Pathway to Japanese Literature

With this summer heat being what it is, it's only natural that everyone would go to lofty mountains or cool seashores to spend these trying days as part of a fulfilling life.
But once one has aged beyond such pursuits—unable to climb mountains or sail seas—one must find contentment in morning dew upon a small garden or evening breezes across the veranda, peacefully passing uneventful days. Such is the natural way for elders to settle into life's twilight.
Mountain climbing remains an admirable pursuit.
When venturing into deep wildernesses and scaling sheer peaks, one encounters profound mysteries.
Yet dangers inevitably follow—hence why such fearful tales endure.
The sea holds equal measure.
Though my tale concerns the ocean's depths, first I shall recount this mountain story.

It was on July 13, 1865, at 5:30 a.m., that they departed from a place called Zermatt, set their sights on conquering the renowned Alpine peak of the Matterhorn—the first such endeavor since the world began—exerted themselves from predawn of the following day, the fourteenth, and thereby reached the summit at 1:40 p.m.: none other than that celebrated author of Alpine climbing accounts, Whymper, and his party.
It was this party of eight who first conquered the Matterhorn in the Alps—and from then on, so to speak, the Alps themselves gradually opened up.

Now, as you esteemed readers are already well aware through travelogues of the Matterhorn’s conquest, there is no need for me to elaborate here—indeed, you have long since grasped the matter. Yet at that time, another party—namely, a group led by an Italian named Carrel—had likewise been striving to conquer that very peak beforehand, and thus the two parties had naturally fallen into a state of rivalry.
However, Carrel’s party had unfortunately taken a different route and were thus defeated by Whymper’s group.
When ascending, Whymper’s party consisted of Croz leading the way, followed by Old Peter, then his two sons, and then Lord Francis Douglas—a man of noble status.
Then came Hadow, then Hudson, with Whymper bringing up the rear—thus, the eight climbers ascended in that order.

At 1:40 p.m. on the fourteenth, they finally succeeded in reaching the dreaded Matterhorn's summit—that sky-piercing peak—and rejoiced greatly before commencing their descent.
When beginning the descent, they proceeded in stages with Croz leading, followed by Hadow, then Hudson, then Lord Francis Douglas, then Old Peter, and finally Whymper at the rear—yet these eight individuals, having achieved such an unprecedented triumph, advanced with utmost caution along the ice-covered path even more perilous than their ascent.
However, Hadow—the second climber—whether due to inexperience, exhaustion, or rather what one might call fate's design, slipped and collided with Croz at the front.
On that treacherous slope where snow and ice left no foothold, this mishap caused Croz to be instantly swept away, the two becoming one as they plunged downward.
Though they had secured themselves with ropes beforehand so that one might anchor another during falls, the sheer precipice proved unyielding—overwhelmed by two falling bodies, the third climber too went hurtling down.
Lord Francis Douglas—fourth in line—was then dragged downward by the momentum of three plummeting climbers below him.
The rope stretched taut between Lord Douglas and the remaining four.
The four grunted and held firm.
Between those falling and those bracing, the rope—its strength spent—snapped clean through.
It was precisely three o'clock when the four vanguard climbers plunged headlong down four thousand feet of icy slope.
Those left behind could only watch as half their company fell into the fathomless chasm—what thoughts must have filled their minds?
Thus did those remaining above grow frenzied as madmen and despaired like corpses, limbs frozen stiff—yet knowing they could not linger, they crept downward step by step, convinced they too would slip to their doom or meet some unforeseen fate, until at last around six in the evening they reached terrain of slightly lesser peril.

They had descended, but upon realizing companions who had been with them mere moments earlier were now snatched away by the mountain’s incomprehensible demonic grasp, they must have entered uncanny psychological states.

Now, we ourselves have never experienced such situations and know only through hearsay, so we can scarcely imagine what filled those people’s hearts—but according to Whymper’s account, around six that evening, one member of Peter’s group—seasoned mountaineers—suddenly noticed a hazy arch-like shape near Lyskamm. When he fixed his gaze in puzzlement, the others too looked toward it.

Then there appeared near that arch two large crosses—not small ones—whose form evoked for Western nations emotions different from those we in the East might associate with them, vivid in midair.

Thus they too gazed upon this with sensations not of this world—so records the account.

It was not seen by one alone—all remaining witnesses beheld it.

These crosses resembled our Five-Element Pagodas.

While mountain weather may sometimes conjure such shapes, the fact remains that after those who had been alive moments before perished, all four survivors saw these crosses—not merely one or two among them.

In mountains, one’s shadow often appears opposite oneself depending on light’s cast.

Some among the four likely thought this an illusion; yet when they moved hands or bodies to test it, they reported no correlation whatsoever.

