What a weekend we had at Inawashiro Lake! Sun, sails, speed, and some seriously good food made this year’s BBQ one to remember.

The Yamaha jet ski was the star of the show – a top-of-the-line machine hitting 98 kph. For several members it was their very first ride, and one even called it a “bucket list moment.” Not a bad way to spend a Saturday!
Sailing conditions Saturday morning were just right for learning, with one new Sunfish sailor logging hours of practice alongside an experienced instructor. Windsurfing and sailing kept going right up until the BBQ kicked off at 5 pm.
…And what a BBQ it was. Frank deserves legendary status for running two charcoal grills at once, chicken and potatoes sizzling on one, steaks on the other. Huge thanks also to Nao and Yumikofor making it all happen. On Sunday morning, French toast and bacon brought everyone together again – probably the one thing that actually went according to plan that day! 

Sunday’s adventures continued with the Yamaha jet boat. Five members had a blast wakeboarding and cruising, even if the ride back across the lake was a head-banging battle with the chop. Spirits stayed high, though – no waves could sink the fun.
The wind cranked up on Sunday, keeping most of the boats grounded. Safety first! By late afternoon the gusts eased and a few lucky sailors squeezed in one last session before heading home.

Even for those who couldn’t get on the water as much as they hoped, feedback was overwhelmingly positive – from the beautiful scenery, to the great food, and the lively atmosphere shared with fellow TSPS members.

Special thanks to Alex, who not only repaired the blue Sunfish after some damage but also added two extra outlets to the storage container. Future sailors will thank you!

All in all – an amazing weekend with the best crew around. Can’t wait to do it again next year! 

Its happening again, the TSPS Member’s BBQ at Lake Inawashiro in Fukushima Prefecture SEPTEMBER 13-14.  It worked well last year so we are going to do it pretty much the same with only a few tweaks.  Like last year – members can arrive and hang out on the beach, swim if they want, try wakeboarding, try sailing a Sunfish dinghy, try windsurfing, try a Canadian canoe, have a hot dog or a burger when they are ready to eat, play some frisbee.  

Depending on demand and resources, some of the activities could be repeated the following morning.  The cost for the BBQ is ¥10,000. Please pay here:

Some things need repeating.

1. It requires cooperation, and we know this because the cooperation last year was fantastic, the vibe was great and it is the reason we are going for it again this year.   As I said last year, ¥10,000 does not get you a Hyatt resort package, it gives you the opportunity to be part of a great event.  

What TSPS brings – 

A bunch of boats and equipment to use.

A wonderful set of plastic chairs and a table that Gary Thomas confirmed is available again for us to borrow.  A couple of working tables and a grill will be brought over but they will not be enough.  Please bring a table and chairs if you can.  Bring your own beer, a cooler to put it in, and a chair to sit and enjoy it.

Food – We intend to provide the same level of quality that we served last year.  Soft drinks.  TSPS recommends you not consume alcohol during the boating activities and wait to drink your booze until you are no longer required to focus on driving or boating or volunteering. 

What TSPS is not bringing –

Cooks – we need someone to step up

Lifeguards – we need volunteers to watch the water and watch the Sunfish and canoes as they are likely to tip over if the wind is strong enough.

Boat drivers – Yamaha boat club members that operate a Yamaha boat or jetski for half the day will get a ¥5,000 discount.

Janitors – we need volunteers to ensure our mess is cleaned up and we demonstrate our appreciation by not walking away from a pile of garbage.

2. Unlike last year, we know there is demand for this event and its going to happen.  To participate youneed to sign up and pay on Stripe.  In the event we reach max capacity which we believe is about 30, the order of payment (not sign up), will determine who can participate.  Click on this link to sign up and pay. Members cost ¥10,000, guests cost ¥13,000 but kids under 12 are free.

3. The location, Tate Hama in Konan machi, Koriyama City will be the place again this year.  Its a great beach and campground with a lot of room and basic facilities.  There are other places to stay about 30 minutes drive in Inawashiro City or in Bandai Atami.  The below link has a drive from Tokyo Station mapped out.

Here are images from last year’s event.  

By Timothy Langley
May 2025, Katsuyama Harbor

Ahoy, fellow sailors!

After months of sweat, setbacks, and salty language, I am thrilled to report that Gryms is ready: sea trials are complete. She sails like a dream—and believe it or not, she’s the largest vessel in the TSPS fleet, a true ocean-class Swan reborn in Tokyo Bay.

Some of you have followed her rebirth from the very start. You’ll remember how she first came to me: tired, neglected, and full of potential. She’d been through a leaky-valve hell and was languishing at Yumenoshima Marina with a dead engine, flooded tanks, and a bilge reeking of diesel and despair. The folks there estimated it would take upwards of ¥6 million yen just to make her marginally seaworthy.

So yes, she came into my life more or less for free.

But as anyone in this group knows, nothing afloat is truly “free.” What Gryms demanded in cost, she more than made up for in character—and in hours, weeks, and months of restoration work. Together with co-conspirators Evan Burkosky, Tony Hardie, and Freddie Snoxall, we spent Golden Week shaking down every system. Gryms is no longer just afloat—she’s fully deployed.

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Golden Week at Sea: A Trial by Wind

Without your own yacht—or without a generous friend who has one—it’s not easy to get serious sea time in Tokyo. But Gryms is no ordinary boat. At 44 feet, she’s big, robust, and built to cross oceans. She sleeps eight. The galley has a top-loading fridge that freezes things. The head has hot water. There’s even a proper shower (which, after Niijima, we really appreciated).

Let’s be clear: this is no marina princess. Gryms is a 1973 Swan, rugged and elegant in equal measure. Her chrome winches gleam, her wood is rich with patina, and when she heels over under full sail—especially flying that magnificent gennaker—she sings.

But this trip wasn’t just to test the boat. It was to test the captain.

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Breaking In the Boat… and the Man

I’ve been a solo sailor before. My old 26’ Yamaha carried me all around the Izu islands. But Gryms? Gryms is a different beast. The halyards, reefs, vang—all the important lines—are five meters forward of the helm. This is a team sport, folks, difficult except for the most accomplished to sail solo.

