of his lifejacket pushed him upwards against the deck, which was now above him. He found himself being helplessly induced to float upwards, pressed against the ceiling within an airless vortex that had formed in the wheelhouse. The force of the water now began swirling him around. He was trapped in a chaotic creation of thrashing water mixed with a foul soup made up of the now churning paraphernalia of the compartment. He looked around the confines of the wheelhouse for the others, however, he could see no sign of any of the crew, including the captain, in the surrounding murk.
He had now already been under water for nearly thirty seconds, but he felt no panic, he had been taught by someone very dear to him how to hold his breath underwater; a new skill that he had quite recently mastered and one he was now very grateful for. The craft seemed to be sitting with its hull above the water line and the decision to empty its holds of fish, now seemed without doubt the right one. He elected to stay within the protection of the bridge as long as he could, not knowing what carnage may now be occurring above.
He began to feel that the boat was losing momentum and appeared to be settling into its inverted state. He had now been holding his breath for over a minute, he could probably last a short longer, but felt that this lull would be an opportune time to get out. He prepared himself to make his exit out of the smashed doorway, but as he readied himself to launch his body through the exit, the vessel took a huge impact on its stern, the force of the hit pivoting the boat around, and as it did so, twisting the hull back into its upright position. He was thrown violently against the far wall, his life-vest keeping him afloat with the level of water as it drained away, allowing him to breathe air once again.
Kurosawa sat down heavily on the floor, as the remaining waters quickly drained out of the boat. He sat drenched and dishevelled on the deck and began to take stock of himself, checking if he had any injuries. Finding nothing seriously wrong, just some cuts and abrasions, he pulled himself to his feet.
The vessel was travelling in a forward direction, continuing to be pushed inland by the swell of the tsunami. He looked over the bow and saw he had joined a pathetic flotilla of broken ships of varying sizes, many of which had been smashed to matchwood. Looking back over the stern he saw a huge fish-processing ship coming alongside.
It must have been that what they had hit caused the ship to right itself. He could see no sign of anyone on the ships around him and there seemed to be not a soul left on the Michi Maru. Taking stock of his situation he saw that the hatches to the lower deck areas had been flung open. He scrambled over to them and shouted down inside to each compartment in turn but received no answer and saw no sign of any crew member in the water-filled hold.
He was alone and at the mercy of where this hellish ride would now take him. As the Michi Maru was driven into the estuary, they were joined by a great mass of debris, flushing back down from the streets of the town, or rather where that part of the town had once been before it had been ravaged by the destructive power of the first wave.
The boat slewed uncertainly as it was driven into the narrowing estuary. It had taken on a great deal of water and now wallowed close to the level of the false tide, which was running dangerously close to swamping the deck.
He looked for an opportunity to disembark to a place of relative safety but saw nothing that could improve his current condition. It was then that he saw a flash of bright orange about twenty metres in front of the boat… it looked like a lifejacket.
He clambered over to the bow but lost sight of the vest as he did so. He scanned the swirling assemblage of broken human endeavours in front of him, desperately trying to catch another glimpse of it in the churning filth.
In the centre of the mass was a cream-coloured bus, floating like an iceberg, the rear third of its body jutting up at an angle out the water. The front of the vehicle, weighed down by its engine, had caught on some debris beneath the surface, holding it in place, allowing an entangled morass of smashed and mangled flotsam to swirl around it, creating a small floating island.
As the circling body of wreckage came around again – he saw him – it was the Nameless Captain!
He seemed to be in a bad condition, barely conscious, but still alive. He lay at the edge of the raft of jetsam, being buffeted by pieces of the jagged mass as it continued to snag bits of wreckage onto its edges.
Kurosawa believed the boat would run close to him, but not near enough to allow him to grab hold of the man. He searched the deck, trying to find something that the captain could grasp hold of.
He remembered seeing one of the thick-shafted fishing poles floating in the entrance to the hatchway to the hold at the centre of the boat. He quickly retreated to the flooded bulkhead and retrieved it.
He ran to the stern shouting. ‘SKIPPER… SKIPPER… OVER HERE… grab hold of this.’
