Zhac
popped his head through the hatch of the Southern
Cross and shouted, “It is on, mes
amies!”
We
looked up from our work on deck.
Zhac’s unshaven face, his blue eyes alight with unaccustomed excitement flew
up the steps, past the wheel and onto the stern.
I’m
in the middle of stitching a sail, which lies over the boat like a disemboweled
accordion. Next to me are my
sister Kiku and her BFF Mari-chan; they’re folding and straightening the seams. Our brother Kenta is forward, testing
the foresail with Ariel.
“What’s
on?” I ask, though I already know from the scratchy marine radio that blasts
from below decks.
“The
prevailing winds,” Zhac announced to us, and anyone in earshot on the other
boats, “are shifting. By Sunday,
we shall have favorable conditions.
We sail that day, and without fail!”
Today
is Thursday. As I look across the
deck of the Southern Cross, there’s
no way in hell we’re gonna be ready for that. “Zhac,” I politely inform him, “we’ve still got a lot to
do. How are we gonna get this sail
fixed, and everything stowed before then?”
The
enormous sail covers boxes of provisions and supplies and tools, all of which
has to be put away before we can even think of casting off. My logic is correct, but I’ve known
Zhac long enough to know what he views as practical is different from mine.
“Oh,
we can make it work, Nee-chan,” Kiku
chirps as she jumps to her feet, her pigtails flopping about.
“Yes,”
Mari-chan chimes in, “I’m excited we finally have a date.”
I
sigh but on the inside. Don’t get
me wrong, I love my little sister and Mari-chan to death, but they are
kids. If you could see them, you’d
understand.
Kiku
is your stereotypical Japanese girl, hands down. She and Mari-chan are in their last year of junior
high. They’ve both got the cute
thing going, the long black hair, all that. They bounce over to Zhac in their summer gear, and want to
know more.
You’d
think both girls were sisters, they’re that close in look and build. The only difference is that Mari-chan
is Korean. Mariko is her given
name, but everyone calls her by the familiar; she’s one of us.
Our
big brother Kenta comes aft. He’s
a year older than me. Kenta doesn’t
walk so much as glide; he picks his way across the deck in a practiced manner.
He
is a good looker; a lot kids remark how much Kenta looks like guys in anime
shows. I can see it; he wears his
hair a little long in back, and it floats about his face. “What’s the plan, O Captain?” He calls.
Ariel
follows in his wake. Now, I have
to explain Ariel to you. She is tall
for a woman and has a body I have never seen on another in my life. Ariel’s is a muscular frame, with just
enough curve in the right places; her breasts are the perfect size…well, all of
her is just perfect.
As
usual when on the boat, Ariel is wearing next to nothing, a colorful bikini
with some kind of mini-sarong.
It’s not to show off; Ariel is the kind of woman who can make anything
look good. That’s the first thing
you notice, and it takes attention from real mystery of her.
Ariel’s
voice is neutral. It’s not
feminine or masculine; her skin always has a tan. Her features are western, with high cheekbones and a
sculpted face. She never wears
makeup, either.
She
is Zhac’s partner on the Southern Cross. They live on the boat, and have
co-existed for several years if the stories Zhac tells are true.
A
face pokes out from the shadows of the cabin, a multi-colored knit cap followed
by a thick pair of glasses, bangs of black hair that fall within the frames and
without, plus that pale, unassuming face.
It’s Yoko, the last member of our club. Her t-shirt is knotted at the hip and reveals a pair of
ultra-tight cutoffs and skinny legs.
Yoko’s in my class in high school, and my right hand.
We
gather on the stern, and Zhac fills us in on the weather situation. It’s mostly meteorological stuff I
don’t understand, but everyone is excited, except Ariel and me. Ariel doesn’t get excited about
anything.
Zhac
details what needs to be done if we’re to make sailing time Sunday. We only have a few weeks in the summer
break, and if we’re going to do this we’ve got to get moving. I appear to be the only one thinking of
that.
“Let’s
get to it,” I say. When I speak,
people listen, but I wonder if it’s grudgingly. I am the type that gets things done, and properly. What’s the point if not?
Zhac
now sits with us and pulls on the sailmaker’s gloves I was using before. They’re like heavy gauntlets, and you
need them to protect your hands.
Running big needles through canvas is not like stitching a dress; it’s
hard work. I will say this about
Zhac; he doesn’t just give orders.
He’s a pro, and never asks us to do anything he would not do himself.
I
sit again with Kiku and Mari-chan, and we listen to Zhac as he goes on about
the stitching and the lines we’ll need.
Kenta and Ariel lower the foresail and secure it, then go about to
ensure the lines that hold us to the dock are taut. Yoko disappears into the cabin, tasked with creating space
and getting supplies stored. She
has the mind for it.
The
Southern Cross is Zhac’s sailboat,
but it’s an odd one. Technically a
ketch, she boasts twin junk sails, like the Chinese vessels. The boat is not impressive at first
glance, but it’s easy to sail and handle.
That’s important, Zhac says, because conditions on the ocean can change
in a snap.
Zhac
and Ariel have lived here in Tosa Harbor for some time. They don’t work, apart from giving
sailing lessons to the occasional tourist. Kenta was in the Sailing Club last year, and Zhac offered
our school the use of his boat (for a fee, of course). Zhac has become quite the character in
our village, even among the native fishermen and sailors of this part of Kochi.
Zhac
is Canadian, but he and Ariel are both fluent in Japanese. I don’t know how old Zhac is, but I
guess in his thirties. His brown
hair is curly and scraggly, his face bears a perpetual two-day growth of beard,
and his clothes are all worn and secondhand. He always wears an old sailor’s coat even in warm weather,
and a cap with some nautical symbol on it. You’ll also find him in the company of his guitar. Zhac’s a decent singer and does mostly
Canadian songs, nearly all of which we’ve never heard of.
His
father and grandfather were sailors like him. The stories (or “yarns”) he regales people with are
entertaining, but you wonder how much of those are true. Doesn’t matter; Zhac is a good guy, and
someone we trust.
That’s
a hard thing for me; oh, and who am I?
My name is Kahori Aizawa; I’m 16 and in my second year at Manjiro High
School. Those I have described are
my family and friends. We are
those who make up the club, which I am president of. This is how it all started, as far as any of us can
remember.
We
are the Drifters. This is our
story.
--
Well, there you have it...let me know what you think!