So we flipped the script: Tony helmed, Evan commanded, Freddie napped, and I—Captain Langley—sprang to action, or at least tried to. We set off from Katsuyama for Oshima, then Niijima, with no fixed plan—just wind, waves, and weather to guide us. Six glorious days.

And guide us they did. Gryms faced 30-knot winds with 40 knot gusts, waves crashing over the bow, and a forward hatch that… well… proved not quite weather-tight. Everything in the v-berth got soaked. We discovered some legacy rigging issues that need correction. On the Niijima leg, a storm chased us hard enough to turn us back to Habu, surfing down following seas in what felt like a scene from “Master and Commander”, Captain Evan at the helm (of course! … like Captain Dave in the movie “Forest Gump”).

From Habu the following day, we sprinted to Shimoda, just threading the needle before a second storm rolled in. From there, it was a long haul across Sagami Bay back to the tip of the Yokohama Peninsula, Misaki.

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Galley, Guts, and Glory

Here’s the part that surprised even me: we ate like kings.

Almost every meal was aboard—warm, hearty, fast, and easy. The fridge held. The stove worked. The water heater chugged valiantly. The galley needs some ladylike refinement, yes, but nothing failed us when it counted.

And after everyone sprinted home to avoid the traffic, I spent some quality time drying the gennaker, mopping the bilge, and reorganizing the gear. Gryms got knocked around, sure—but she bounced back, and now she’s tighter than ever.

Back at Katsuyama, we’re in full post-voyage cleanup. She’s gleaming again. Shipshape. And oh, what a ship.

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Photos

An Invitation to Sail

I look forward to introducing TSPS members to this magnificent vessel. Gryms isn’t just a boat—she’s an adventure. A survivor. A living example of what patience, know-how, and maybe a bit of madness can revive.

So if you’re ready to fly a gennaker, chase the wind, or just share a mug of joe in the cockpit under starlight—let’s get you aboard.

Fair winds,

– Captain Timothy
Katsuyama, May 2025

As many of you know, the Yokohama Boat Show is just around the corner!
For more details, check out the official page here: Yokohama Boat Show 2025

This year, TSPS won’t have a booth, but don’t worry, we’re bringing back one of our most popular events: SuperKeelhaul!
It’s always a great time, and we’d love for you to join us!

We’ll be meeting at Wolfgang Puck Yokohama (only a 10-minute walk from the Boat Show venue). It’s the perfect spot to go out, enjoy some good food, and catch up with friends and fellow boat enthusiasts! Feel free to bring your family and friends along too!

 Bonus for members: Show us your Boat Show ticket, and we’ll give you 1,000 yen back! 

Here are the details:

• When: March 22 (Sat), 5:30 pm ~
• Where: Wolfgang Puck Yokohama (Link to review)
• How much: 5,000 yen (members and non-members alike; kids under 12 are free)

Space is limited, so be sure to book your spot ASAP!

https://tspsjapan.org/asp-payment-box/?product_id=174763

Can’t wait to see you all there!

I sold my boat today: Merry Christmas!

As you know, I fell into this crazy pursuit of sailing about 5 years ago, totally tricked into it originally by evil Evan Burkosky.

I joined TSPS (click on this hyperlink) in order to get licensed to sail Japanese waters and met many of you there (click on this hyperlink). And I learned enormously from this affiliation … and still do.

All my other pastimes… the wonderful saunas (click) , the smokey-cigars, working on old cars (click) , those insane detoxes, my weekly briefings (click) on Japanese politics… all thrown to the wayside as I tumbled headlong down this unending, swirling, tubelike tunnel.

Santana, a 26′ Yamaha sailing yacht, was berthed next to Evan’s boat, Watari (since gone, replaced by a 33′ Perkins of 45 years vintage, “Garuda”). 

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Apparently, the long-time owner of Santana had become ill and so Santana just sat there forlornly for almost two years. The family wanted to find a good home for her, but knew nothing of boating or sailing or selling a boat. So she just sat there.

Santana before:

Santana was a bit bedraggled and ignored and also suffered some damage due to the typhoon & tornados that hit the port two years earlier (and virtually destroyed the hamlet of Katsuyama).

Upon my first visit to Watari to ‘go sailing’ (translated into Evan-speak of “help me work on my boat”), Evan convinced me to take over Santana, ever-so soothingly cooing, “I’ll help you out…”.

Since then, we have, both together & solo, sailed Santana all over Tokyo and Sagami Bays and out to the farthest island in the Izu Island chain (click) , to Atami, Shimoda… all over! Almost weekly, it seems like now. Evan taught me the ins-and-outs, and Santana taught me the rest. We constantly worked on Santana and upgraded her to make her safer and more reliable. Wow, we sailed the heck out of her, too!

Santana after:

About three years later, Evan stumbled upon abandoned Garuda (definitely click for the amazing story of her restoration). For 9 months, he and others (“let’s go sailing!”) helped liar-Evan restore Garuda to sublime sailing grace. We sailed her 8 solid days over Golden Week (click), in fact. Now Garuda is gorgeous, responsive: a head-turner whether in-port or out.

But my desire for a larger-than-Santana more capable boat continued un-satiated. I was actually looking for a boat where I could spend cigar-chomping Ernest Hemmingway-like time writing stories, maybe even a book! Evan and Tony were looking on my behalf, too!

—–

Back to the story…

Three months ago, Anthony Hardie (whose yacht is berthed near Garuda & Santana) telephoned me with some urgency: an older fellow needed to unload his 44′ Swan, and this rumor Tony had just heard through his extensive sailing grapevine.

As the most recent owner (2 years earlier paid ¥15 million?), he had poured money into the boat to sell it and get a pretty penny. The mainsail, jib and storm sails were all brand-new. But this poor Owner was now spiritually defeated, economically empty, dejected from the fate he was handed, incapable of the manual labor immediately required. “I just need someone to take her off my hands!” he confided to his First Mate.

“No matter what you have to do,” Tony yelled into the iPhone, “call this First Mate right away and tell him you will take it, sight-unseen!”.  Tony ended the call with that famous refrain: “Don’t worry, I’ll help you…”. Then, immediately the phone went dead and there I was… standing-there… deer-in-headlights.

