Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part One

Preface

Though titled *Scientific Chronicles of the South Pacific*, this work in truth aims to recount—through the lens of science—the circumstances I observed there during my service as a war correspondent in those waters, recollecting them as they come to mind.
It may prove rather leisurely reading with little relation to battles or military operations, but as this is not combat reportage, I ask that you kindly bear this in mind as you read.

Seasickness

The cold early days of January marked our departure from a domestic port as we finally set out to head south.
Thereupon, we boarded a large ship of over twenty thousand tons.
This ship, as one could tell from its tonnage, was an extremely large vessel.
It looked exactly like a washbasin floating on the sea, and its speed was not particularly fast.
The upper deck was spacious enough that under normal circumstances, two baseball games could easily have been played simultaneously.

Given that we were heading south aboard such a large ship, we comrades had adopted what might be called a 'big ship mentality,' expecting that with neither significant pitching nor rolling to speak of, our voyage would prove an utterly safe affair free from seasickness.
However, when the ship actually left port, passed through a certain strait, and finally emerged into the Pacific Ocean, several of our comrades were immediately struck by severe seasickness and shut themselves away in their rooms.
I had assumed those squad members were simply holed up due to physical and mental exhaustion from pre-departure preparations, but when I knocked on their door and stood by their bedsides, I discovered with astonishment that it was seasickness.
After all, given that this was such a large ship, even when waves grew quite rough or massive swells approached, the vessel had ridden over them with hardly any rocking as it passed through the strait—leaving little room for seasickness to occur, or so I had concluded.
Yet these comrades were unquestionably seasick, and I could only stare in astonishment at this unexpected development, wondering where the cause of their malady might lie.

Thereupon, when I tried talking with my collapsed comrades about various matters, those affected unexpectedly insisted that the ship had rocked considerably near the strait.
Moreover, they claimed that even before that, while the ship was still in port, they had already started feeling slightly queasy.
Upon closer examination, it appeared these individuals had already become seasick the moment they boarded the ship—despite it not yet having moved.
Following this, as the ship rocked slightly in the strait, they apparently began to suffer from severe seasickness.
To me, this was nothing short of a complete mystery.

However, upon closer consideration, I recalled having heard stories before of people feeling seasick immediately after boarding a ship that hadn't even begun moving yet. That account ultimately concluded that seasickness's cause lay not in the ship's motion but rather stemmed largely from influences like the abnormal atmosphere and odors perceptible aboard vessels. For instance, upon boarding a ship, one is first struck by an intense oil odor. This occurs because ships burn heavy oil, naturally giving off an oily smell. Then when entering a room, there's a paint smell. This is because ceilings and walls are all painted to prevent rust on ships, meaning one inevitably ends up smelling that paint odor. Moreover, even when stationary, once the engine started with loud clattering noises—which entered the ears as sound—the floor and walls would begin vibrating, their tremors crawling up through the body to reverberate in one's head. Such factors also appeared to contribute to seasickness.

Moreover, those unaccustomed to sailing seemed to develop seasickness merely by thinking that they were now aboard a ship.
When they stepped onto the deck, the sight of an immense sea—unfamiliar in their daily lives—spreading out on all sides from where they stood would overwhelm them with unease.
If this line of thought progressed further—if this ship were to sink, what would become of them then?
Those lacking confidence in their swimming would begin worrying—how could they possibly survive?
Such mental anxiety also seemed to be a cause of seasickness.

Considering this, it became no wonder that one might grow seasick even when the ship remained stationary, nor could it be deemed particularly strange to experience seasickness aboard such a large vessel.

Our ship plunged steadily southward through waters increasingly churned by snow-laden clouds pursuing us across the sky.
The waves mounted higher with each passing hour.
For three full days thereafter, the vessel pitched and rolled with relentless severity.
During this turmoil came an incident where cargo snapped its ropes and careened clattering through the hold - so violent that they had no choice but to halt our voyage mid-course and lash down every item anew.
Thus through that endless morning did our seasick comrades endure sufferings demanding profound compassion.

Even before that period, I had been administering seasickness remedies to my comrades, yet they ultimately refrained from visiting the dining hall for three full days and scarcely consumed the meals delivered from there. At that very time, we were traversing the Kuroshio Current.