With this, I bring this tale to its conclusion.
In the words of an ancient sutra, it is said: "The mind is like a skilled painter."
Does this not seem like a phrase that somehow comes to mind?

Now, the story I am about to tell is one I heard from a certain senior during the time when I was enjoying fishing.

This occurred during the Tokugawa period, though not yet in its final years.
A man resided in Honjo, Edo—Honjo being a place where many samurai of middling status lived, so much so that Edo's proverb spoke of "the minor hatamoto of Honjo," where people of modest standing dwelled, those with stipends not reaching a thousand koku but rather several hundred koku.
He too was a man of such standing who, being skilled in practical matters, had once held an official post.
When one held office—thereby opening the path to promotion that should have been favorable—the world proved a fickle place indeed. Advancement wasn't guaranteed by merit alone; rather, one might incur others' envy and resentment, leading to removal from office and entry into the kobushin ranks.
"When the protruding stake gets hammered down into kobushin," as the saying went—entering kobushin essentially meant being stripped of official duties.
This man too was virtuous, but upon becoming kobushin—and when one became kobushin, life turned idle—with official duties nearly nonexistent, he took to finding pleasure in fishing.
He wasn't struggling financially, didn't indulge in extravagance, wasn't eccentric, understood things well—a likable man in everyone's eyes.
Being such a person, his taking pleasure in fishing—an activity free from entangling others in troublesome relations—made for an altogether commendable narrative.

And so this man would go out fishing whenever his leisure allowed.
There was a boathouse near the Kanda River, and on appointed days—that is, prearranged days—the boatman would bring the boat around to the Honjo side, from which he would then board and set out fishing.
When returning, he would disembark directly onto the Honjo bank from the boat and proceed to his residence—a most convenient arrangement indeed.
And when the tides favored him, he would catch keizu nearly every day.
Now, when I say "keizu," some may suppose I use an Edo dialect term—though people today call them "kaizu," kaizu is the dialect form, while keizu is correct.
The term derives from "lineage bream," referring to its standing among sea bream varieties; abbreviated as keizu, it denotes that black bream which Ebisu-sama cradles in his arms.
Ah—if I were to claim this, insisting that what Ebisu-sama holds is not a red bream, I might be chided as one spouting absurdities! Yet this was asserted by Professor Nohitsu, a scholar of natural history.
First off, red bream cannot be caught with rods of the sort Ebisu-sama wields.
Black bream are precisely suited to such rods.
As this concerns fishing tackle—though it may be superfluous—I shall append a brief note.

One day, this man set out by boat as was his custom.
The boatman Gichi was already past fifty—clients typically disfavored elderly boatmen—but this man employed him not out of reckless urgency to catch fish. Though aged, Gichi remained sharp-minded and knowledgeable about many things, which made him this man's consistently trusted boatman.
Some might imagine fishing boatmen as instructors or guides, but their true role lay in being leisure companions—handlers of clients. Those long in service understood human nature thoroughly, discerning what brought pleasure or displeasure, and skilled boatmen could make clients pass time enjoyably.
Net boatmen followed this principle even more strictly.
Though some guests cast nets themselves, professionals did the actual fish-catching.
This differed fundamentally from fishermen who made their living thus.
The chief aim wasn't frequent fish deliveries but providing the thrill of having experienced net fishing.
Therefore, net casters and fishing boatmen proved unsuited if lacking sophistication.
Leisure guests who demanded geisha play shamisen or dance with fans at first sight—forcing excessive performances—resembled those ignorant of true recreation, just as fish-obsessed patrons were called novice guests. While catching nothing defied logic, those employing boatmen to ruthlessly haul fish crossed into excess—precisely why old Gichi paradoxically preferred them.

Black sea bream fishing differed in manner even among other types of fishing.
The reason lay in how other methods—like whiting fishing involving standing waist-deep in water or platform fishing where tall stands were erected in the sea for waiting—merely relied on fish passing through.Critics derided such approaches as “beggar fishing,” for without fish movement there was nothing to be done—a pitiful state indeed.
As for mullet fishing—since mullet were low-grade schooling fish—catches became unmanageably heavy when successful.To pursue them required moving to the stern,laying planks across gunwales as seats,and enduring wind exposure while appearing more bedraggled than street beggars—hardly leisure.
They ended up resembling professional fishermen—a truly pitiable sight.
Yet precisely this ruggedness appealed to carefree souls who praised mullet fishing’s bold vigor.
But our protagonist disdained such methods.
Black sea bream fishing differed fundamentally.In those days,Edo-front fish ventured deep into Ōkawa River—so far upstream they were caught beyond Eitai and Shin-Ōhashi Bridges.
Thus arose fanciful notions like devout women fluttering Jizō-printed prayer slips from Ryōgoku Bridge that supposedly settled on bream’s eyes—absurdities unimaginable today.