—–

And down the rabbit hole I again tumbled, dragging Tony and Evan with me. In retrospect, though, I have to admit that these two nut-jobs were not reluctant but in fact gleefully egging-on co-conspirators! My sails filled with air and off the ground I was carried!

In 5 weeks we got the vessel’s engine running, another 4 weeks of clean-up and refurbishment, then changing the Registration. We took her for sea-trials twice and, whoa!… how she performed! Honestly, all three of us were smitten!

While this downtown Tokyo marina is 8 hours from the true place where a boat like this belongs (the unfathomably deep and treacherous blue waters of the open Pacific), Gryms’s new berth is but a brief push-off the quay for a 15 minute sail into the deep blue.

She is now where she belongs: not destined to sail inside the confines of Tokyo Bay and dodging tankers, but further outside where tuna leap and the powerful Kuroshio Current swirls.

Gryms’ new berth is where Santana, Garuda and Tony’s magnificently restored pirate-looking yacht are all berthed. A small fishing hamlet near Hota.

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But in my case, Santana didn’t really cost anything except for repairing her and bringing here up-to-snuff. It didn’t cost money, except for the beers I plied Evan and Tony with as we three poured ourselves into the task of resurrecting this unbelievable gift from the gods. And this is exactly the same scenario with the new Swan, though the two-transactions are separated by 4+ years. But I had to sell Santana in order to have the berth for Gryms.

But these two ‘happiest-of-days’ happened in such unbelievable close-proximity.

—–

I am bittersweet happy/sad to announce the sale of Santana as of today, Christmas Day! It is unwise and dangerous to have two lovers, I have been long told. And, I guess I need to avoid that though I really don’t want to.

In any event, leaping from a 26′ sailboat into a 44′ sailing yacht is not just a step-up, it is skipping a couple of steps in-between and a huge challenge: massive, in fact.

I must, for example, grow into a different kind of sea-captain, comfortable with crew rather than, as is my usual course, going solo. Santana is very comfortable, quick and responsive, easily solo-sailed… but this Finnish boat, built to cross oceans, is a different matter. Much of the rigging and winches are located on the mast, or forward of the cockpit, a good 4 meters away from the helm!

And not just that, but preparing to gybe or tack, or reef, requires coordination between the helmsman and those pulling-or-releasing the sheets than a mere pair of hands can safely and smoothly execute. So, farewell to that precious solitude that Santana gave to me as a solo-sailor. On the other hand, what Gryms takes away, she repays in spades: speed, power, agility in plowing through waves at 11 tons of weight! THAT is pretty spectacular!

I am definitely up for that and so grateful to be surrounded by friends like you guys. In particular, it goes without saying how indebted I am to Tony and Evan for placing me in this predicament.

I never envisioned such a thing happening so quickly but, in fact, it went smoothly and somewhat flawlessly. So I owe a lot to everyone for helping me on this tremendous journey. 

—–

Anyway, I just wanted to give you a personal update and a ‘thank you’ for whatever role you had in this pretty significant achievement over a brief 5-year-span.

Forgive me if this seems like a brag but…. well, I just can’t help myself: I am like a kid at Christmas!

THANKS for all your encouragement (less for the torments, but yeah, for those, too). Thanks for reading this far, and for celebrating with me this uncanny stroke of luck and friendship contained within this story. Not something that happens to everyone…. I am beyond words grateful to you guys for your support. Merry Christmas!

PS: if you post a comment, be careful: write your Post first, then copy/paste into the Comment Box. It is not very forgiving and if you don’t, you will lose your text. Write elsewhere, then hit Add Comment, then paste. Please let me hear from you!

By Chris Eve

In Japan you need a license in order to use a VHF radio, a radar, or a transmitting AIS device. When I bought my boat second-hand it came fitted with a VHF radio and an AIS, and although I had been using my AIS (and liked seeing Eothen show up on vessel tracking websites such as Marine Traffic) I had resisted transmitting on the VHF because I had no real need to do so but also because I suspected that you needed to have a license. After doing some research I found out that you need to have at least a “second class special marine radio operators license” (第２級海上特殊無線技士) and I started to think about getting one. What really compelled me to get one was when Darren told me at a TSPS keelhaul that I risked being fined just for having a radio on my boat, even if I did not use it. Just another example of how joining TSPS and attending keelhauls can expand your knowledge about boating and potentially save you from costly mistakes! He urged me to completely disconnect the radio and hide it somewhere in the boat, otherwise I would be in trouble if the coastguard saw it during an inspection. Darren recommended getting my license with Royal Corporation (www.marine-license.com), which has a branch school in Kachidoki.

In order to prepare I bought a ‘teach yourself’ book for the exam but I was daunted at what I saw when I opened it. The exam consists of two parts, one on regulations and one on technical. The chapters in the book on regulations were heavy text, with a lot of Japanese that I had trouble reading. The technical chapters were equally heavy to read, but also filled with formulas for calculating resistance, capacitance, etc., and various circuit diagrams, etc. It seemed to me that the test was more about building a radio rather than using one!

Figure 1 The teach yourself book that I bought

However, having set my mind on it there was no escape from getting a license, so in the summer I booked a course and exam with Royal for the end of November. This was to give myself time to do some preparation and familiarize myself with all the necessary Japanese and technical formulae. Over the following weeks I spent hours and hours working my way through the book and ended up translating almost the entire text. The book included sample questions, and while I was able to answer the regulation questions, I really struggled with some of the technical questions and began to doubt that I would be able to pass the exam.

I downloaded some past exam papers from a website (https://jyukenkai.com/kakomon_tokushu/kai_g2/) and used them to test myself. As with the boat license exam, I quickly realized that most of the questions get repeated on a regular basis, so for the technical questions that I still had trouble passing I set about rote memorizing the questions and their answers. As the date of the exam grew closer, I was confident about passing the regulation part of the exam but sometimes I was not passing enough of the technical questions to pass.

