FILTERS 1
HAZE
A middle-aged man wakes up hungover from a night of celebration.
He is Aikichi Kuboyama, the radio operator for a commercial fishing ship from Yaizu, a port city ninety miles southwest of Tokyo. In Yaizu, the fishing industry is booming in part because of the efforts of the shipowner Kuboyama works for, a man named Nishikawa, who at that moment on an early Friday morning in late January is boarding his fourth boat: Lucky Dragon #5.
Today the Dragon sets off to fish the Pacific. As is custom, Nishikawa held a party the night before in send-off for the crew, which with its abundant drink means Kuboyama, now on his way to the ship with his wife and children, is not the only man to have arrived with a clouded head and weak legs; indeed, he arrives at the same time as Misaki, the fishing master, whose bloodshot eyes commiserate with a glance.
The Dragon's regular captain is medically absent so they have a substitute in the form of Tsutsui, a young man, freshly accredited, who has shown competence and initiative in their preparations. As a fishing boat, Tsutsui is at the helm, but decisions will be made by Misaki. He will order the deckhands, chart their voyage, and decide when and where to drop their lines. Kuboyama is the radio man and he will spend most of the voyage in the radio shack that also serves as his bunk. Kuboyama is soft-spoken and astute, and he notices when Misaki and Nishikawa meet and have a quiet conversation away from the crew.
When they near the launch, several of the younger crewmen clamber up the stern and bow masts. They have colored spools of ribbon they tie to the rigging and send down the sides as children on the pier watch and laugh. Nishikawa departs his ship, and Kuboyama sets the speakers to play Auld Lang Syne. With goodbye cheers, the Dragon departs.
The crew pass their weekend on rote checks of equipment and supplies. Sunday night brings a storm and rough seas that confine the crew to their quarters through the week. Reprieves are short and infrequent and the crew grows restless. On Friday the storm passes and they leave their northern transit on the sea lane to head east into open water.
As the men idle on the deck, enjoying the weather, Kuboyama and the ship's engineer, Yamamoto, climb the ladder to the raised deck and enter the bridge. Tsutsui and Misaki are there waiting, and the fishing master speaks first. "We are not going to the Solomon Islands. Nishikawa has advised us to fish near Midway, where fewer boats will be at work." Kuboyama watches Yamamoto shake his head and mutter "Predictable."
Tsutsui leans over the charting table "We should have been informed of these changes before our departure."
Kuboyama raises his concern "That is a long way for this old ship."
Yamamoto concurs, "Those are bad waters for engines to fail, Americans or none."
Misaki holds, "The Solomons will be full of longlines. Shall we return safe and poor?"
Yamamoto grunts, "As if we would decline, and as if you would let us."
Kuboyama follows Misaki as he informs the crew. They voice no dilemma. Kuboyama sees behind their eyes, he sees their need and their ambition. He sees how they respect Misaki more than they fear the ocean or the Americans. Kuboyama sighs, his hopes rising.
The Dragon moves low over the water, and free from their confinement and out in the air and the light of the sun, what concerns the crew had wash away like the sea breaking over the deck. Misaki has divided the crew, one half prepares hooks, the other prepares buoys. Every hand moves expertly: steel hook connects to wire leader connects to cotton-hemp line connects to steel swiveling snap. These are coiled by the hundreds into baskets with hooks waiting on the rims, ready for rapid use. The buoys vary, some are simple glass floats, others are contraptions with bamboo flag poles or battery powered lamps. They prepare fifty miles of line in an effort that takes them through the last days of the month and into February.
Kuboyama helps when he can, but he must keep to his station. He has just spoken to other ships on the same heading, and relays this to the fishing master.
"Four boats from Yaizu head for Midway."
Misaki nods, "Reports?"
"One throws lines, nothing more."
With winds aiding their engine, the Dragon finds itself two hundred miles south and west of Midway before the end of the week. Kuboyama has news. "A ship in the area reports good catches!"
They continue south. It is just before midnight on the second Monday of February when Misaki's intuition strikes and measurements confirm his feeling. He leaves the bridge for the raised deck and rings the bell on the bridge wall, calling "It's time! Throw the lines!"
Spotlights sweep over the water and the deck. Every man is at work as the thousand and half again hooks are lifted and baited with frozen mackerel and tossed, again and again, changing only for buoys. The night moves with the casts until the sun is high and the baskets are empty. Their work half-done, the engine is stopped and the men go in shifts to Hattori, the cook, who has soup and tea ready. Their eating fills the suddenly quiet air, the sounds of slurps and chopsticks tapping against plastic bowls.
