White Caps

Miosi-sensei races out of the van up the stone steps to the top of the gray dike holding back the raging Inland Sea. He is followed by Tomi-Ken. I fall in step with a stocky fellow in a red and white raincoat that says “Harbor Master” on the back. Two boatyard guys cigarettes dangling join us. We are standing on a floating dock beneath a huge metal conveyance that is used to deposit and extract boats from the sea. Everybody is discussing something but it is obviously a sad topic since the reigning look is a shrug and downcast eyes.


I am standing next to Miosi-sensei who looks like a Chinese Emperor, a smooth flat face, heavy lidded eyes, prominent, almost skeletal cheekbones; he sports a little chin beard tied up in a pony tail. “Ken-san…” he says looking at the tide which is clearly receding
before us. Miosi-sensei closes his eyes and searches for a word. “Today is….unfortunately,” he says shaking his head.

What is “unfortunately” is that the whole damn weekend has been screwed up. Incredibly Miosi-sensei and Tomi-Ken have misread the tides. Our plan had been to set sail from Hojo (a harbor town near Matsuyama) for Naka-jima an island about two hours away. We were going to spend the night partying on-board Sarah, a lovely 36-foot J-Boat co-owned by Miosi, Tomi-Ken and friends. We were to arise at 5:00 a.m. Sunday morning to harvest wakame (seaweed) in time to beat the tides back to Hojo. But the trick is gauging the tides because the harbor becomes a mudflat at the nadir of low tide and if you miss the window, you are out to sea, literally, for hours. How my two friends made this mistake is a mystery to me. But wait, they aren’t alone. Their shipmate the Captain (I never did understand his name, so I just call him Captain) has joined us, an equally befuddled look on his face. I’m thinking, you know maybe it’s just as well I won’t be going sailing in rough waters with these guys! So far, they seem to know as much about sailing as I do. A scary thought….

The sky is darkening and the waves have turned glum except for the white caps crowning just about every one. The Inland Sea is dotted with islands which create treacherous tides and strange wind patterns. Lake Cayuga on its worst day looks like a turbulent bathtub compared to this water. The wind has picked up and there is clearly not much left to discuss on the jetty, so the group adjourns to the marina offices. Tomi-Ken turns as we walk up the gangplank and says one word with a rueful smile. “Beer…” The afternoon takes a different tack.

My companions have decided on an alternative plan. The Harbor Master has gallantly invited us to camp out in the marina offices that evening. In the morning with the tide on our side we will set sail for Naka-jima and harvest seaweed after all. Things get jolly pretty quickly. Tomi-Ken (he’s actually Kenro Tomita but he’s called Tomi-Ken for some reason) starts unpacking the evening’s feast—onabe—a slow simmering stew consumed in stages.

As we chop vegetables, the Harbor Master, Yamauchi-san, is regaling us with tales of his adventures as a crewman in an international regatta in Key West in 1997. He pulls out maps and shows me everywhere he has been in America. Yamauchi-san’s red and white rain gear looks strangely familiar to me. I realize why when he returns to the table with a newly popped beer. This stocky round guy resembles a can of Asahi Dry—the red in his rain gear is identical to the red in the label--a vision which is reinforced by the fact that there is almost always a can of said beverage in his hand. He pulls out a sheaf of photos and sure enough there he is surrounded by very large Australians posing before a sleek racing vessel on a Key West dock. They are all hoisting flagons. But Yamauchi has a red and white can of Budweiser.

Miosi-sensei is studying maps of the sea. Miosi is always studying something and that perhaps is why everybody calls him –sensei instead of –san. In no particular order he is an organic rice farmer, a dentist, a marathon runner, a meditator (TM and zazen), an English student, and a lecturer on environmental causes. He’s also the designated translator this weekend. Every group I’m in has to have one and the task always falls to the person whose English is best or rather least worst. It always amazes me how easy it is to communicate in Japan. You take the few Japanese words I know, mix them up with whatever English the translator knows, add some food, drink, and sometimes music and, voila, you all are speaking the same language.

For example, onabe is VERY easy to understand. A simmering ceramic pot cradles steaming kimchi broth. The first stage contains pork, cabbage, thai (a fleshy white fish), tako (octopus), ika (squid), mushrooms and tofu, all tossed into the roiling broth. About 10 minutes later, you ladle some into your bowl. Outside, a storm is howling and I wonder how much fun this would have been aboard Sarah tossing in the Naka-jima harbor. But here in the cozy marina offices, the onabe pot bubbling, everyone excited about tomorrow’s sailing, a delightful evening is shaping up.

This meal lingers for hours. The next stage features cabbage, more savory greens, and mushrooms. Later, udon (noodles) are added. The final stage stars mochi (rice cakes) which emerge redolent with the flavors of all the previous ingredients. Ironically, the only thing missing is our quarry—wakame--which is brown in the sea but turns a brilliant dark green when plunged into a roiling onabe pot.

Since we thought we were going to be in the boat all night, nobody had brought musical instruments, but Miosi-sensei introduces us to a chanting exercise in which each person holds a note (any one will do) until he can’t breathe anymore and then picks another one and jumps into the musical fray again. The result is a rich quavery constant chord that segues from the celestial to the dissonant depending upon which notes show up at the same time. This is strangely invigorating.