Figure 2 Sample technical question that I rote-learned the answer to. We did not cover this at Royal and it was not in the exam

I discovered a YouTube channel that ran through past questions and answers, and I spent quite a few hours going through the technical questions but still not being able to answer some of them (https://youtu.be/0hPPZ7LVeRs?si=SIzhjfVTOlfvY73Z). I also found a smartphone app (過去問) with sample of past exams and used that to study during my commute to work. Finally, the day of the course arrived and I was still not confident of the passing the test, so success was going to be about how much I could learn during the course.

Figure 3 Text books

The course by Royal runs over two full days, with the exam taking place at the end of the second day. On arrival they issued us with two textbooks, one for regulations and one for technical. They also gave us summary sheets that highlighted various topics from each book. There are 7 hours of tuition on the first day and 6 on the second. The instructor told us that we could not arrive late or leave early, nor go out of the classroom during the tuition sessions except for the scheduled breaks, otherwise we could not take the exam. I listened intensely to the instructor every minute of the first day as I was determined to pass. It was exhausting. But I began to feel uneasy that although the instructor covered much of what I had previously studied, he seemed to omit some things that regularly came up as questions in the sample exams I had been studying, and focus on other topics that I had not seen before. Darren had told me that the instructor would highlight topics that would come up in the exam. Sure enough, at the end of each session our instructor referred to the summary sheets and told us to underline various things, saying that he did not know what questions would come up in the exam, but these topics often came up.

Day two was much the same as day one. After concluding the final tuition session the instructor once again ran through the summary sheets, again telling us to underline the same items he had stressed previously. Finally it was time for the exam, and I was dreading that some of the questions that I had failed to master in the sample exams I had been studying would come up. Turning over the exam paper I began reading through the questions. With much relief, I realized that the questions were all on topics that had been repeatedly highlighted and stressed by the instructor in the summary sheets. There are 24 questions in the exam, 12 each on regulation and on technical. The answers are multiple choice, with four possible answers for each question. The pass score is 60% for both sections. The time allowed for the exam is 1.5 hours, but after about 10 minutes some people had already finished and started leaving the classroom. It took me a bit longer as I took time to go through all the questions a second time to check that I had not made any silly mistakes, but I was finished in less than 30 minutes, and confident that I had passed.

After everyone had finished we were called back into the classroom and waited for our results. Within a few minutes, the examiner returned and distributed our result cards. We had all passed!

In summary, you pay the school ¥38,500 in order for them to ensure you pass the exam. So long as you listen carefully to what the instructor tells you to remember, you will pass the exam. In the event that you do not pass the exam, on the same day Royal hold a revision session and a re-sit of the exam.

Having done the course and passed the exam, I realized that I had wasted a whole lot of time and effort in doing all that pre-studying for the exam, but hey, a bit of intellectual exercise is never a bad thing.

Figure 5 Sample regulation question – question similar to this was in my exam

Figure 6 This regulation question was in my exam

Figure 7 A page of the summary sheets

TSPS End of Year Celebration / Bonenkai on Wednesday evening at the fabulous, on-the-water, Intercontinental Tokyo Bayside Hotel… our second time at this location.

Approximately 40 Members and Guests arrived to a fairly dressed-up affair. The focus was the Awards Ceremony for 7 who have distinguished themselves over this last year. Five deep-rooted TSPS former Commanders joined, too, with former Commander Per Knudsen providing the opening “Kanpai!”.

Event schedule is below. You will also find the Nominees for each of the illustrious achievements: Most Time on the Water; Captain-of-the-Year, Toss-Overboard, Writer’s Block, Blue Bucket and, this year a first: a Commander’s Award.

The photos tell the real story (click for Google Drive of ALL photos). Please supplement with your own observations in Comments below if you were with us. Overall, the event went splendidly: Svetlana organized the whole thing, Andy was superb as Master-of-Ceremony, Timothy utilized his well-honed dumpster-diving-skills to provide an eclectic collection of highly sought trophies.

THE AWARDS

THE ORGANIZERS

MEMBERS & GUESTS IN ATTENDANCE

THE FOOD!

TROPHIES & NOMINEES

THE NOMINEES FOR 2024

DESCRIPTION OF INDIVIDUAL AWARDS

Captain of the Year: this framed coveted-trophy is otherwise known as “The Captain Crunch Award”. It consists of a luxuriantly-framed cereal box with a copy of a wrecked yacht pasted on the bottom: displaying the tremendous thought and no-expense-spared attitude in creating this gem. The Award is self-explanatory. Nominees: Remi, Chris, Jeremy, Ryan

Toss Overboard: Like some rancid cheese left on the boat from the last sailing journey, some individuals have overstayed their good-by-date, to remain as constant irritants to the Bridge Commanders who follow. This award goes to the longest-serving, most irascible and consistent participant in TSPS over the years.
Nominees: Per, Claus, Demir, Jeff

The Blue Bucket: this handsome trophy is a framed fragment of a destroyed blue-plastic bucket. This represents the accomplishments of our TSPS Member who, in spite of a mere tiny challenge, devoted incredible energy & resources, at considerable risk, to achieve a very minor goal, causing great destruction in the process.
Nominees: Bill, Ash, Cris, Remi, Toshi, Evan, Timothy

Writers-Block, & Tackle: This award goes to the individual who has somehow captured the attention of visitors to the TSPS webpage. Thousands of hits have been recorded and some of these stories are actually lucid. The winner this year generated an amazing 10,000 hits and only 4 lawsuits.
Nominees: Svet, Remi, Toshi, Timothy, Bill

Most Days on the Water: this trophy consists of a Gift Certificate from renowned local divorce-specialist law firm for free-consultation in the inevitable event of divorce by a distraught and neglected wife. The Award goes to that special individual who has most-successfully avoided home-duties by spending all of his available free-time on his boat (or that of a friend’s). The elaborately framed-certificate includes “Break Glass In Case Of Emergency” instructions.
Nominees: Darren, Demir, Mike Snyder, Freddie

Bent-Stanchion: this gorgeous silvery Trophy epitomizes the plight of all who devote money, resources and energy to repairing and preserving some object of great affection, only to have it reduced to junk in a single instance of inattention or cruel fate.
Nominees: Jeremy, Robin, Cris, Evan, Brendan, Max

Commander’s Award: this filthy-piece of material is reportedly a fragment of the Nelson 120 gun battleship. It is a token of gratitude felt by the Commander for the Awardee’s uncanny sense of emergency and quick action to stave-off further damage during an otherwise disastrous Inawashiro lakeside event in this early Autumn.
Awardee: Brendan

TSPS GROUP PHOTO

AGENDA OF EVENT

by timothy langley

November 20, 2024

While some pals were growing callouses strumming their first six-string, or working at the pool, or partying at Woodstock, the summer of ’69 found me on an ocean-going Merchant Marine ship…. as a deckhand.

