05. Equator's Line

On the day Aomi crosses the equator, I see a red line stretching across the sea.

Like the equator on a map, the red line stretches from east to west, as far as the eye can see. It's amazing to see such an imaginary concept appear so clearly in real life. But when I look closely, I notice that the thickness of the line varies from place to place, breaking at some points. Surprisingly, it's a dotted equatorial line!

While crossing the line and breathing in air that smells of fish, I reach out from the deck and scoop up water with a ladle, gripping its long handle. Tiny red balls—a school of fish eggs—float at the boundary between ocean currents.

It has already been a full month since I left San Francisco. Still, Aomi continues on her course, heading steadily south across the South Pacific. The trade winds of the Southern Hemisphere now blow head-on at force five or six, making Aomi rock uncomfortably.

The Southern Cross, shining in the night sky, rises higher and higher each day. I like these bright stars because they don't form a perfect 90-degree cross—they tilt.

Thousands of miles away from city lights, more stars shine in the night sky, filling every gap between them. The galaxy overhead is a vivid band of light.

When I first began my voyage, I mistook the Milky Way for a band of clouds. But I eventually realized it was a galaxy when I saw it in the same place every night. I can clearly see with my naked eyes how the beautiful river in the night sky splits into large branches.

It's no wonder people in the past called it the "Milky Way." This is the star-filled sky people once gazed at—before electric lights were invented about 100 years ago, and began to brighten the night.

I grab my binoculars and point them at the galaxy. How countless the stars are, scattered across the sky! How far away is each one?

As far back as five hundred years ago, during the Age of Exploration, people bravely sailed wooden ships into unknown seas, where demons might await them in an ocean that seemed infinite.

Someday, people will sail this endless sea of stars in ships called "spaceships." People will be inspired by the mysteries of the universe, revealed one after another, sending their hearts toward even more distant stars.

An era of such space exploration may still be several hundred years ahead. It's a future I'll never witness. There's no guarantee, though, that humanity—with its exploding population—will survive.

Aomi's destination is Chile, a country on the South American continent. It's a long, non-stop, three-month journey from San Francisco—especially for a tiny sailboat just 7.5 meters long.

In the small cabin, I somehow managed to fit fourteen 10-liter plastic bottles of water. That means only 1.5 liters per day. I use this water to cook rice, make miso soup, drink tea after meals, and brush my teeth before bed.

However, I use seawater to rinse the rice before cooking. Every day, I light my kerosene burner and cook three cups of rice in a pressure cooker, which helps save both water and fuel by shortening the cooking time. Sitting on the deck with a gentle breeze around me, who could resist the taste of hot, freshly cooked rice mixed with sea air? It's so delightful you could empty a large rice bowl with just one Umeboshi (a Japanese pickled plum).

The vegetables on Aomi last a surprisingly long time. The potatoes, onions, and even the carrots and cabbages seem to stay fresher here than they would on land. This might be due to good ventilation or the boat's rocking. Even without a refrigerator, I can eat raw eggs for up to three weeks after departure—perhaps because I coated their shells with petroleum jelly (Vaseline).

When fresh vegetables run out, I put mung beans in plastic food containers and start making bean sprouts. Every morning and evening, I sprinkle a little water on the sprouts. After four days of growth, I stir-fry the white sprouts for miso ramen or just chew them to enjoy their fresh, crisp taste.

I also try a canned salad made from dried vegetables, bought in the United States—one of the emergency foods once prepared for nuclear war. Inside are only dried pieces of cabbage, carrots, and celery. But after adding water and waiting a few hours, they return to life as a cold vegetable salad.

In San Francisco, I also stocked Aomi with useful supplies: powdered butter, powdered eggs, dried meat for cooking, packaged tofu that lasts a year, and instant rice. From my experience crossing the North Pacific, I've learned that the most enjoyable part of life at sea is eating. I've also discovered that my tastes at sea are different from those on land.

After 80 days alone at sea, Aomi is now just a few hundred kilometers from her destination, South America. There, I encounter the Peru Current, a large cold current that runs northward along the continent. The blue water around Aomi suddenly turns green, and thick, gloomy clouds cover the sky.

A few mornings later, a strange landscape surrounds me. Milky-white and rust-colored disks, more than 50 centimeters wide, dot the green sea as far as the eye can see, stretching all the way to the horizon. The number is astonishing. An abnormal outbreak of jellyfish, likely tens of millions, seems to have occurred. Will any species—including humans, with our exploding population—eventually reach its limit and perish?

Aomi floats in a soundless jellyfish sea as a calm sets in. I'm surrounded by eerie stillness, an unknown fear, and a loneliness I hadn't felt until now. It's the first time I've felt lonely at sea.

After about two days, Aomi escapes the jellyfish swarm and continues toward the looming South American continent. Since entering the Peru Current, the sky has remained thick with gloomy clouds. Even during the day, it feels as dark as evening. Without measuring the sun's altitude with a sextant, it's impossible to know my location. I wonder where Aomi is heading.

According to my calculations, Aomi should have reached land by now. I search for the lighthouse all night, hoping to spot its light tonight—no, within the hour. I keep scanning the black horizon, but there's nothing.

Strange. Could the currents have pushed Aomi back? How many more days until landfall? I have only three cups of drinking water left.

Anxious night after night passes, with the midnight moon hidden behind clouds, casting an eerie, pale white glow over the entire sky.

When morning comes, the sea around me turns into a giant zoo of birds. Several species fly back and forth, left and right—in all shapes and sizes. Pelicans also fly in powerful formations.

Some birds suddenly freeze in midair, as if shot, then drop straight into the sea. It takes me half a day to realize that this sudden dive is how they catch fish.

The countless birds in the sky clearly signal that the land is near. At night, I see white dots of light on the horizon. I grab my binoculars and watch closely. They're not ship navigation lights. The regular rows of lights are unmistakably from a road.

This is my first glimpse of land in three months. Before me lies South America—a world completely unknown to me. I can neither speak the language nor imagine what awaits me there.

After sailing along the Chilean coast and through the Patagonian Archipelago, the long-awaited, legendary Cape Horn is finally within reach.