We find futons in the second floor conference room and turn in for the night. It is a restless one for me because at least 3 of these guys snore…and I’m probably one of them. I awaken around 7:00 a.m. and start some tea in the little kitchen adjacent to the Harbor Master’s office. The morning is clear and bright and the wind is up. It looks great for sailing, at least according to my amateur eyes accustomed to Lake Cayuga.

I should point out that I had been dreading the sailing part of the weekend. I’ve always loved being around water and boats but, alas, have an unfortunate propensity to get seasick in rough waters. This never happens to me in Cayuga no matter how choppy it gets because you can’t ever be more than a mile or so from one shore or the other and the best way (perhaps only way) to avoid sea sickness is to focus on the nearest land mass. The sail to Naka-jima was going to be a real test since we would be on open water for at least two hours, miles from land though islands would always be discernible in the distance. I had resigned myself to getting sick and in fact told Miosi-sensei and Tomi-Ken that funaoi (sea sickness) was a certainty. Their response: no problem, Ken-san, just puke over the side, not in the boat, or the Captain will get mad.

Anyway, I’m drinking my tea on the jetty surveying the bright blue waters that will surely claim the remnants of last night’s wonderful dinner when the Harbor Master joins me. “Early morning shower?” he asks. This sounds just great to me since I wasn’t aware that the office was so equipped. After a bracing shower, I start to make some more tea but the Harbor Master has another idea. “Morning beer?” he says with a jaunty grin. Trying to mimic the breakfast habits of brawny Australian sailing lads is not my cup of tea literally or figuratively so I decline in my best Japanese, “I-ee, bieru nomimasen.” This is the first time I have ever used this phrase in Japan since it means, “No thanks, I don’t want a beer.” Just for good measure, I look sick, pat my stomach and say, “Funaoi….” He shrugs, pops open an Asahi Dry and toasts the morning.

One by one the others awaken. Tomi-Ken and his son Tetsuo start a bubbling pot of breakfast misoshiru (soy bean broth, rice and noodles.) I abstain figuring the less I have in my stomach prior to the sail the better for all concerned, except perhaps the fish. This time the boys have called the tide right. It is high at about 9:00 a.m.

Sarah like all the boats in the “harbor” is stored on a metal cradle high enough to encompass her long keel. We take a ladder up into her and start to prepare the mainsail and the jib, get the engine gassed up, etc. When we are done Yamauchi the Harbor Master cranks up a heavy duty machine made by Toyota similar to the ones that push airplanes back and forth on runways. This one is designed to pull the metal cradles holding boats to and from the massive contraption that bears the boats into and out of the water. Despite the ever-present Asahi Dry, this guy is a genius with this machine and that is saying something. If you’ve ever tried backing up a car to which a boat trailer is attached, you know what I’m talking about. Left turns out to be right except when it’s left and right is left except when it’s right and if you ever want to look like an idiot in front of goons wearing camo and baseball hats, try backing a boat down a loading ramp with a bunch of experienced fishermen watching you.

Yamauchi pulls Sarah on her cradle with the delicacy of someone picking up a single grain of rice with chopsticks. Soon she is airborne heading towards the deep water at the end of the jetty. We clamber aboard and all of a sudden Yamauchi himself has joined us in his red and white rain gear. The reason becomes abundantly clear as I survey the horizon trying to lock my eyes on land to avert funaoi as long as I can. There are NO other sailboats on the sea, just some bouncing fishing boats and huge tankers in the distance. This is rather alarming since there is one thing I have learned about sailing on Cayuga. If there are no other boats out, experienced sailors are probably trying to tell you something. In retrospect, I think Miosi and Tomi-Ken were upset that we hadn’t gotten on the water yesterday and damned if they weren’t going to at least give it a shot today. But it was way too rough for a 36 foot J-class with a less than expert crew and I think they asked the Harbor Master to come along since he was clearly the most experienced guy around.

It is amazing how quickly roles are established on a sailboat heaving on a heavy sea. Yamauchi barked orders and suddenly Tomi-Ken had the tiller, Miosi-sensei was human ballast leaning out against the wind; the Captain was demoted to first mate, in charge of the jib. Tetsuo was told to just lay low and I was assigned a tedious but important task. Yamauchi gives me his beer to hold.

In no time at all we were at least a mile away from land. The boat was literally flying through the water and waves were pouring over the prow. You definitely could have water skied behind this thing, well, definitely if you were an Olympic mogul champion. Otherwise, forget it. The sea was boiling. The wind was fierce and we didn’t have to tack to get very close to the first island whereupon Yamauchi yelled something and we prepared to come about. I know enough to stay out of the way and duck in these situations which I did as the boom whizzed over my head faster than the eye can see. We almost heeled over until the keel caught and we came about as the Captain and Miosi furiously hauled the jib over to the appropriate side. I almost spilled some of the Harbor Master’s beer but held on rather heroically and returned to my main duty—averting funaoi.

