03. Mysterious Old Man in SanFrancisco

"Now, it's time to start my life abroad!"

Since I have come all the way to the U.S., I want to travel across this vast country—25 times the size of Japan—and see the Grand Canyon and Niagara Falls.

But I can't afford it. I need to carefully strengthen Aomi, my sailboat, to prepare for my next destination—Cape Horn in South America, notorious for its storms. I need to buy many materials for the modifications, and I'm likely to run out of money soon.

In early October, four days after arriving in San Francisco, I go to an auto repair shop to look for a job as a mechanic. I'm rejected there, but I meet a Japanese customer named Mr. Kawasaki.

He is in his mid-fifties and a survivor of a kamikaze suicide mission in the Pacific War. He somehow immigrated to the United States shortly after the war. He works as a gardener and needs workers. Eventually, I stay at his house in Cupertino, a suburb of San Francisco, and start working the next day.

I leave home with Mr. Kawasaki early in the morning under the clear, blue California sky that looks dyed with ink. On arriving at the customer's yard in our small truck, I strap a powerful garden blower to my back and hold a pipe in my hand. I blow the leaves and debris that litter the yards and collect them in one place.

The wind's blast is so strong that my small body almost falls backward, but what a powerful cleaning job! Before I get used to it, I struggle to direct the wind correctly and end up scattering the trash or blowing it into the neighbor's yard, which makes Mr. Kawasaki look a little annoyed.

After cleaning the yard, I use the lawn mower to cut the grass. As I work, I notice many plants, flowers, and trees—my first time seeing ones that are rare in Japan. Even the weeds look so exotic that it feels like a shame to pull them out.

The nearly twelve hours of sweaty, dusty work each day don't seem so hard when I think of my dream—Cape Horn. After work, I have dinner with the four members of the Kawasaki family, then go to my room to study charts and documents about Cape Horn late into the night.

About two months into the job, the winter rainy season arrives in San Francisco. With no gardening work available, I can't earn the fixed daily wage of $20. I start working in Mr. Kawasaki's garage, repairing trucks and lawnmowers to earn some money.

But before Christmas, as I begin preparations for Aomi, I pack my luggage and leave the Kawasaki family, who have taken good care of me.

My new address is "Pete's Harbor," founded by Italian immigrants in the delta, about a third of the way from the far end of San Francisco Bay.

Anyone who walks here realizes that the place is full of dreams. Sailboats are under construction all along the coast. People who've longed for the ocean are now building their own large sailboats. There are students in their 20s, old men living on pensions, families working hard together, and many who have sold their houses to fund the construction and now live on their unfinished sailboats.

With the help of their wisdom and their power tools, I prepare for the Cape Horn challenge. A successful crossing of the Pacific Ocean does not guarantee that I can sail to Cape Horn. To face the world's roughest seas, I must be thoroughly prepared and watch for even the slightest weakness in Aomi.

I reinforce the cabin windows with extra layers of plastic to protect them from the impact of large waves. I also rebuild the rudder to make it stronger and inspect the mast's metal fittings for fatigue, using dye and a magnifying glass. There are over 30 items on the list for inspection, maintenance, and strengthening. One careless mistake—or one easy compromise—could sink Aomi and me in the stormy sea.

I see a strange old man in the harbor—tall, robust, with piercing eyes. Always dressed in a white shirt and a green beret hat, he is surprisingly intelligent and sharp-tongued. Living alone on a large, 14-meter sailboat, he has no friends, family, or visitors. Some say he once worked for the CIA.

The old man named "John" has come to visit me on Aomi. I follow him along the pier, and suddenly, John turns to whisper in my ear.

"Never tell anyone what you're about to see on my boat. Swear to God?"

He brings his hands together over his chest, as if to pray, while I struggle to find an answer. Why is he taking me on his boat if he wants to keep it secret?

"If people find out what I'm going to do, they'll call me crazy. But you've crossed the Pacific alone—you'll understand."

The cabin of his large sailboat, moored at a floating pier, is perfectly equipped: a hot water shower, a kitchen with a three-burner stove, and the latest electronic navigation system. Next to the bookshelf is a high-powered Japanese radio, one not sold in Japan. Nearly a hundred used pens and pencils are neatly aligned on the chart table—something unusual.

He has been saving money for 25 years to prepare for his voyage. I wonder where he's going and what he's planning to do.

He presents materials for my Cape Horn voyage, pulling dozens of detailed maps, charts, and satellite photos from the shelves. Why does he keep all this material? I notice "Central Intelligence Agency" printed in small letters in the corner of a map. For a moment, I'm startled.

John looks up sharply from his desk and asks,

"Why are you going to Cape Horn?"

"I don't know. But the sea teaches me something important—something the city cannot."

As if discovering a truth, John murmurs,

"Yes, no one who goes to Cape Horn knows why."

He plans to leave the harbor within two months, head south, and never return.

"I'll go somewhere—and die somewhere."