In river black sea bream fishing, when angling in deep areas, they employed hand-line fishing, which meant there was no need to swing rods about. They would release a long line from the reel and fish by gauging bites between two fingers. When weary, they would bring it to the gunwale, set up a gimlet, place whale baleen atop it, thread the line through the forked rest on the baleen, and take respite. This was called "itokake". Later refinements saw bells attached to the whale baleen, creating what became known as myakurin. Myakurin remains in use today. Yet now river conditions have wholly changed—all Ōkawa fishing has vanished, and Keizu myakurin angling seems forgotten by all. Even then, myakurin yielded few catches. Since daily excursions to fish near Honjo's Eitai stretch of the Ōkawa would grow tedious, our protagonist took pleasure not in river myakurin but sea rod fishing. Rod fishing too had varied forms; by late Meiji times there emerged hataki fishing—standing aboard boats to cast hooks into waves battering Odaiba's shores. Buffeted by fierce southern winds while swinging rods to cast bait into white foam churning against jagged rocks made this laborious work even when successful. Such methods didn't exist then—nor did Odaiba itself. Today's drift fishing using flow-guide fences proves equally exhausting. When fishing becomes single-minded pursuit of catches, it loses refinement and leisure becomes toil.

Such fishing did not exist in olden times; they referred to angling in channels or channel-related areas as Mio fishing.
This method relied on natural channels where water flowed through the sea. Following these channels, they anchored the boat precisely with the tide. The guest would sit upright facing the *shōgen*—the foremost compartment near the bow—then swing the rods left and right in a figure-eight motion. The right rod was positioned to the starboard side of a comb-like fixture spanning near the bow deck, the left rod to port, each rod’s butt lightly secured by some clever mechanism reflecting its maker’s distinctive design.
And thus, the guest sat composedly watching the rod tip.
The boatman was positioned in the next compartment behind the guest, in a manner akin to an attendant, first securing himself slightly to starboard.
The sun shone; rain fell; in either case, of course, they would erect a thatched cover.
They erected vertical posts in the holes bored through the foremost ship beam and the next one; laid a ridgepole across the second set of posts; extended crossbeams to both sides; and connected the crossbeams with wooden poles to support the thatched cover.
A single thatch mat was roughly slightly larger than one tatami mat; if one opted for luxury, a shaku-long thatch mat would be considerably longer than one tatami mat.
Four of these were thatched like a roof over the boat’s front compartment, making it remarkably well-suited. When drawn taut like the ceiling of a four-and-a-half tatami room, the thatch mats sufficiently blocked both sun and rain, transforming the space into a proper tatami room. Thus, beneath this thatch—the front compartment—fishing boats, unlike net boats, had deep front compartments, making them truly well-balanced.
There, they would lay out rush mats, place coverings atop them, and sit properly without crossing their legs—such was the protocol.
I heard directly from Mr. Shoroku that when the late Naritaya took him fishing—he being the present Shoroku but then Somegoro—though on the artistic stage Naritaya would dismiss requests for guidance with “Do as you please,” on the boat he fiercely rebuked Somegoro’s posture, exclaiming “What fool sits like that?” But menada fishing, keizu fishing, suzuki fishing—all refined angling styles are of such nature.

Even when fish approached, sea bream species proved perfectly suited to anglers employing this method—what we called the “two-stage bite” of sea bream. Though on rare occasions one might gulp down the bait and take off with the rod at once, such instances remained exceptional. Black sea bream typically first signaled their presence with a nibble at the rod tip before pausing briefly to truly take the bait. Thus when the rod tip twitched and one thought “Ah, it’s here,” they slowly rested their hand on the rod’s butt and awaited the next nibble.

When the fish pulled firmly next—if it was the right rod—they matched it with their right hand to lift the rod and bring it straight back behind them. Since the boatman waited there at their rear, he steadily held the landing net to scoop up the catch.

Even when reeling in a small fish, they would raise the rod emphatically and swing it back toward the boatman—for this too was part of the leisure.

The boatman scooped up the fish, removed the hook, and placed it into the live well precisely at the boat’s center.

Then he attached fresh bait.

“Master, it’s ready,” he would say before returning the rod to its original position and casting toward the targeted spot.

Thus even guests wearing linen kimonos could fish in this manner—a pursuit conducted with lordly refinement.

Tea enthusiasts who brewed gyokuro and sat with their tea trays nearby could quietly set down their bowls once accustomed and continue fishing undisturbed—their quarry being two-stage-biting sea bream.

Those partial to sake fished while drinking during tidal lulls.