The engine is restarted and Tsutsui puts the ship about, ready to cover the thirty miles just laid. Kuboyama goes to the bridge with radio chatter, and there he finds Tsutsui looking through the small windows of the bridge, across to the bow where Misaki stands. A buoy soon appears that is moving erratically and Misaki calls for its handling. There are sounds of excitement with the big-eyed tuna brought over the side. "That's more than a hundred kilo!" shouts one of the men as the fish is set in front of Ikeda, who is youngest on the Dragon but has more years on the sea than almost any of them. He deftly gills and guts the fish and it is carried to the deck brine tank where it will cool before being put on ice.
It is night again when they are finished.
The crew is exhausted but there is still energy in the air. They look at one another, the same question on every tongue. Suzuki, Kuboyama's nephew, breaks the quiet. "How many?"
Ikeda says "Thousands."
Misaki appears on the raised deck, satisfaction evident. "Three thousand kilograms."
They yell and cheer, Kuboyama laughs and when the news reaches the engine room even Yamamoto smiles. A good first catch is a good omen, and this is a great one. It is also a true omen, for though their success is not replicated exactly they have good hauls through the month, and Kuboyama reports this to other ships with joy.
Hours before sunrise on the first of March, Kuboyama finds himself restless. He tosses, trying to fall back to sleep, but when it becomes clear sleep will not return, he gets up and makes his way to the bridge. Misaki is there, making notes of their location on the navigation table; he says "This has been a good month," and Kuboyama is about to agree when he flinches and Misaki drops to his knees from a brilliant light that fills the cabin.
Misaki is ducking, a habit of war, for beyond gathering clouds the darkness has been split apart by dazzling white light. "The sun rises in the west!" shouts Suzuki from the deck. He shouts it again and Kuboyama can hear his dash to the bunks, rousing the crew who in moments fill the deck. The brightest of the light has gone, but a thing remains, morphing from yellow to orange-red, in hideous shape, growing into the sky.
"What is it?" asks one of the hands.
"Pikadon. Atomic bomb," says another.
Kuboyama and Misaki stand on the raised deck, below them Ikeda calls up, "Kuboyama, what do you think?"
He answers "An atomic bomb would have a mushroom cloud."
Their eyes strain but see nothing rising, only the glow. Some of the engine crew has made it to the deck after hearing the commotion. The debate persists, that same word returning. Pikadon. Atomic bomb. But they do not know, so they bicker. In minutes the glow disappears, leaving an unsettling feeling.
"It is trouble," says Suzuki.
Hattori has breakfast ready and some of the men go to him for bowls. The crew is eating when a mighty tremor shakes the boat and fills their ears with a terrible sound. Their bowls clatter to the deck as they rush inside the boat, shouting in fear and confusion. The sound does not last, and when it ends they quickly return.
"What was that?" one asks without answer.
"Did you know that this would happen? another asks, pointing at Misaki.
"Don't be foolish," he replies.
Kuboyama is recovering from his own surprise. He considers going to his radio, but has a feeling that would be a mistake. Instead he thinks and he listens as the crew returns to debate with that same recurrent line. Pikadon. Atomic bomb.
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"What should we do?" asks a crewman.
"Leave!" says several more.
Kuboyama knows what Misaki thinks. A longline is out.
The crew return to their stations, leaving Kuboyama, Tsutsui, Misaki, and Yamamoto. Misaki says "The line is dropped and goes away from the glow. We can gather our catch and cut the line if necessary." Tsutsui says nothing, but nods in agreement. Kuboyama says "As long as we are ready to cut and run." Yamamoto has the greatest unease, "Be careful. Strange things may follow. Heavy seas could be coming to us, even now." Misaki walks to the raised deck and rings the bell, "Start the engines, haul the lines!"
The men work with haste, many wishing to run.
"We are close to where the Americans tested bombs."
"It could just be American target practice."
"It sounded like something from Mr. B."
"I haven't heard any planes."
The crew has mixed feelings with their catches, for each fish hauled adds to their success and to their fear of an avaricious fall. They could stop now, they had caught plenty and would have much to celebrate in port. Kuboyama has found a book in his small collection, a printing with scientific information. He goes to the fishing master, asking "How long do you think it was between the flash and the sound?"
"Ten minutes." says Misaki.