He says this, pausing for a moment, with a firm yet sad expression. What is he thinking? It's not just strange—it's mysterious.

"John, where are you going?"

He grabs a piece of paper from the desk and quickly writes down two sets of numbers, the first being 56. Before I can see the second, he balls up the paper and tosses it into the trash.

56°S, 67°W: Cape Horn, the southernmost tip of South America, juts out at the meeting point of the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans. Before the Panama Canal opened in the early 20th century, the rough seas around Cape Horn were known as the only path between the two oceans—and a deadly, terrifying graveyard of ships.

Countless ships vanished here, struck by unimaginable storms, making Cape Horn a centuries-old symbol of maritime terror.

While reinforcing Aomi, I frequently visit John's sailboat to discuss the two main routes to the legendary Cape, with the chart spread out on his cabin table before us.

John speaks with strong conviction:

"The risk of distress is too great if you sail far south along the Pacific coast of South America to Cape Horn, the continent's southernmost point. The huge, crashing waves would easily swallow your small boat in the stormy seas known as the Furious Fifties. But as you sail south through the Pacific, you can enter the Patagonian Archipelago, navigate between its islands, and approach Cape Horn."

He continues with certainty:

"There, instead of giant waves, you'll see the majestic mountains and glaciers of the Andes, along with some of the most unexplored islands on the planet. Sailing to Cape Horn through the open sea without passing through the Patagonian Archipelago would be like climbing the Himalayas with a blindfold, missing the beautiful scenery along the way. What's the point?"

In the Patagonian region of southern South America, a chain of islands stretches for about 1,800 km. Sailing books describe this area as largely unexplored, with winds from the Andes strong enough to launch stones into the air, currents reaching 9 knots, and numerous reefs. Attempting this passage alone, I'd surely face danger. I turn to John and reply,

"No, if I sail through the rough open sea, I can experience huge waves and a sea of terror."

John counters firmly,

"You'll encounter plenty of those in the South Atlantic after passing Cape Horn. What's the point of seeing the crashing waves in that sea of hell?"

"It helps me think about life," I reply, firm in my conviction.

John looks puzzled for a moment, then shakes his head.

When sailing the open sea to Cape Horn, my survival depends entirely on luck. In the notorious Furious Fifties, if Aomi were to capsize and lose her mast in rough seas, sailing would be impossible. She would undoubtedly sink if her 5-millimeter reinforced plastic hull broke in heavy seas.

However, whether Aomi encounters trouble in the Patagonian Archipelago depends on my efforts, caution, and navigational skills.

"Sailing the open sea means relying on luck, but navigating island waters means relying on myself."

I repeat the words over and over, and finally make up my mind.

"Okay. I'll rely on myself."

At 3:00 p.m. on May 3, after six months in the U.S., Aomi, now prepared for Cape Horn, passes under the rust-red Golden Gate Bridge and leaves San Francisco Bay.

My heart is as dark as a rainy sky, even though departure should be a joyful moment. I don't want to go to sea. I want to stay on land. I feel like a kamikaze pilot on a suicide mission, holding back tears as I tighten my Hinomaru Hachimaki—the traditional Rising Sun headband. My feelings are now completely different from when I left Japan last year. At that time, I knew nothing about the sea.

A storm begins as Aomi sails out to sea, and the land disappears on the horizon behind me. The tops of the waves begin to curl out like tongues, then crash violently over the hull. The sky and sea are all gloomy gray, but the tongue of water I look up at is a transparent green—clear as a thick sheet of glass against the gray sky.

I quickly replace the regular jib in front of the mast with a small storm jib. Still, Aomi tilts more than 50 degrees to the side, and the cabin window is now underwater. The view of the seawater through the small acrylic window is a deep, soul-cleansing blue, hard to imagine from the gloomy gray sea. Countless white bubbles flow through the water. It's like being in an aquarium—no, more like being in a submarine.

My body, no longer used to the boat's rocking, is already rejecting it. Feeling as if I might vomit from Aomi's constant rise and fall, I enter the cabin, peel off my oilskin jacket and pants—both drenched with spray—and collapse onto the violently rocking bed as if struck by a severe illness. After more than six months on land, I had forgotten what the real sea was. Now I am back.

Seasick and groggy in bed, I find myself remembering my life in the U.S. I recall the days I longed for Cape Horn, working hard to earn money and remodeling Aomi little by little. I was so passionate that I even forgot to eat—now I understand that dreaming of the voyage from land is the most enjoyable part of a sea journey.

The storm continues for two full days. The mainsail tears in two, the navigation light at the top of the mast blows away, seawater enters the cabin, and most of the food is soaked. The paper labels on the canned food, bought with the little money I had left, are wet and peeling, with the cans beginning to rust.

"I was careless; I let my guard down."

This is how I am reminded of the sea.

The voyage to Chile, in South America, is a non-stop, three-month voyage of over 10,000 kilometers, crossing the equator.

Here begins a new chapter in my close relationship with the sea.