As this was chiefly summer fishing, awamori and Ryūin proved popular libations. Though not as large as water-storage huts, upper-lower boxes contained tea utensils, sake vessels, dishes, and modest accompaniments—such was their arrangement.

With all elements aligned thusly, it became true leisure.

Moreover, boats freshly scrubbed with superior hinoki cypress boasted peerless cleanliness.

On seas where cool breezes swept swiftly across watercraft with partial thatch covers looked refreshingly cool even from afar.

The tide spread expansively as if buoyed into blue heavens while a lone shaded boat pierced by wind floated gently—like a feather fallen from some celestial bird.

Moreover, there were also fishing methods that were not Mio fishing.
When one failed to get bites in the channel—for fish would invariably lurk in some form of shelter—they angled for them there.
There existed a saying called “yoshiko”: “Birds rely on trees, fish on *kakari*, people on the shade of affections.” By *kakari* was meant submerged structures where casting nets proved difficult and sinking hooks became troublesome due to snags—thus it was called *kakari*.
Fish tended to gather around such *kakari*.
Going out before these structures and casting one’s hook so close it nearly grazed them—this was what they called *kakari-mae* fishing.
When fish refused to bite in channels or open flats, heading to structure edges became common practice—something everyone did.
There were even those who deliberately sought out such spots.
Before resigning themselves to losing gear to old channel stakes, submerged rocks, wrecked boats, and barnacle-encrusted obstacles, they would grandly indulge in their respective styles of play.
In any case—as befitted its designation as *daimyō* fishing—Keizu fishing was conducted with utmost extravagance.

Now, while the taste of fishing was well and good in that regard, since its essence ultimately lay in catching fish, if one didn't catch much, the realm of leisure became constrained.
One day, they didn't get a single bite.
When they failed to catch fish, inexperienced clients would typically mutter complaints to the boatman, but this man was not so shallow as to utter such things; even with no catch, he returned home that day in his usual good spirits.
As the following day was also scheduled for fishing, that man went out with Gichi once more.
Now, one might think that fish, being fish, would bite if there's bait as long as you present it properly, but it didn't always work out that way. At times they took a dislike to something—be it the water conditions, the wind, or some unclear reason—and even if present, they simply wouldn't bite.
It couldn't be helped.
For two days straight, they didn't catch a single fish.
Given that no matter how much they tried, they hadn't caught a single thing, Gichi was at a loss.
If it had been during neap tide, that would have been one thing—but even though they were out on a good tide, not catching a single fish over two days was something the guest might not dwell on, but for the boatman, it proved deeply disheartening.
Moreover, the guest was someone accomplished both in fishing and character, which only made Gichi feel all the more inadequate as he refrained from uttering a single complaint.
There was nothing he could do.
But determined to send his guest home with a catch today, he had considered every tidal pattern and fishing spot, tried this method and that—yet still nothing bit.
It was, moreover, a moonless spring tide day when the fish should have been biting.
Since they simply couldn't catch anything, Gichi too finally wilted in defeat,

“Oh Master, I deeply apologize for ending up empty-handed two days straight,” he said.
The guest laughed,
“Come now you—apologizing like that isn’t our line of work at all.
Ha ha ha.
No need for that.
We’ve no choice but to return—let’s head off soon.”

“Hey, let’s try one more spot and then head back.”

“If we try one more spot, it’ll be right around high tide, won’t it?”

The term 'high tide' refers to what we call 'morning high tide' at dawn and 'evening high tide' at dusk. It describes that critical moment when day and night rapidly alternate—a time when fish that had shown no sign of presence until then would suddenly emerge with the changing tide. Though Gichi wanted to aim for this peak period, his guest had deliberately argued against it.

“You propose another spot this late into our black sea bream fishing? Such careless talk,” he chided.
“Let’s end it here.”

“I’m sorry, Master, but let me try just one more spot.”

And so, with the guest and boatman’s statements becoming contradictory, Gichi steered the boat in the direction he deemed fit.

From stubborn pride against total defeat, Gichi took the boat to a spot they had never approached before—adopting a cautious attitude while determining the *kashi* position—

“Master, please use a single rod and cast it skillfully right before Miyoshi,” he said.
This indicated that apart from that ideal spot, both left and right sides—even directly ahead—were treacherous kakari.
The guest nodded understandingly. “Right then,” he replied, casting precisely as directed with expert technique—though his muted enthusiasm remained evident.
Just as he began lowering the rod—whether encountering a fish’s bite or debris’s snag remained ambiguous—there came a tug indistinguishable between leviathan disguised as flotsam or flotsam mimicking leviathan. Instantly, far from the anticipated two-stage pull, the line stretched taut and the rod jerked savagely forward. Seizing its butt end with practiced ease, he immediately set himself to raise the rod.
Yet his countermeasures proved utterly futile against the opposition’s mercilessly mounting force.
Though an ordinary two-piece upper-grade rod, its joint emitted a faint creak before surrendering completely—the line snapping without ceremony.
Whether some denizen of the kakari had seized it or mere driftwood claimed its prize remained unknowable—but Gichi could neither ignore this fresh failure nor the ruined rod, his spirit darkening further.
While not unprecedented for seasoned anglers, this guest—ever composed—merely turned toward Gichi without uttering any reproach,

