The Scent of Nostalgic Motors and the Present

October 2021.
The moment I first touched a motorboat with my own hands.
Since then, a certain amount of time has passed.

Now, I am standing in the stands of the Tokoname Boat Race Course in Aichi Prefecture. The sharp, explosive sound that seems to shatter the water's surface, and the cold spray that kicks up every time they round the turn mark. And above all, the unique scent of mixed oil and exhaust fumes.
The scent of nostalgic motors pulls me back to those days.

However, I am no longer a racer-in-training. I am just a working adult who has stalled out in a different kind of race and is currently resting in the pits.

The beginning of a dream and the despair of its end

I still vividly remember the excitement that welled up from deep within my chest when I first knocked on the gates of the boat racer training school. The exhilaration of stepping into the professional world, the resolve to make a living with my own skills. Everything looked brilliant.

But reality was not so sweet.

The limits I hit between dreams and reality. The 'despair' I felt when I had to leave the training school and give up on the path to becoming a racer still makes it hard to breathe just thinking about it. It was a feeling as if my own limits were being shoved in my face and my identity was collapsing.
Even so, I couldn't just stand still, so I decided to walk a different path.

A water surface without a chart and a breaking engine

And this spring.
I became a working adult and made a flying start on a new water surface.
However, what awaited me there was nothing that could be called a 'race'.

Days spent being thrown out without being taught a single thing about how to ride a boat or the rules of the water.
In an environment without mechanics, while being hit by waves that seemed to deny my very existence, I still desperately kept my hand on the throttle, trying to adapt on my own. I pushed my brain to its full capacity, processed information to the limit, and struggled to somehow move forward.

But the engine I forced to keep running finally screamed.

My mind's defense instincts kicked in intensely, and my heart forcibly pressed the stop button, signaling that 'this is too dangerous to continue.'

Quietly hammering the propeller back into shape in a quiet pit

In front of me, six-colored boats are racing across the water at furious speeds. They are risking their lives, engines wide open, heading toward a clear goal.

Compared to that, what about me now, having physically distanced myself from the environment and taken refuge in a safe pit? No matter how hard I try to grip the throttle, my heart still won't ignite. The engine won't start.

But that's okay for now.
This 'unignited heart' is likely a sign that I've realized something is wrong. My engine simply refused to burn itself out in a race with insane rules.

Deeply, deeply, I inhale the scent of the motor into my chest.

If I am the person who lived through that time at the training school, I can surely heal these unreasonable wounds. My heart hasn't died; it is just lying low for now to discern the true race I should be entering next.

The courage to step off an unreasonable water surface is,
the first step toward standing on the next starting line.

I'm impatient, but I'm not rushing.
Quietly hammering the propeller back into shape inside the safe pit, the preparation to find the water surface where I truly belong begins here.