When we finally crossed beyond that current on the fourth and fifth days, the sea gradually calmed. Thereupon, those afflicted by seasickness began rising from their beds in succession. They even started occasionally emerging to recline on the lounge's long chairs. Thus, five days after departing mainland Japan, they were at last provisionally liberated from their malady. From then onward, these individuals reportedly avoided further bouts of seasickness until our arrival at a certain South Seas port. Once having endured and acclimated to such torment, it seems subsequent episodes of seasickness become comparatively tolerable.

Regarding seasickness, I had considered this too as part of my preparations before departure and consulted a senior who had long lived a maritime life. Turning to that senior, I asked, “How can one avoid becoming seasick?” Then, adopting an extremely serious expression, he said: “Ah, there’s an excellent charm for that. Let me teach it to you.” I felt considerable disappointment upon hearing this. Charms stood far removed from scientists. I reasoned that even if taught such incantations, those of us long steeped in scientific disciplines could never bring ourselves to recite them. Yet thinking it discourteous to refuse his earnest offer, I quietly listened. The senior continued: “The charm to prevent seasickness is this—it means believing with absolute certainty that one will not become seasick.” “To phrase it differently,” he added, “you apply self-hypnosis, convincing yourself ‘I absolutely will not get seasick.’ This proves most effective.”

I was deeply impressed upon hearing this.
This was not merely a charm belonging to the category of superstition; it was a charm imbued with profound scientific nature.
Indeed, this might actually work, I thought.
In summary, by believing absolutely that one would not get seasick, one could avoid getting seasick altogether.
This was something we commonly experienced even in daily life—if one attempted to jump across a mere one-meter-wide ditch while anxiously doubting whether they could clear it, their foot would usually catch on the rocky bank, causing them to fail.
However, if one maintained the belief that "I can absolutely leap over such a ditch," then not only a one-meter-wide ditch but even a two-meter-wide one could be cleared with perfect ease.
Even in high jump competitions, there were days when one easily cleared a one-and-a-half-meter pole, yet on other days, despite repeated attempts, one somehow felt unable to clear it and ended up knocking the pole down time and again.
All of that was ultimately determined by the degree of confidence one held from the very beginning.
Therefore, if one initially possessed the confidence that they would absolutely not get seasick, then compared to when one lacked such confidence, they could avoid seasickness to a far greater extent.
It was in such aspects that one could perceive the scientific nature of this seasickness charm.
Upon boarding the ○○ Maru, I immediately tried this on myself.
I traversed fifteen thousand nautical miles across the South Pacific, yet never once experienced seasickness during that time.
I believe this was undoubtedly thanks to that charm.

Moreover, this senior taught me another method to prevent seasickness.
That was an even more scientific approach.
To explain the procedure: you were to pack large cotton balls into both ears as tightly as possible.
The cotton needed to be sizable—if too small, you’d struggle to remove it from your ear canals afterward.
This would block all external sounds.
Among these sounds, apparently lay certain frequencies that could trigger seasickness.
These were vibrations unique to ships—distinctive oscillations produced by the vessel’s very nature.
The vibrations would travel from the ear canal to the inner ear, stimulating specific organs there.
It was said these signals then coursed through cranial nerves to the brain, thereby inducing seasickness.
In short, based on the scientific theory that seasickness arises from particular vibrational frequencies generated aboard ships, one tightly packed cotton into the ears as described to prevent these vibrations from reaching certain inner ear organs.
“This method works remarkably well too,” the senior told me.
Whether this method actually proves effective, I cannot say.
Having completely avoided seasickness through the self-hypnosis method mentioned earlier, I never had occasion to test this second cotton-stopping technique.
Should you try it and find the first method ineffective, I believe it would be wise to attempt this second approach.

As the ship gradually headed south, the sea became astonishingly calm.
The entire surrounding area became like a lake—sometimes so calm that not even a ripple formed, becoming as smooth as a mirror.
It seemed probable that near the equator was where greatest calmness could be found.
In such areas, natives maneuvered small dugout canoes and sailed them even to distant islands.
This was something that could never be done in Japanese coastal waters.
That sea became so calm.
Consequently, the ship stopped rocking, and there were times when we could not tell whether we were aboard a ship at all.
Since we could hear the engine’s sound, all we could do was realize that the ship was indeed moving.
Even those prone to seasickness would think they had arrived in paradise if they came to such a place.