He pushed the rod into the water in front of him but got no response. He reached out again and prodded him with it, but all this managed to do was to push the captain further away.
Along with the continuous stream of human residue, the almost lifeless man now began to slowly float past the portside of the vessel, as the Michi Maru was driven inland by the powerful, steady swell of the water. Kurosawa continued to call to him, but he remained unresponsive. He inspected the fishing pole, particularly its high tensile steel hook which took up nearly half of the fifteen centimetres of the total length of the feathery lure.
He placed a foot on the pole, pinning it to the deck whilst wrapping the heavy gauge line around his hand. He tested to see if it was still firmly fixed to the pole’s tip by pulling on it against the line’s securing bond, where it was attached to the tip. Finding the binding still firm, he grasped the rubber hand grip on the casting end of the rod and whipped the line towards the floating fisherman. His cast landed a short distance beyond the man and he firmly drew the line back, trying to snag his clothing with the hook. The line and hook slid unimpeded over his lifejacket and Kurosawa drew it back to try again.
His first, second and third attempts also failed, but he continued to cast out towards the captain as he walked slowly to the stern of the vessel. He began to move steadily up the side of the boat, realising he was running out of time to land this particular ‘human’ catch. He tried a few more casts, this time putting more energy into the pole and ripping it back more aggressively as if striking at a fish.
Suddenly the pole bowed almost double as he felt a great resistance on the line, and the captain gave a slight lurch towards him. He pulled even harder, causing the man to gain momentum through the water towards the boat.
There was suddenly a great scream from the captain and he began to thrash around in the water, only becoming silent when his face was dragged momentarily over and into the filthy morass that surrounded him. He pulled his head free, coughing up the disgusting brew. Kurosawa paid no mind to the man’s distress as he worked his hands along the pole until he reached the tip where the line was attached. Then, wrapping the filament around the side of a mooring cleat on the deck, he began to steadily haul the shrieking man alongside. He reached down and, grabbing his lifejacket with both hands, gave a powerful heave, dragging him up onto the decking.
Blood flowed freely mixing with seawater as it seeped out from beneath the captain’s lifejacket. The hook had embedded itself on his right side, hooking into the edge of his armpit and upper chest.
The captain lay on the deck exhausted and semi-conscious. He looked in shocked unease at the lure’s shank sticking out of his body, its feathers red with his blood, rising and falling with the man’s exhausted breathing. His body bore witness to being sorely battered by his time in the sea amongst the floating debris. His face was scratched and bruised, with one leg of his trousers torn away revealing a line of lacerations along his outer thigh. He suddenly gave a pitiful high-pitched cry and started pushing his feet against the deck, seemingly trying to move himself away from the source of his torment. Kurosawa realised that man’s general anguish was turning to panic at the perturbing sight of a steel hook sticking out of his body.
Without asking for permission to do so, he leaned over in front of the man’s head to obscure his vision and removed the hook, sliding it down and out in one swift curved movement. Fortunately for the skipper, the hook was barbless, a requirement of the type of fishing they engaged in, to allow the tuna to be flicked off the hooks once they struck the deck. Because of this it came away effortlessly, true to its design.
He turned his attention to the man’s injuries. Having nothing available to stem the flow of blood from the nasty gash under his armpit, Kurosawa grabbed the man’s right hand and pressed it against the jagged wound.
‘Here, keep the pressure on this,’ he instructed the captain. ‘You need to press the edges together, it’s not as bad as you think,’ he added half-heartedly, consoling not being one of Kurosawa’s strong points. ‘The bleeding will ease if you can keep holding it together.’
The captain was exhausted and bewildered but did as he was instructed. And then through his delirium he said, ‘You gaffed me like a fish my boy! Reeled me in as if I was some wasted old marlin.’
Kurosawa did not respond, he calmly surveyed the man, and saw that the wound was not life-threatening. Though undoubtedly painful, as the hook had torn into the flesh and lodged under his pectoral muscle.
The captain followed his gaze to his wound and then looked back and gave him a faint grin, it was all the gratitude he had the strength to show.
Kurosawa nodded blankly back at him. He had seen far worse, he would live – that is if they could get themselves off this damned bucket, he thought.