To be fair, though, that sounds far-more romantic than it actually was: thirty days solidly entombed inside this WWII-built massive, moving bucket’s engine room unfortunately… not swashbuckling on an open deck.

Take it from me: there is nothing romantic about any ship’s hottest, most damning place, let alone for four weeks in open-ocean! But for a 16 year-old pimply-faced kid (at that time) confronted with the same faces of 28 crusty, salty, modern-day pirates, stifling temperatures, nothing to see but the inside guts of a rusted cargo ship… and daily, a too-far-off horizon… how the hell did I get into this!?

As a brat moving from base-to-base maybe 7 times before hitting the family’s latest, far-flung-outpost, landing in Okinawa in 1964 was the beginning of our longest station as a family. Later, by ‘68, my oldest (of three) brothers, Chris, was drafted…earmarked as a grunt slinging a Browning Automatic…for Vietnam.

My father was doing time in Vietnam & rarely around, my poor Mom scrambling to manage 7 other (less-deserving) siblings; as Number 5, I basically had the screaming-run of the island like only a proper street-urchin possibly could. I had by then mastered the island’s pidgin-english, was way too-deep into an exotic form of hand-combat that sprouted here, and stupid-enough to get into fistfights with drunk g.i.

In retrospect, upon seeing the movie, “Officer and Gentleman”, my life seems like Richard Gere’s character “Mayo(nnaise)” must have been before he landed at boot-camp. What a great movie: a guy lost, thrown into the Real World, nothing to loose, not knowing which way is up: I relate a lot with Gere’s character… spinning reverse back-kick and all.

Even back then, the military had a rule preventing immediate family members in a warzone at the same time a’la “Saving Private Ryan”. And so that was why my brave, valiant father-of-eight volunteered for Vietnam. One can be forgiven for asking, “what in the hell was he thinking?!?” because my Mom asked that a lot, too.

While this decision left us on Okinawa for his rare R&R breaks, it also kept Chris securely out of harm’s way. Apparently, Dad knew far-far more about what was going on there than he ever let on. He almost got killed twice, losing two Orderlies in the process. Only much later did we learn this, of another breastplate on an already well-decorated chest … from the same incident.

The late ‘60s were not the best time to serve in the military: President LBJ was bombing the North, TET ’69 spelled disaster for the US, a full-throttle military effort was launched to support a corrupt South Vietnamese President, spiking casualties incited protests back in the States and huge, violent ones on Okinawa, too.

As with those of my friends, our fathers were stationed for 2~3-year tours on Okinawa as pilots, logistics, doctors, professional soldiers… whatever. Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines: Okinawa had it all in spades…. still does.

As kids, we would lay on the grass to watch overburdened B-52 Stratofortress’s circle high overhead until in V formation, then disappear for bombing runs 6 hours away. Screaming exhaust-pumping Phantoms crisscrossed, always in pairs. Out of nowhere, the thump-thump-thumping of Huey helicopters would reverberate in our chests as they appeared and disappeared at treetop level without notice. Soldiers, some 18~19-year-old kids themselves, in camouflage on the streets and in the villages. Impossibly black SR-71 spy planes screeched-in (like the UFOs they were) still glowing red from the friction-heat their speeds produced. Truly, amazing what an experience I had growing up on this overburdened, hot & muggy tropical island.

So, one morning while shoveling-down breakfast, an out-of-the-blue WATTS-call (a kind of wireless-relay) from Vietnam stopped time fast. In mid-mouthful… utensils frozen in mid-stroke…. no one dared swallow or breathe. Not knowing if this was good or bad (but of course always thinking it must be “bad”) we braced ourselves as only brats can ever truly appreciate.

It was my soldier-father, announcing in a crackling barely audible voice his just-received Orders: we would be moving back to the USA in 4 weeks time. “Start packing.”

Oh my god, the joy: we would leave, our banishment at an end, and I would go to a _real_ high school in Atlanta, Georgia (an alien, unheard-of-place to me at this point!).

Having discussed this eventuality endlessly over the last 5 years, dwelling on it, envisioning how glorious life would THEN be, to pass through Tokyo on an idyllic family-journey. Well, this was always an ever-exciting thought stuck in the back of everyone’s minds since arriving. Now a reality, here I stood at the masterfully ripe age of 16 and the prospect of going … together with my family-of-eight … well, it was less enticing than when first imagined.

I kissed Mom “goodbye” (the last kiss I gave my Mother for a long, long time, it later turned out) and grabbing my olive-drab satchel of books, began my climb up a dew-sprinkled path cut into the hillside, my daily trek to school.

Today was different, though, triggered by Dad’s barely intelligible WATTs call. I made my way up a verdant slope, surrounded by jungle, our bunker-of-a-house resting in a narrow valley surrounded by all manner of ancient tombs, some crumbling. I caught myself taking a mental snapshot as I passed these (by now sacrilegiously well-explored) burial mounds. So spiritually something was so different this morning that I clearly recall the sensation even today…eons-and-eons later.

I crested the hill to await arrival of the ramshackle, smoke-coughing old Army bus that transported me and two dozen of my classmates to school. This 30 minute ride took us down a winding, death-defying course to the sea’s edge. Our destination: a Quonset-hutted, barbed-wire-encircled camp occupying a desolate point on the coast, as if hidden for no one to see (background profile photo on my FB). I glanced back over my shoulder… thoughts of the impossible firing synapses in my brain.