However, such tropical seas were not in this calm state all day long; there were times when they became extremely rough.
That was when that familiar squall arrived.
A squall could be thought of as an intense evening shower.
However, unlike evening showers in Japan’s inland regions, they were not limited to evening hours—they might come in the morning or even at night.
The duration of squalls ranged from approximately thirty minutes for short ones to as long as two hours for prolonged downpours, with an average length of about an hour.
At such times came a downpour of such ferocious intensity that it was as if Japan’s heavy evening showers had been taken to extremes.
Ice cake-sized raindrops fell in such quantities that they literally blanketed the surface like a tray, reducing visibility to zero while enormous waves rose across the sea and the ship pitched violently.
When telling such stories, those prone to seasickness would likely become pessimistic again.
However, since this occurred only about once a day, they needed not concern themselves too much with it.

On one occasion, to conduct an enemy beach landing, we boarded a boat and left the transport ship. Even before departure, a squall had been approaching, with large raindrops already spattering against our faces. The moment the boat left the gangway, the rain intensified into a driving downpour and the sea began raging violently. Visibility dropped completely to zero. The boat we were aboard—which should have reached the target coast in thirty minutes—found itself drifting at sea for nearly an hour and a half, tormented by the squall. At this moment, I witnessed firsthand how savagely a squall could churn the sea. Though partly due to the boat's small size, waves far larger than any raging swells I had seen during storms in the Kitan Strait surged wildly, nearly swallowing our vessel multiple times. Spray erupted from the bow and cascaded over our steel helmets like roaring waterfalls. Each squall-driven raindrop struck our cheeks with hail-like force—then came those waterfall torrents of seawater dousing us headlong, leaving us uncertain whether we still rode the boat or drifted among the waves themselves.

The boat pitched violently fore and aft and rolled severely from side to side, its bow seeming on the verge of plunging into the waves, while seawater cascaded over the gunwales, making it appear as though we might capsize at any moment.
At this time, those very comrades who suffered particularly severe seasickness—if one could call it misfortune—found themselves aboard this same boat alongside me.
Yet despite this violent storm, they ultimately reached their destination without experiencing seasickness even after enduring an hour and a half of severe rocking.
Then they sprang up with such vigor and began advancing at a run alongside the Special Naval Landing Force that I became the one left astonished.

From this observation, I believe it became clear that seasickness occurs or does not occur depending on one's mental state.
There is a curious story often cited as an example: a destroyer sailor who never grew seasick no matter how violently waves washed over his ship would, upon returning to his hometown during shore leave, board a small ferry and suddenly feel nauseous—this too, I believe, illustrates the psychological dimension I just described.

The Color of the Sea

As one travels from the mainland to the South Pacific, the color of the sea changes in various ways.
Though I had often heard that the sea's color differs from place to place, I was astonished to witness such dramatic variations firsthand.
When we were on the mainland, speaking of the sea's color would conjure that indigo-tinted, somewhat muted hue; yet as we journeyed southward, the seawater transformed into something remarkably vivid.
The color observed in Japan's coastal waters carries a somewhat oppressive quality, while that of southern seas radiates extraordinary brightness.

First, after departing the mainland and sailing through a dull indigo sea for about a day and a half, the color of the sea changed to an even darker hue.
This was evidence that we had struck what is called the Kuroshio Current.
The color of the Kuroshio Current was indeed completely blackish, just as its name suggests.
To describe this color in more detail, it resembled wisteria purple deepened to its most intense shade.
As evening deepened, this sea grew even blacker, transforming into a metallic, dense color as if molten antimony had been poured into it.
When I looked upon such an unfamiliar sea, I clearly felt how far we had traveled from the mainland.
The area where the Kuroshio Current flowed still had quite rough waves, and the sea somehow looked like a living creature.

The waves parted by the ship’s bow surged up as white foam all the way to the stern, trailing a white wake far behind.
This white foam was so beautiful—a comparison often made, but it truly felt like bubbles rising in a champagne glass, making one want to scoop it up and drink.
Between the white foam and jet-black seawater drifted seawater of an intense blue where the two intermingled.

The swell grew considerably large.
In the meantime, a school of flying fish darted swiftly through the air.
The flying fish, startled by the approaching ship, leaped from between the waves.
They spread their fins, executed splendid glides, and flew ten or even twenty meters.
The bodies of the flying fish glimmered silver, looking exactly like polished knives that had been thrown.
After a long glide, they abruptly plunged their heads into the flank of a pitch-black swell.
It was painfully felt as if the flying fish's heads might have shattered.
At that moment, a small white spray rose.
Flying fish came in both large sizes and very small ones.
Large flying fish glided over long distances, flying fifty or even a hundred meters without resting their fins.
The sight of flying fish springing out one after another from the ship’s bow and sides—piyon-piyon—was truly both adorable and comical.
The sea where flying fish were flying became a delightful spectacle for those on long voyages.