“It’s nature’s way of telling us to go home,” he laughed, brushing off the entire affair with lighthearted finality.
All Gichi could manage was a “Hey,” then he obediently pulled up the oar and began rowing,
“This humble one’s gamble turned into a flop,” he muttered to himself, lightly tapping his head with one hand and chuckling.
“Ha ha ha.”
With light laughter, both parties—neither at fault—presented an elegant curtain call.

On the sea, needless to say pleasure boats, there were no vessels of any kind as far as the eye could see.
Gichi rowed vigorously onward.
Having stayed out too late, they found the tide had turned unfavorable.
He rowed toward Edo.
As they progressed steadily onward, the land darkened and lights began glimmering faintly in Edo’s distant direction.
Though aged, Gichi rowed with skill, his body moving in practiced rhythm.
The tarp already removed, their boat cut swiftly through the water.
With nothing to occupy him, the guest sat upright gazing vacantly at the sea’s surface until even the glimmer of small waves gradually faded from view—the rain-heavy sky, initially tinged faint red, now hazed into pale ash-gray.
At such times sky and sea never merge completely—the sky’s brightness dissolves into water without a trace of reflection—leaving only a dimly discernible shoreline boundary while paradoxically keeping the water’s surface luminous.
Idly wondering which district’s lights those might be as Edo neared, the guest first looked toward town before peering far eastward—now rowing slightly against tidal currents meant they’d strayed from channels into calmer waters—yet when he glanced fleetingly back at those deeper paths not yet fully dark but steepened in thick mouse-gray dusk—something abruptly emerged from those depths.
Thinking *What now?* he kept watching when another flicker appeared—this time lingering briefly before vanishing again.
It resembled reeds or rushes yet defied their nature by refusing to float flatly—instead this slender rod-like thing kept surfacing and retreating in odd rhythmic jerks.
There was no reason for it—he couldn’t make sense of it—

“Gichi, I can see something strange over there,” he called out.
When Gichi followed the direction of the guest’s intently staring gaze, at that very moment, a slender object flicked out once more.
And then it withdrew again.
Since the guest had already seen it many times,

“It does seem like a fishing rod is emerging from the sea, but what could it be?”

“That does appear to be the case—it indeed looked like a fishing rod.”

“But there’s no reason a fishing rod would come out of the sea.”

“But Master, since it moves differently from an ordinary bamboo pole tumbling through the tide, it does seem like a fishing rod.”

At that moment, Gichi—eager to spark any flicker of interest in the guest’s mind—swung the boat toward where the anomaly had surfaced.

"What’s it matter if you saw something like that? There’s no point to it."

"But since even this humble one can’t make sense of such a strange thing, I thought it’d be a chance to learn something."

"Ha ha ha, well, if it’s for the sake of learning… Ha ha ha."

Gichi, paying no heed to the guest, steered the boat toward it—and just then, the slender object surged forth with great force, appearing as if to strike him head-on.
Gichi snatched it up with one hand, but spray dashed across his face.
Upon looking, it was indeed a fishing rod. Since something below seemed to be trying to take it away forcefully, he kept his hand on it as if soothing it while peering down,

“Master, this is a fishing rod—wild-bag bamboo—seems to be a fine one.”

“Hmm, is that so?” he said while looking at the rod’s base end.

“Hey—it’s *the guest*.”

The term “guest” referred to drowned men; those engaged in fishing occasionally encountered such visitors, hence this coined expression.
Having identified it as such—and since this brought no joy—he had nearly said “It’s the guest,” stopping just short of adding “Let it go.”
However, Gichi,

“Well, but it’s a fine rod,” he said, peering intently at it in the dim light.

“It’s a full-length wild bag bamboo, you know,” he added.
Maru referred to rods that were not jointed.
Wild bag bamboo was, needless to say, excellent material for fishing rods, and most rods connected well-suited sections of wild bag bamboo to other bamboo shafts to use as tip sections.
When speaking of Maru, it meant a rod entirely composed of that material.
There was no reason Maru rods would be inherently good, but those that were Maru yet well-balanced and usable were rare—hence considered good.

“Even if you say that, I don’t want it,” he dismissed without engaging.