The crew agrees, and with that Kuboyama estimates their distance as no more than one hundred miles from what was surely an explosion. Misaki knows without consulting the table they are that far from the American Atolls, "Watch for planes."
Kuboyama helps on the deck and makes quick scans of the sky whenever he can. Because of this, he is first to notice when an hour past sunrise, the sky begins to change. First it is gray, and then it rains lightly, with a peculiar dust coming down as well. It settles in their hair and on their ears and must be rubbed from their eyes. Kuboyama takes some of the stuff between his fingers and puts it to his tongue, tasting salt. Others do the same, some taste salt, some taste nothing. All are irritated by it.
This longline is much shorter than others they have laid, and so they are able to finish their aggravated work by midday. The conversations on the explosion and the dust continue. Some remark that it seems like volcanic ash, it is Tsutsui who mentions that Americans test their bombs above coral reefs, and he wonders if it is coral ash.
The men go again to Hattori, but bring their bowls back, feeling no appetite, and the chef notes the same with frustration. Their moods worsened, the crew return to work, brusque but still optimistic. Yamamoto has been awake since the morning before, including for several hours on the deck as ash fell. As he takes his full bowl back to the cook and returns to the engine room, he finds he has difficulty reading the gauges, so with reluctance he lies down to sleep. He awakens not long after and stumbles out of the interior to the railing, vomiting into the ocean. His eyes are now painful and have a discharge, and when he checks the gauges he finds his vision no better. What Yamamoto is experiencing is felt by most of the crew. Sore eyes, skin-sores, stomach sick.
The only positive they find is finishing their work so they can rest, for as the evening comes almost all worsen. They sleep poorly, frequently awoken by moving onto a fresh sore or for need to vomit. Only Tsutsui, Suzuki, and the other engineer, Tagaki, are well enough to stand, but they have had little sleep over the last two days and their weariness weighs heavy.
Late in the night, Suzuki is walking in laps on the main deck, not allowing himself to sit and be tempted to sleep. He must watch for the Americans. He looks frequently to the crescent moon as he tries to force alertness through constant observation. For his fatigue and for its slow gathering, Suzuki does not immediately see the haze. But it creeps forward and up, and fills more and more of the air until the horizon blurs and disappears.
"Fog?" he says, but he sees how it hangs on the water, and even in his state he knows there is something unusual about it. "Strange fog," he says, and a fresh wave of drowsiness washes over him just as the haze envelops them, so he can see the Dragon and nothing else. With this he feels compelled to lie down. The last thing he hears before sleep takes him is the quieting of the engine.
Yamamoto awakens again with pain from his sores and disorientation from eyes that will not open. He struggles, wiping away the crust and being rewarded with fresh pain and tears. He groans and retches into a pail and tries to steel himself on his bunk before the panicked realization that he cannot hear the engine. He stands and immediately staggers for a fresh wave of nausea, then goes a door farther to the engine room where he finds Tagaki sleeping on the floor. He kicks at his thigh. "Get up! Why are we stopped?! The Americans could be near!"
Yamamoto limps back through the boat, concern rising as he checks the main deck. There he finds Suzuki asleep in front of the door, back on the gunwale. "Suzuki! What are–fog?” He sees the haze. "Yama" mumbles Suzuki, who with Yamamoto's hand gets to his feet and says "This came last night."
It is strange to Yamamoto. How it hangs on the ship and how bright it is, a sun-lit white. He holds an arm into it, hoping this will reveal something, but he can determine nothing. They climb the deck ladder and finds Tsutsui asleep in the bridge, and though he knows something is amiss his American concerns override it. “Tsutsui! We must go! Suzuki, wait here with the captain.” He hobbles back to the radio room and Kuboyama’s bunk. He too is sleeping. Yamamoto touches lightly on a part of non-reddened skin, “Kuboyama, you must wake!” Kuboyama does with difficulty. He groans with nausea and weakly grabs for his own pail–his eyes have also crusted over. Yamamoto hands it to him as well as a cloth, and before the radio man's eyes are open he notices "The engine?”
“Yes, I know. Please, there is something you must communicate."
“Of course," he pauses for fresh discomfort, "what is it?"
“It is just past seven. We are somewhere northwest of the American atoll, we are in fog. See what ships you can reach.” Yamamoto helps him to his seat and then exits as Kuboyama shakily checks the stack of his equipment. “This is Kuboyama of the,” he stops, a wave of pain and fatigue hitting him like he had just been dragged under the ship. “-Lucky Dragon #5.” He’s met with acknowledgments. “We are somewhere northwest of the American atolls. We are currently in fog. . .”