It was very clear we weren’t going to get to Naka-jima to harvest wakame this morning. Getting home was going to be enough of a challenge. About an hour into the return trip I realize two things: 1. I am not going to get sick. 2. Tetsuo is tossing his noodles. The unfortunate lad was prone on the deck, his head lolling over the side calling the dolphins, as his father put it. I now had two important jobs—holding the ubiquitous beer and also Tetsuo’s left ankle to keep him from falling into the raging sea. Tomi-Ken had all he could do to keep the tiller straight, but he did pull a camera out of his pocket and ask me to take some photos of Tetsuo in his unfortunate predicament. See why I like this guy? He has exactly the same sense of humor that I do!

We were about two miles from the harbor when we had to make a last tack. And then I realized another reason why I like Tomi-Ken so much. He saved my life. We were in the process of coming about when we hit a weird pocket of wind which wouldn’t let us go the direction we wanted but wouldn’t let us return either. We were pelted with stinging spray. Both sails were luffing violently and it seemed as if the mainsail might actually be tattered by the wind. Tomi-Ken was wrestling with the tiller; the Harbor Master was trying to force the boom to catch the wind aided by the Captain and Miosi. I saw they needed help so I started to get up when all of sudden a hand pulled me down and I heard the boom come round THWACK so fast you couldn’t even see the movement. The steel cap on the end grazed my head with a ferocity that I can still feel three days later. We had come about all right. And my head had almost come apart. I took a swig of the Harbor Master’s beer….

Later on the dock as Sarah still dripping from her morning’s exertions is being borne aloft to her metal cradle, Tomi-Ken picks up a brown piece of vegetation that has fallen off a hull. “Ken-san,” my saviour says with a sad smile. “This is wakame. We very… unfortunately…”

A few minutes later, Miosi comes up and the three of us stare into the sea one more time before returning home. He is searching for a word….

“Ken-san, how call white wave-su…?”
“White caps, Miosi-sensei.... We call them white caps.”
“Cap-su…? White cap-su…?” He can’t seem to hear the word correctly but I KNOW he knows it.

I search for a way to explain what caps are when a very rare thing happens. I actually have an idea! There is a loose dental cap in my mouth. I’ve been avoiding doing something about it for weeks but now the moment has come. “Miosi-sensei, the word is ‘caps,’ like this….” I pull it out my fake tooth and show him….

As I may have mentioned pages ago, Miosi-sensei is a dentist. I had been reticent about asking him for a recommendation of someone in Matsuyama to fix the cap since I was sure that would have resulted in his doing it for free, but the bottom line is it’s a pain in the, well, mouth to take a cap on and off depending upon what and when you are eating so I figured this was finally the moment to share the problem. I guess I was still giddy from the delight of realizing that I my head was still on. Sure enough, Miosi-sensei says he’d love to fix this for me. All I have to do is bring it (and my head) to zazen the next night and he’d just cement it in there.

And so on Monday evening, I find myself lying in an ancient tatami room, adjacent to a sacred stone garden, my head cradled on prayer pillows. Jan who has been recruited as an assistant is kneeling and shining a dental flashlight into my mouth. Miosi who has brought a portable dentist’s office to the temple—a compressor and all kinds of tools and drills, the same one he took to the Kobe earthquake site years ago--is doing that horrible thing they do with compressed air to dry your tooth. My mouth full of cotton. Just about the only thing preventing this from being a realistic dental experience is the blessed absence of that stupid soft rock they play while they work on you. I wave weakly up at Jinno and others who wander in and sit down on their knees to watch in silence as if it is very common for dental procedures to be performed in the anterooms of 300 year old zen Buddhist temples. Miosi’s upside down face is smiling with that little pony tail on his chin as he peers into my mouth. “Almost done, Ken-san,” says my shipmate. And soon it was whereupon it was time to get to the real business of the evening—meditation.

A man of many talents, Miosi-sensei packs up his dental tools and then presides over our meditation in the absence of Osho-san (our monk who has a funeral to prepare for the next day). Afterwards, Jan and I have to hustle to catch our train. Yes, we take a train to the other plane, as it were. When we don’t have a ride from Matsuyama, we ride our bikes 4 miles or so to the Matsuyama station, catch a 7:00 p.m. train to Iyo City, and then walk about a half an hour up the hill to Fukudenji, our temple. We usually need a ride back to the station though because the last train to Matsuyama is 10:30 and Tomi-Ken is kind enough offer his services.

Just as we are saying farewell, Miosi-sensei pulls up to the station followed by Jinno on his motorcycle. They have come to say goodbye, too. They have never done this before but it feels right. Not many people in Japan or perhaps even in the world have experienced a dental procedure AND a subsequent meditation led by the dentist together in a single evening so maybe the event—inconsequential as it is--deserves some commemoration. And somehow sitting in meditation together every week in that creaky old temple binds us all together in a wonderful way. We don’t like to leave each other.

The train slowly pulls away. Miosi-sensei, Tomi-Ken and Jinno, faces beaming in the night, raise their arms in farewell. Jan and I are the only two in the car at this late hour. The lights of Matsuyama twinkle in the distance. And if you close your eyes a little they look like white caps sparkling on a moonlit sea.

We feel so…“fortunately.”

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