The Old Man, the Sea, and Me

I leave the house before dawn and greet the morning on the sea.
Where does the sea end and the sky begin?
A pitch-black world where there is no boundary between heaven and earth.
Vroom, vroom, thud, thud, thud, thud—
When I turn the ignition key, the boat begins to tremble. I feel the fine vibrations through the soles of my feet.
The boat sways with the waves, so I tighten my stomach muscles to steady myself.
I look straight ahead and steer the helm.

—

My grandfather is a fisherman. A man of the sea.
He goes out to the open sea all by himself. He makes his own rigs and tools.

He reads the seasons to choose his fishing, reads the tides to drop his traps.
He reads the wind to avoid the rain, and reads the scenery to find his spot.

Octopus, sea bream, yellowtail, amberjack, striped jack, sea bass.
Stonefish, Spanish mackerel, wrasse, flounder, flatfish.

Born as the second son in a fisherman's family in Akashi, Hyogo, he became a fisherman.
He is just one of many fishermen in the countless fishing villages across Japan.

●

Before long, the surroundings begin to whiten, and the round sun peeks out from the horizon.
A translucent orange light source dyes the sky vividly.
The beginning of a morning, pinker than any sunset.
He casts his gear into the sea.

—

Longline fishing, seine fishing, pole-and-line fishing.
He changes his fishing methods according to the season and the type of fish.

He wraps cotton in flashy-colored vinyl cloth and ties it with fishing line.
He sews on hooks and weights, decorates it with glittery tape,
and what he finishes with is a handmade lure.
A shocking-pink boneless ham.

"This rig really catches them."
"Should I try using this one next time?"
Materials he buys when he goes into town. Glittering gold and silver stickers and beads.
He finds it interesting and tries everything. He makes most things himself.

For longline fishing, he uses a rope that is 120 meters long.
He takes five of these stiff nylon ropes, with weights and hooks spaced evenly along them,
and casts them into the sea.
Preparing the gear happens under the scorching sun, with his wife helping at the eaves of the house.
They rewind the salt-crusted ropes they just used for the next morning.
Checking the hooks one by one takes two or three hours in the blink of an eye.

There are days when nothing is caught, and only the gasoline is consumed.
Even so, he repeats it every day.

He maneuvers the boat with years of intuition.
"How about here? Oh, there they are."
"They're here, but they aren't biting. The tide is this way."
Sometimes he catches them by just a few centimeters.
He observes the fish so closely that he earned the nickname 'Principal'.

His hands, which have fought against fish, hooks, and the coarse salt of the Seto Inland Sea for 70 years,
have fingers twice as thick as mine, rugged like rocks with thick, calloused skin.
He uses pointed thread-cutting scissors to snip off the blisters on his palms.
It doesn't seem to hurt or itch at all.

●

Before I know it, the sun is far away, and the blue sky and clouds spread out before me.
I feel a little lonely, as if a special time has come to an end.
Reflecting the pouring light, the water surface sways, shimmering and sparkling.

—

"The thunderhead that appeared in the north is 'Tanba Taro,' the one in the east is 'Izumi no Kojiro,' and the one in the south is called 'Sanuki Nyudo'..."
Sitting on the embankment, my grandfather talks while staring straight at the sea.

Active until 85, the boat gave up before he did.
Now those hands are soft. My eyes are dim, and my hearing is fading.
My grandfather has become a man of few words, but he only opens up in front of the sea.
Proverbs passed down to fishermen, stories of the fish he caught, and tales of the sea.

Though he has stepped off the boat, even now,
my grandfather is a fisherman. A man of the sea.

"Grandpa is a specialist in catching them. I don't really eat much fish."
That's why I eat them with such delight.

I grill the fillets, deep-fry the bones, and simmer the scraps.
I can even make stock, and the eyeballs are delicious too.
There is nothing to throw away.
I don't mind if a bone gets stuck in my throat.
Without leaving a single thing behind, may it all become my blood, my bones, and my flesh.

There are shops here and there, with someone's fish lined up.
I think it's the same for vegetables and meat, and for goods and services as well.

The world is made of someone's work.
My life is made of someone's work.
I want to go on without forgetting that, and I want to deliver that kind of work.