Kuboyama removes his headphones and walks carefully to the engine room, which he hears start. There he informs Yamamoto. Yamamoto stops the engine.
The four are on the bridge. Kuboyama, still feeling like he's been keelhauled, is out of breath from climbing the ladder. “This fog is over everything. . .The ocean, the land. . . Everywhere. . . Everywhere on Earth.” Tsutsui doesn’t know what to say, but the other two clearly aren’t at mood to speak. He only says “Everywhere?"
“Everywhere."
“How is this possible?”
Kuboyama weakly gestures confusion.
“What should we do?” asks Tsutsui.
“Stay until it clears. Rest. Set lamps. Play music from the speakers. The Americans will not bother us.” says Misaki, then exits out the bridge to return to his bunk.
The crew embraces their strange opportunity for rest. The air on the deck has taken a pleasant coolness, the water is still, and the fog scatters the sunlight so it is not difficult to look into. One by one the crew move to the deck to sleep. Their eyes and sores still have pain and weep foul liquid and they can stomach nothing more than weak tea, but they feel better on the deck than in the stiff air of the quarters, and many sleep through the entire day.
Kuboyama has slept less than most, he goes back and forth from his room to the deck. Other ships have little to report, only that the fog remains. By the second full night of fog the sense of apprehension and unease begins to build, but many have continued to worsen, and they are thankful for the rest. Kuboyama again sleeps less than most, with no more news than he had the day before.
By the fourth day the feeling on the ship has changed. None have worsened, but the haze remains. A few, now seeming in good spirits, sit on the deck in lively discussion over the haze, what it is, and how it could linger. All felt it had something to do with pikadon. Kuboyama has not eaten in four days, and he looks longingly at his bowl of slices of tuna over rice. He slowly takes and chews a piece and swallows, and with relief feels no nausea and quickly consumes the rest. As he returns from leaving his bowl in the little galley, something crosses his mind. He holds his hand out over the water and into the fog, moving his arm as though stirring. He pulls back to examine, then takes a pole hook from the wall where it hangs and repeats the motion. He pushes the pole out, stirs it, and draws it back to examine. "No condensation." He says quietly. The crew near him has been watching, and their eyes now look up and down the metal pole, past brine stains and rust and fish blood and no droplets of water.
"Perhaps the water is not very wet this morning." Jokes a crewman.
"It is not water." Murmurs Kuboyama.
"What do you mean?" Another crewman asks.
“Is it poison gas?”
“Or fine poison ash, hanging in the air like flour.”
“No. He means we are all dead. ”
“How could you say that? Think of my wife and child.”
“Think of them yourself.”
“No. This is the work of demons. We were too greedy, they seek our contrition!”
“Yes, American demons. Another bomb.”
“We aren’t dead. My heaven is free of all of you.”
“Shut up, Ikeda!”
“You shut up Handa!”
“Fog here, on the ocean, for four days? With no smell, no taste, unaffecting sound? It isn’t fog. It is the haze of yomi. We are together in death.”
“The people on the radio say it hangs the world over.”
“So voices in limbo share our status, unsurprising!”
Misaki rings the bell, startling the crew. "That's enough. We aren't dead, and if we are you shall still serve me until we reach land. There you can seek your gods while I take our fish to market." The crew laughs, it is enough for the moment, but they are still in the haze, still unmoving, and with no sight beyond the boat itself, apprehension remains. By a week without change, the demand to venture exceeds the demand to stay. Kuboyama has confirmed that some boats are beginning a cautious move west. "The weather has not changed, the seas are calm. We could make our way west and hope by dead reckoning to arrive, or we could head east. We are not far from Midway. There are reports of the Americans helping ships."
Tsutsui does not react. Yamamoto shakes his head. Misaki does as well, though he expresses hesitance rather than negation. "Our supplies are strong. We may linger still."
Kuboyama says "This is the decision of the crew."
On the morning of the eighth day, Kuboyama examines himself. His skin shows no sores, his eyes have had no pain or discharge for several days, and he feels like his appetite is without end. What's more, every member of the crew seems to feel the same, invigorated, if suspended. After breakfast, Misaki has the crew gather. He asks "What should we do? Shall we continue to hold? Shall we try our way west to home? Or shall we try our way east, in hopes the Americans are truly showing pity?"
The crew give their answer.
Misaki rings the bell.
Soon the engines start.
Twenty fishermen
awash in Pacific fog
Will they find their way?