A truly stunning sight: past the familiar carpet of green, spread like a blanket over everything… Beyond…. down to the beaches, 15 clicks away; then further, to the waves crashing white onto the submerged reef of coral. Here, we learned to snorkel, endlessly exploring rusted-out, bullet-riddled wrecks.

This shelf, totally exposed at low-tide, a protective tidal zone that stretched almost a mile out in a line exactly mimicking the craggy coastline. From there, a deep-blue swath all the way to the horizon. And plopped onto this placid sea here-and-there, ships toiling into/out of the port at Naha, miles away and out-of-sight.

Plumes of clouds, mirrored onto this sea, reflected my thoughts: the prospect of leaving my island after almost 5 years thrust me, just like this trick on the eyes, into a back-then-forth, rightside-then-upsidedown jumble.

An itch took hold, somewhat involuntarily, somewhat actively. With older brother Joe (brother Number 3), a scheme and a plot thickened and, immediately after school, the two of us made a beeline to the bustling Navy port facilities at Naha. We both knew what we wanted. The itch had morphed.

The evil-thinking that captured our imagination didn’t require much ignition because precisely a year earlier, brother Bob (brother Number 2) jumped on a Merchant Marine ship and worked his way across the Pacific to San Francisco. This trip, of which he regaled us with all sorts of real and richly made-up detail (as only an older brother could!), included a secret detour to Haight/Ashbury before completing this trek that ended-up in Portland (University of Oregon). Through this disembowelment process, influential Bob’s inevitable, irreversible separation from us, from The Family, was launched. We suddenly longed for this self-administered disembowelment, too. Strange… but true.

Mighty Bob, being of course our hero and role-model, etched footsteps that compelled, indeed dictated (!) our path to follow. Bob’s experience obviously not only held a powerful appeal to us but, because we moved every 2~3 years (saying “goodbye” time and again to newly found best friends), and in fact only 12 mere months separated Joe-and-me… well, we were as thick as thieves as you can perhaps imagine.

We tumbled into the massive Naha navy port to be awestruck at the ships lined-up: every imaginable shape and size on-loading & off-loading cargo. A beehive of activity, olive-drab vehicles hurriedly scurrying, huge cranes stacking containers shipside, others cranking bundles gathered together in massively dangling pouches woven of hemp, thick as an arm; lines and lines of military equipment awaiting shipment to the Vietnam warzone six-days away; military ships, destroyers, a lone, glistening-white hospital ship, a submarine slung low in a special berth. My god, what a sight!

On the opposite end, unwanted, unwashed delinquents: dozens of Merchant Marine ships. Lined-up and segregated like slaves, each suffering from their own individual stages of deterioration.

Flashing our I.D.s in practiced unison, we strode past the guards with an aplomb that didn’t match our teen years. We trekked the half mile to where manifests were stapled to a huge bulletin board, hanging like criminals between two telephone poles; yellow sheets that identified the individual ships, their cargos, destinations, and dates of departure. Five were destined for America: targets identified.

We boarded the first ship with trepidation hidden by (again) an undeserved gusto. Unmolested, we just walked-on; no security, no guards. After 5 flights and three separate decks, always going up towards the wheelhouse. A rough-looking guy smoking a cigarette suddenly, his foot hiked up on the guardrail. “Excuse me, where’s the Captains Quarters?” He didn’t even care… he just wordlessly nodded in the direction of yet another set of stairs bolted to the side, signs of rust here-and-there.

Up, until finally the stairs ended. A huge room greeted us at the top of this conning-tower where inch-thick plated windows faced the forward bow, a massive wheel for steering erupting from the floor: the wheelhouse… the entire ship splayed out in front of us. Not a soul there. Turning toward the stern, the first door was stenciled in black “Captain’s Quarters”; Pay Dirt… and hearts suddenly in throats.

Rapping on the door, and repeating this same exact saga on the four following ships gave rise to an increasing feeling of doom. Each-and-every door that creaked-open resulted in the Captain taking one look (even before my slightly older brother could finish our practiced introduction), immediately asking our ages and then, promptly, growling to us to (in a manner of speaking) take long walk off a short pier. Some used far more colorful language.

Still, we were determined and besides, what the hell: we are already here and more than halfway into it… so we steeled ourselves and trekked from one rejection to another. The final ship, the worse-looking of the lot, loomed in front of us, filling even our peripheral vision. It was huge … and menacing.

Again we climbed up the gangplank and went directly to the Captain’s quarters. Knowing our way by now, but still with apprehension hidden deeply inside, a knock on the paint-peeling metal door was to be our final.

A grizzled old man in a stained tee-shirt appeared, smelling of tobacco and beer-breath: he inside a dark oval doorway, the two of us standing outside, the afternoon sun hitting our backs. The massive port six stories immediately behind us (kind of suggestively). I stood straight, “We’re looking for work, Captain…. heard you might be shorthanded…”, my brother lied convincingly.

His piercing eyes gave me the once-over, then shifted to Joe. He scratched his three-day growth and admitted three of his guys (he said “assholes”) had jumped-ship in Vietnam and admitted he needed replacements. “You got the job, but you need to find one more to take their place; anchors-up at noon.” “Holy hell, that was easy!” we both thought.

We looked quickly at each other, our voices shooting up another octave involuntarily. “Thank you, sir, we’ll be here in the morning…”. But as we turned to leave quickly (as if we had just successfully stolen something), the Captain cleared his throat nosily, stopping us in mid-turn. He spit laboriously over the chainlink barrier between us and oblivion, and watched a huge wad sail the distance as if in reverie; it was a long time. Then the inevitable “How old are you?”, he finally managed. “I’m seventeen, sir!” said Joe with maybe a bit too much force, attempting to conceal the obvious. The Captain’s gaze was locked on me. “Thirty days at sea. Three of you… ” he emphasized; then, “…the first port we hit is Charleston… you have to get off there because you’re underage, you got that?” His eyes never left mine.

Charleston, a mere 500 miles from Atlanta! “Understood, sir.” With that, we lumbered down as quickly as our legs would take us… down this flimsy ladder hanging as if by threads to the port below. My heart pounding, chest exploding: wings couldn’t have taken us quicker (and more thankfully!) to solid ground.