But perhaps because this included Gichi having earlier let the guest’s rod become tangled, he decided to take hold of the rod and, carefully adjusting his grip to avoid snapping it, gave a firm pull.
Then, the mid-floating Mr. Guest had no choice but to emerge.

Mid-floating refers to three states of drowned persons: floating on the surface being one, sinking to the bottom another, and the state between these two constituting mid-floating.
Pulled along, the corpse emerged directly before where the guest sat.

"Stop this nonsense—I told you to return it," he said as he approached. Upon inspecting the rod, it appeared truly well-crafted.
A fishing rod's quality depends fundamentally on this: its nodes must extend in orderly progression with well-proportioned intervals.
When the rod now lay fully revealed before him—its excellence apparent at a glance—the samurai found his hand grasping it unbidden.
As Gichi saw the guest reach for the rod and realized he could no longer keep hold,

“I’m letting go,” Gichi said, releasing his hand. When he gripped the rod about a foot above its butt end, it stood resplendent above the water’s surface, its beauty akin to a famed sword unsheathed from its scabbard.

While not holding it, he had thought nothing of the rod, but once in his grasp, a spontaneous affection welled up within him. He jabbed at it two or three times trying to shake it loose, but the figure beneath the water maintained an iron grip.

As dusk crept forward inch by inch—details still unclear—the guest revealed himself as a portly man nearing sixty: faint traces of slender eyebrows visible beneath seawater; earlobes grotesquely distended; a scalp balding beyond ordinary measure. His garments suggested light-blue unpatterned cotton crepe over an absorbent underrobe with narrow linen collars. Though his obi’s nature remained uncertain, when he shifted position, the white tabi socks on his feet burned themselves into vision.

To judge by his bearing, he looked like one who might wear a wooden sword at his hip and an inro case at his waist.

“What should I do?” he muttered under his breath without thinking. At that moment, an evening wind swept by in a single gust, and the guest felt a chill somewhere in his body.
Even discarding it would be a waste; yet attempting to take it meant contending with water’s master clinging to it with life-or-death tenacity.
Seeing the hesitation, Gichi called out again.
“But Master, even if the guest took it away, it’s not like he’ll be fishing in the Sanzu River. So what if you were to take it?”

He jabbed at it again, but try as he might, the grip remained unyielding.
Since its owner wouldn’t release it even in death, his hold stayed so firm that the rod couldn’t be taken.
But neither could he very well take out a blade to cut it free.
The little finger gripped the rod’s butt firmly—and since it held precisely at a node of the wild bag bamboo—the grasp proved stubbornly difficult to pry loose.
With no alternative—though this bore no relation to Shibukawa-ryu techniques—he pressed his thumb against it and jerked sharply.
The fingers released their grip; the moment they did, the former owner was swept downstream with the tide, leaving the rod behind.
After thoroughly washing his palms that had briefly grappled, he wiped them with three or four sheets of pocket paper and cast the wads into the sea. The white paper bundles drifted away through the twilight as though they were spirits, soon vanishing from sight.
Gichi hurried their return.

“Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu… Well, what could this mean?”
“He must’ve been a shore fisherman—no doubt about that.”

“Yes, that’s right.”
“I ain’t never seen the likes of him before.”
“He doesn’t strike me as some shore fisherman who’d be fumbling around Honjo, Fukagawa, Manabe Riverbank, or Mannen either. That one must be from up Mukojima way—or even further upriver—a proper shore fisherman, no doubt.”

“Indeed, your intuition is sharp—you certainly have a way with words. And...”

“Ah, come now—that isn’t anything at all. It’s clearly apoplexy.”
“Shore fishing—crouching in some odd spot to angle, then getting a stroke the moment you hook a big fish—once you’ve tumbled in, that’s the end of it, right?”
“That’s why they’ve always said—shore fishing in uneven spots ain’t for folks likely to get a stroke.”
“Of course, no place is good for a stroke, you know—hahaha.”

“Hmm, is that so?”

And so they returned that day.

Upon arriving at the usual riverbank, the guest tried to take only the rod home.
Gichi

“What about tomorrow, Master?”

“I’m supposed to go out tomorrow, but I might just take the day off.”

“If it weren’t for this damn rain, this humble one would come to fetch you.”

“I see,” he said, and with that, they parted.

When he woke up the next morning, the rain was falling steadily.

“Ah, so this rain that’s been brewing is why the fishing’s been poor these past two or three days.”
“Or maybe there’d been a red tide, I wonder.”

Though he had made a promise, thinking that with this downpour the fellow likely wouldn’t show up, the man stayed home and was reading idly for lack of anything better to do when, nearing midday, Gichi arrived. He directed him to come around through the garden entrance.