As we proceeded further south across the sea, white gulls would appear from nowhere to fly alongside us, and at times we would be accompanied by great flocks of swallows that looked as if dressed in tailcoats.

Once we crossed the Kuroshio Current, the sea’s color abruptly lightened.
That color was an intensely vivid blue.
When we neared the South Seas, the seawater’s color grew even more vivid.
The color of true blue, I believe, is not one commonly found in Japan.
Generally, when Japanese people speak of “blue,” they recall a somewhat dull color reminiscent of pine green; however, the blue spoken of here was nothing like that. Upon seeing such a sea color, one came to re-experience the very concept of blue—realizing that such a beautiful shade of azure truly exists between heaven and earth.
Explaining what kind of color this beautiful blue was in simple terms proved exceedingly difficult.
This may not be the best explanation, but if you could recall a blue gelatin dessert, I believe it came relatively close to the color of that southern sea.
In fact, it was so beautiful that under the blazing sun, we found ourselves recalling cold jelly.

The South Seas region had an abundance of coral reefs.
The seawater resting upon coral reefs gained even greater clarity.
It was a beautiful color like one you'd want to take back to the mainland and show to children.
Some areas had a color resembling thinly diluted verdigris.
Large waves rushed toward the coral reefs protruding above the sea surface and shattered into white foam, but directly beneath those wave crests, one could see the most beautiful blue seawater in the world.
The coral reefs encircled the islands far offshore like breakwaters, and in such places, the blue sea color resembling dissolved verdigris bathed in the tropical sun, broadly bordered by white wave crests above, formed a truly magnificent sight.
This blue sea resembling dissolved verdigris began in the South Seas, crossed the equator, and continued far southward through the Bismarck Archipelago, Solomon Islands, and toward New Guinea.

I often amused myself by dropping safety razor blades into the sea at Rabaul Port on New Britain Island.
I stood at the gunwale and plopped a safety razor blade into the sea; then, that blade glowed white as it hit the surface and continued sinking quietly into the depths, shimmering silver endlessly as it remained visible.
The waters near Rabaul were quite deep, yet the safety razor blade never seemed to reach the bottom. Though I once took out my watch to time it, waiting for the blade to disappear from view became so tedious that I gave up.

However, in the South Pacific, in areas where the coast formed an inlet with a river continuing inland, the color of the sea became quite murky.
The river over there was muddy water, unlike the beautiful clear sea.
That river too was a very gentle one, but it carried muddy water and turned the area from the inlet to near the coast a turbid brown.
In such areas, young fish gathered to form immense schools.
The black backs of fish made the color of the sea in such areas even blacker.

From aboard the ship, through the transparent seawater just described, we could clearly discern the patterns of the seabed. We could see coral reefs rising as black shadows from below, and where the waters grew shallower, the seabed shone white under sunlight with chrysanthemum stone-like clusters of white coral and branched formations scattered across it like a beautiful underwater forest. Among those coral reefs clung jet-black sea cucumbers, adhered sea urchin-like creatures, and crawled large five-fingered sea stars with their red bellies exposed. Then we could also see fish swimming there. The fish here had remarkably vivid and garish colors. Seeing red fish, blue fish, purple fish, striped fish—tropical fish species unseen in the mainland—threading through the corals, I thought this must be what the Dragon Palace was like.

However, even such a beautiful sea completely changed its color when a squall arose.
The squall-battered sea surface turned pure white under its large raindrops, yet when looking at the churning waters from the ship's side, the sea appeared heavily muddied and darkened.
Once the squall subsided, it returned to its original vivid color.
The sea seemed like a quick-tempered chameleon.

『Scientific Knowledge』 Showa 18 (1943), April Issue

Part 2

Ship and Heat

The ship departed from a mainland port on January 4th.

In the mainland, it was midwinter.
Therefore, regarding clothing, under normal circumstances one would wear a camel hair shirt underneath, a thick suit jacket on top, wrap a muffler around the neck, and further bundle oneself in a long overcoat—yet it would still be a cold season.
Especially since one was heading out to sea, another jacket or so was something one would have wanted.