Admittedly, the prospect handed to us was a bit more than a simple challenge: less than 18 hours before anchors-up: who to get to join us? are our passports okay? how about shots? will Mom flip-out: (yes); will Dad blow his top: (decidedly) … an explosion of thoughts. Out of breath, I shot a look at my brother once we were on the ground … with great relief, his eyes were ablaze! “Thank god…” I remember thinking, “…I’m not the only one crazy here!”. And off we sprinted, racing each other in unbridled exhilaration!

By the time that it took us to get home, we had narrowed-down possible other-victims of our diabolical plot. While Joe worked the phone, Mom was in a tizzy. “Wait until your Father hears this!” she said threateningly. We’d launch this make-it-or-break it call tonight…to a strict disciplinarian we hadn’t seen in months, and in the meantime, we secured another collaborator and steeled ourselves for the Dad-call.

That evening, we called my father. Normally, we would beat around the bush, maybe make a suggestion for him to consider before respectfully stating our case. This time, however, we were too excited and besides, time just didn’t provide this luxury: the WATTS-call was on-the-clock. With Mom looking on anxiously, Joe (being older by a massively significant 12 months) just rolled into it: “Can me and Timmy have permission to skip the family trip and work aboard this old freighter, meet you and the family in Atlanta in 6 weeks?”.

Just reflecting on this now, 50 years later, makes my head swoon! Who in their right minds would EVER let their kids so such a thing?!? Now a father of 4 myself, I reject this maniacal idea out-of-hand: what kind of insanity is this?!… I would definitely, emphatically, say “NO!”

My god, how things have changed.

Without much of a pause, he simply told that us we were now old enough to make our own decisions (this was the first father-son talk either of us had, and the Ol’ Man seemed somehow different… distant).

Much to our surprise (and later admiration), in a solemn tone rarely used in talking with us, the Colonel told us he had men our ages under his command to protect, that there was a lot going on, and he needed to focus his thoughts on them. “…so write to your Mother because she will worry, and get to Atlanta safely.” I can’t begin to describe the awe and relief that hit us. We had all the permission we needed. My Mother’s stonehard gaze belied her fuming.

By 11 the next morning, Rick (the other victim, the Provost Marshal’s eldest son) arrived with us at Naha Port to begin our adventure to cross the world’s largest ocean aboard this bedraggled old ship, the Duke Victory. In fact, we got there as the gangplank was being cranked starboard. In a panic, we had to sprint from the parking lot! And while it only struck me later, I imagine now how my poor Mother must have felt, seeing us run awkwardly as we were burdened with duffle bags crammed with cloths & whatever: her two boys, towards the unfathomable… maybe never to be seen again? I regret now, consumed as I was with the crew looking on, for sprinting away without so much as a kiss good-bye. Mothers deserve far better than what I gave her is a thought I still harbor today.

Once aboard, we were quickly guided into separate crew-quarters: Joe to one room, Rick another, me even farther removed: four bunks in tightly compartmentalized identical spaces… separating us from the get-go. These cabins ran along an interior steel-encased corridor, the smell of marine paint and diesel fuel filling the air.

The Bosons Mate, a guy who looked exactly like Mr. Clean in the ammonia commercial (complete with the bold golden ear-ring) gathered us to assign positions aboard the ship.

Two stations were general shipmen, “Able-Bodied-Seamen” they were called. The other was as an engineroom hand, tasked with maintaining and fixing the ship’s massive engines—no doubt the least desirable of jobs aboard. We drew straws to determine who got what: I drew the shortest. Brother Joe and Rick looked at each other with an unhidden grin of relief.

My job, I quickly learned, was “Wiper”, the lowest of the pecking order. With Joe and Rick looking on, the Boson’s Mate described the work, distinctly different from the Deckhand jobs these two won. That he capped-off his description with “… but in recognition of the conditions and the labor you have to endure, you get $2 dollars more each hour than your smirking friends here…”, provided little comfort.

Work in the engineroom started right away, tugs were already towing us into open water. Engineroom work included 5 others (compared to 20 Deckhands): Engineer, Assistant Engineer, two oilers, another Wiper… working in shifts around the clock to keep the diesel-fed steam turbines churning.

The Boson’s Mate tossed me a pile of folded clothes and pointed (using his chin in a jerk) to a pair of heavy boots in the corner, then left me alone in my crewroom. The other Wiper was a stout muscle of a man, in self-exile & hiding from a murder he committed in Peru years earlier. Never left the ship, even when in port. Only he and I occupied this four-bunk room: not really a luxury. I initially ascribed our segregation to shifts being so distinctly different from everyone else’s (4hrs on, 8hrs off, 4hrs on, 8hrs off… every day). I eventually learned we also stank more, triggered by showers after work that first necessitated a kerosine towel-off. His times “off” were my times “on”. We never shared any words during the entire voyage.

In any event, 10 minutes later, already sweating in the heavy gear I was wearing, I stumbled and ricocheted along the narrow corridor as the ship began to gently pitch and yaw, down 6 flights of claustrophobically narrow metal stairways, always down, always the din and commotion from down below growing ominously louder and more insistent.

Entering one containment entailed opening a sealed door, climb through a narrow oval opening, turn around to seal again, and continue to the next one… deeper, louder, the smell of diesel permeating everything.

I genuinely had no idea what was waiting for me, but the signals were not getting better. I braced myself, pushing through spiderwebs of thoughts as I made my way. A will-crushing “what did I get myself into THIS time?” incessantly in pursuit.

Finally, into a gaping maw: a last hatchway revealed an encased cavern packed with machinery, tubes, hissing pipes, the sound of tremendous pounding, and a blast of heat that physically rocked me back. At this portal, a scaffolding of sorts, metal grate-footing of slats, 30 feet off the engineroom floor; a factory compressed into a closet.

In the center below, through a cloud of steam I spied two big men dressed like me. One, noticing the intrusion, thrust up a beefy gloved-hand in what looked like a salute: with palm facing-up, he clenched his fist twice as if squishing an orange to motion me down. It was not a salute, but a command. The noise and the heat were overbearing.