“Well now Master—though whether you’d go out remained uncertain—this humble one had brought the boat along.”
“Since there’s no mistakin’ this rain’ll let up soon enough, I’ve come.”
“Couldn’t even properly offer to accompany you—makes for an awkward position, this does.”

“Ah, I see. You came all this way.”
“Well, I had you go to such lengths these past two or three days for nothing, yet to obtain a rod in the end—how peculiar.”

“For a fisherman to get his hands on a rod—isn’t that a great omen?”

“Hahaha, but well—I don’t want to go out in this rain. And I won’t be idling around trying to make it stop.”

“Hey.”
“By the way, Master—about that…?”

“That thing?”
“Look—it’s placed on the outer lintel.”

Gichi went to the kitchen area and brought back water in a washbasin. After thoroughly washing the rod with it, he saw that it was truly a fine rod. The two of them intently examined it in detail with scrutiny. First of all, though it had been thoroughly drenched, it should have grown heavy—yet even then they had thought it showed no sign of water absorption, and now it remained just as light. Therefore, one could only conclude it had been ingeniously crafted to repel moisture entirely. Moreover, the arrangement of its nodes stood unrivaled. Then, inspecting the ferrule—while clearly amateur work—it proved rather skillfully made. Next, examining the thickest section near the grip, they noticed a slight modification. Though calling it a modification overstated matters—merely a small hole drilled, perhaps something inserted inside before being sealed again. There was no mark from an attached butt cord either. They couldn’t decipher it. Beyond that, nothing else seemed unusual.

“This is an exceptionally rare and fine rod. And I’ve never seen wild bamboo crafted into such a light and well-balanced form.”

“That’s right. Wild bamboo’s naturally heavy stuff, see? Since nobody wants it weighin’ ’em down, they devise ways—while it’s still growin’ wild, they make cuts or damage it. Stunt one side proper so it don’t grow full—right side if it’s right, left if it’s left. That’s what they call *single-sided suppression*. Do it from both ends, that’s *double-sided suppression*.”
“By craftin’ it that way, when the bamboo matures, it ain’t had enough nourishment—so you get light bamboo.”

“I know that myself—but suppressed bamboo ends up looking all shriveled with that unappealing expression, doesn’t it?”
“This isn’t like that.”
“What method could have produced this—or does bamboo like this grow naturally?”

When a fisherman desired a good rod, he would go into the bamboo groves himself to search and select bamboo stalks, enter into purchase agreements with growers, and cultivate them as he saw fit.
For such bamboo groves, anyone would go searching.
Once someone had spent an age fishing, they inevitably came to adopt such practices.

During the Tang era, there was a poet named Wen Tingyun—a hedonistic, arrogant man of utterly incorrigible character—who, when it came to fishing, behaved like a child: determined to procure a rod himself, he infiltrated the groves of a certain Mr. Pei to search for fine bamboo. A poem records this episode.
There is a line that reads: “A single path twists between straight stretches; miscanthus and thorns have grown thick,” describing how he parted the winding narrow path’s reeds and thorns to wriggle through.
Another verse states: “Seeking out slender nodes through time, cutting through lush roots,” chronicling how he inspected each bamboo stalk in turn.
Though angling thrived so profoundly during the Tang that even Xue’s Pond—a fishing ground renowned to this day—existed, and rod makers surely abounded, this celebrated poet still crawled through thickets himself to secure his ideal rod—a testament to how passion’s path demands total devotion.
There exists a kyoka by the poet Nakaibokuyō: “As for Urashima’s fishing rod—its kuretake nodes neither properly extend nor contract.” While I find little merit in kuretake rods themselves, the verse extravagantly praises their thirty-six nodes—such is the nature of these things.
When a hobby escalates into obsession, losing oneself completely in pursuit of perfection becomes an inevitable course.

As the two gradually became absorbed in gazing at the rod, they came to understand the feelings that had compelled the old man to cling to it even in death.

“You know, I’ve never seen bamboo like this around these parts—might be from foreign lands.”
“Even so, carrying something over twelve feet long must’ve been no small feat.”
“I don’t know if he was some carefree ronin or what—must’ve had a stroke while indulging in his whims—but whatever the case, it’s a fine rod,” said Gichi.

“At some point, when you were looking at the ferrule—wasn’t it you who coiled up the line attached to the tip and stuffed it into your apron pocket?”

“Well, ’twas in the way.”
“Moreover, when I saw it this mornin’, I reckoned ’twas proof I ain’t from these parts.”

“Why?”