Thirty-feet down, into the bowel of the ship I clumsily lumbered. I could see now a massive shaft, far beneath the metal gangplanks upon which I and all the machinery & equipment floated. The slowly rotating shaft, a solid gun-metal meter thick, connected the pistons of the engine to the propellers, the flippers of this beast.

The ship was swaying, a routine I would come to memorize as I learned to walk bowlegged, know the hot-spots, and the cooler ones, too.

Once on dry land, in fact, this habit stuck with me even for weeks afterwards. I learned to sleep on my stomach, too, for a far far longer period, with my feet tucked in between the mattress and the frame. This tactic evolved to prevent my head from bouncing over and over again into my bunk’s headboard as the ship yawed endlessly… a habit I didn’t break until much later in my own bed at home! Funny how the body masters certain things without you even noticing. ..not the “haha” kind-of-funny, the other kind. Anyway…

Once down, the Engineer cupped his hands to my ears so I could hear, “You the new Wiper?” he yelled at me. “Yes sir,” I answered. “Don’t call me “sir” he yelled back.

He walked me singlefile through the entire engine room along a maze of guarded planks that only allowed for one, showing me were everything was: I didn’t understand a word. And that’s not only because I had no idea how anything worked, but because I could only hear about 20% of whatever was being said. The fact that I was bunking with a murderer was another mind-numbing distraction, too, I guess… but I digress…

We worked next to scorching machinery, Union regulations requiring us to wear full body jumpsuits, boots, and gloves to protect ourselves from burns. Our only salvation came from air ducts that channeled fresh surface air down the six stories to stations where the vents poured, our little places of reprieve. We would stand there, gulping air as long as we could before needing to move onto our next task—it never seemed long enough. Sweat constantly streamed from my face… I learned to tuck a towel into my shirt collar, circumnavigating (and protecting) my neck.

We worked 12 hours a day. Being on a ship presents limited opportunities to do anything else so work occupied more like 16 hours: one can only sleep so much. So we worked as much as possible to cash-in on that juicy overtime pay. For a sixteen-year-old, this was the best paying summer job I could ever hope to find, but boy, did I work for it.

Our trip from Okinawa to Charleston was scheduled to take roughly thirty days, mostly isolated in the middle of the Pacific. Lonely and boring as it was, it still provided a kind of peaceful panic in being that far away from anything or anyone. Plenty of time to reflect… and given the sometimes dangerous situations that arose with regular frequency, such reflection seemed to come-up a lot.

Rick and Joe shifts included stints as night watchmen so I’d join them in between my shifts. The stars! They blanketed the night sky; even satellites that crept across the vault shone bright. Together, we would sit on the tip of the bow as the ship, totally-darkened (no lights so lookout’s eyes night-vision could kick-in) cut through the waves, agitating the phosphoresce and making the water below sparkle like underwater fireworks. Rocketing-up then diving down, we scoured the darkness for other darkened ships, and enjoy the span of the Milky Way. Neil Armstrong actually set foot on the moon during this journey. To this day, those conversations, that rocketing, diving forward sensation, those memories are favorite recollections. I guess I grew-up a lot during that seemingly unending voyage. I longed to see the horizon grow closer however.

Then one day, before it finally did, something wonderful and delightful happened!

About twenty-five days into our journey, the air … it changed: suddenly a whiff… a scent… a suggestion of green, of life! Could it be that for which I was so desperate?

Ship lights had begun to appear then disappear at night, during the day, we’d see some on the horizon: traffic, when before there had been none! Then, about three evenings later, the cry of a deckhand, “Land!” and the coastline gradually, slyly appeared on the horizon’s edge. Pins of light from the shore penetrated. The sun, unseen far over the globe, emanated rays piercing at an impossibly oblique angle to the collection of clouds gathered along the emerging horizon in front of us… it must have been about 3:00 a.m. Thin lines of colors exploded, kissing the curvature…far far away. Earthy scents filled the nostrils, which I remember breathing-in hungrily The excitement this triggered, honestly, was indescribable.

Just like a child struggles to sleep before Christmas, I fought to fall asleep when I knew the Panama Canal would be there when I awoke. The next morning, sure enough, our ship was in a queue that stretched for miles in both directions, steaming forward to pass through the narrow passage up through the locks, onto a massive lake in the highlands, then down another set of locks… until 18 hours later, tugged into the Gulf of Mexico. Next thing you knew, a new face expectedly climbed aboard: the Pilot.

Whenever a ship navigates through the Panama Canal, a specialist guides the vessel through the Canal’s difficult path. The channel walls are narrow and leave little room for error; mechanical mules are tied to the ship that tug us through the opened, then closed, then flooded channels, one after the other, rising higher and higher in elevation with each step. Ships understandably must follow certain complex protocols and while these onboard experts helped negotiate the unfamiliar waters, everyone on the ship took a daylong break to watch the scenery pass by. It was lovely just to see green again, people on shore, families picnicking. Life, in fact, did exist.

With our ship through the Canal, we could finally begin our journey through the noticeably warmer waters of the Gulf to Charleston, South Carolina. Being just three days away from US soil felt almost depressing. The summer I spent with Rick and Joe was ending, and the journey of a lifetime was coming to an end. Arriving in port, we said our goodbyes to the men we worked with (none of them seemed to care) and hopped on a bus for our first taste of freedom in Virginia Beach, loaded with the cash we couldn’t spend on-board. What a lovely couple of days followed!

Looking back at that summer.. well, it was something I still think about to this day. The hard work, sweat and camaraderie all conspire to instill in me an understanding of how “work” is related to “significance”: work on this ship and the challenges it presented in an unending avalanche have stuck with me.

These days, working and running a business in Japan, operating at a delicate & high level in a second-language, is hard work too. But one-thing always builds on another and in fact, anyone who is truly striving to succeed here in Japan is bound to run into obstacles, failures, language difficulties, individuals-who-want-what-you-have, or individuals who simply (for whatever reason) have decided this-or-that about you. The point is to strive in any event: just do the best you can. You are here for a reason—go discover it.

I am forever grateful for this chance to span an ocean and have a proper right-of-passage into adulthood, something that was by today’s standards truly unique and mind-altering. I hope you don’t mind me sharing these thoughts.