“Well, ’twas connected in tapered segments.”
“When connecting in tapered segments, the starting section’s thick; then you progressively attach thinner and thinner sections in a graduated manner.”
“Now this finicky method—in countries like California, when they fish for ayu usin’ mosquito hooks and such, the hook must land clean on the water’s surface. If the line hits first ’fore the hook drops, you’ll scare off every fish. That’s why they craft tapered lines in graduated segments.”
“How do you make it? They take scissors and go obtain good white horse tail hairs in prime condition—ones from horses that ain’t old.”
Then, usin’ tofu lees, they press down firmly from above, gradually compactin’ it.
“Then it becomes crystal clear.”
“Take sixteen strands—if it’s a right twist, you twist ’em right—and though you can’t manage it at first, with a little practice, it’s done without trouble: you twist ’em into a single-ply.”
“And then they craft one.”
“Next, this time they reduce the number of strands and—if the previous twist was right-handed—now twist ’em into a left-handed single ply.”
“They gradually reduce the number of strands, alternatin’ right and left twists until finally they connect ’em to form a single line.”
“I learned this from a guest from California—Westerners have such meticulous ideas.”
“That’s the standard procedure.”
“This rod ain’t for targetin’ ayu—though it’s made with horsehair line, they’ve crafted it with layered twists so it tapers gradual-like from thick to thin.”
“This man must’ve struggled plenty with his fishin’ too—he did all this to predetermine where the line snaps. Shore fishing’s worse still: they’ll cast anywhere haphazard-like, so if there’s a snag where they hurl it, they’ll get stuck fast.”
“So to care for the rod and settle matters quick-like, you set it so the line parts at its weak spot ’fore the rod’s like to snap.”
“Since it breaks from the thinnest tip, if you use the rod’s own strength to split it out progressive-like, there’s nothin’ for the rod to fear.”
“No matter where you cast it—if it gets snagged and can’t be pulled free—the rod won’t break; the line’ll snap.”

“After that, you just need to reattach the hook right away.”
“You could clearly tell how much this man cherished his rod just from seein’ how finely he’d tapered them segments.”
“He must’ve gripped it so tight with his little finger he wouldn’t let go—practically went down with the rod, you might say. But seein’ as he treasured it that much, can’t blame ’im, really.”

Amidst all this talk, the rain began to let up.
The master stayed in the main room while Gichi went down to the kitchen to finish his midday meal; though late in the day, when “Let us depart” was met with “Let’s go,” the two set out.
Naturally taking that rod with them, and before arriving at the fishing spot, the master had skillfully crafted a new tapered rig himself.

When they went out and began fishing, intermittent showers came—but unlike before, they caught fish after fish until it became an astonishingly successful outing.
In the end, their abundant catch made them linger until dusk settled just as it had the day before.
So deciding to end their fishing, they detached the line from the ferrule, stowed it away, and placed the rod beneath the awning.
As they slowly made their way back, scattered lights began twinkling once more from Edo's direction.
The guest—recalling yesterday's events—mused over naming this rod "Finger-Crook," since he'd hooked it by crooking his finger around its shaft.
Gichi rowed vigorously onward, but his diligent efforts left the oarlock parched.
When dryness made rowing arduous, he grabbed the ladle before him, scooped seawater, twisted his torso unnaturally, and dashed water over the oarlock.
This precise maneuver defined Edo-style boatmen—something country rivermen never mastered.
Twisting his body to aim from above, he splashed water just as the oarlock tilted upward.
He performed this deftly—a figure of ukiyo-e dash.
So when Gichi now contorted himself for that signature splash before righting his posture with a glance eastward—at precisely yesterday's hour of gathering darkness—reed-like shapes flickered indistinctly where they'd appeared before.
"Hm?" grunted the boatman, fixing his gaze there. Hearing this, the guest seated forward also looked eastward—where bamboo-like forms now wavered in and out of the dimming waters just as before.
As he wondered What sorcery is this? yet couldn't fathom it, Gichi too stared wide-eyed; when the Master turned to see if he'd noticed, their eyes met.
Mutually unsettled by this inexplicable mood, an unseasonably tepid evening breeze then blew in from the eastern sea.
But Gichi instantly puffed up his bravado—

“What’re you on about? There’s no way the same thing’d show up there—the rod’s right here with us.”
“Hey, Master—ain’t the rod right here with us?”

Summoning courage to behold the uncanny without acknowledging it as such, he had uttered words meant to dismiss the odd sight—“The rod’s here with us, so it’s nothing”—yet even the boatman hunched slightly to peer at the rod.
The guest peered into the darkness overhead.
By now, it had grown so dark beneath the awning that they could scarcely tell whether the rod remained there.
Instead, the guest stared at the boatman’s peculiar face; the boatman stared at the guest’s peculiar face.
Guest and boatman gazed at each other with looks that seemed to seek some world beyond this one within each other’s eyes.

The rod was of course there all along, but the guest took it out, chanted “Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu,” and returned it to the sea.

(September Shōwa 13)