However, we did not do so—the reason being that since we would be heading south to live in a hot climate, such winter preparations would be unnecessary there; thus, everyone wished to make themselves as light as possible for the journey.

For that reason, while I wore winter clothing from my suit downward, I had taken off my overcoat and changed into a raincoat.
In midwinter, I visited relatives’ homes in my raincoat outfit to bid farewell; the family members were startled and fretted, “You’ll freeze dressed like that!”, until finally they made me carry silk floss padding on my back.

In that outfit, I boarded the ship. However, when I looked at the gathered comrades, they had each adopted light attire. Among them were those who had merely draped scarves over their suit jackets and come aboard shivering violently. "What happened to your overcoat?" I heard someone ask. Then the comrade answered, "Sold it off and drank the proceeds with everyone," puffing out his chest slightly, only to immediately let out five or six loud sneezes from beneath his bravado. "Ah, it's freezing! Maybe I acted too hastily," he exclaimed before hastily diving into the saloon.

The ship departed.
From the sky, powdery snow began to flutter down.
Moreover, since the wind had picked up a bit, it became impossible to remain standing on deck.
As a result, everyone entered the salon, had beer brought out for them, and used it to warm themselves.

Before long, our cabin was assigned.
I was in a cabin all the way toward the stern.
When I entered inside, steam was running through.
As I sat on the long chair, warmth seeped up from my hips.
Finally, I began regaining my energy.
That night, thanks to the steam, I slept soundly.

The next day arrived.
It was the second day.

The ship advanced steadily.
The cold remained unchanged from yesterday.
However, when midnight came and the steam grew unbearably hot beneath my nightclothes，I found myself frantically unbuttoning my winter shirt’s chest buttons—a vivid memory that persists.

The following day arrived.
It was the third day.

When I stepped out onto the deck, the wind felt lukewarm yet carried a gentle warmth.
It was truly weather akin to mid-spring April.
The direct sunlight was hot, and foreheads became sweaty.

The sea’s color had changed to indigo and was beautiful.

In the afternoon, as it became utterly unbearable, I finally took off my winter shirt.
Thus, while my outerwear remained the winter suit jacket, I changed my undershirt to a thinner crepe one.

Eventually, that day too drew to a close.
Tonight, no steam flowed through the room.
So, feeling perfectly comfortable, I slept soundly.

Day broke.
It was the fourth day.

The temperature was steadily climbing.
The noon temperature was twenty-four degrees.
Of course, there was no need for an overcoat.

When I strolled about the deck with hands thrust in pockets, the wind passing my collar felt cool.

At night, it suddenly became difficult to sleep.
It felt exactly like stepping into a steam bath.
However, because blackout regulations were strictly enforced at night, the portholes were tightly shut and the entrance doors closed, leaving nowhere for the air to escape.
Moreover, heat from the engine room was radiating through.

I climbed into bed but kept waking up drenched in sweat.

That night too came to an end.
It was the fifth day.

The morning proved unexpectedly cool.
The ship's doctor explained that a squall passing at dawn had caused this coolness.
I felt a flicker of joy at realizing we'd reached squall-prone waters.

When I entered the dining hall, electric fans had begun whirring.
As their breeze washed over me, a sense of comfort gradually emerged.

It had been five days since leaving the mainland, but summer temperatures had already set in completely.

The long pants I was wearing became unbearably uncomfortable; finally, starting today, I pulled out my golf pants and changed into shorts.

That day too drew to a close.

Eventually, the sixth day arrived.
Everyone was now fully dressed in summer attire.
Among them stood one man who had boarded wearing winter clothing.
No matter how much he stripped down to a single shirt above, his long winter underpants remained below, sweltering heat rising from them.
He had been grumbling since morning—"This is unbearable"—yet when he appeared in the salon at lunchtime, his figure had abruptly transformed into shorts.
However, those shorts bore a slightly peculiar shape.
"So you finally got hold of shorts somewhere!" At this remark, he threw his head back with a booming "Wahaha!" laugh.
A comrade nearby added, "The doctor here finally surrendered to the heat—chopped his winter trousers right at the knees!" erupting into equally raucous laughter.
I laughed too.
I found myself helplessly amused imagining the doctor's expression while scissoring through those woolen trousers.
Yet the man himself remained perfectly content, proudly baring his lengthy shins.
Those shins grew thickets of jet-black hair reminiscent of Kumaso warriors.

Soda was selling briskly. No matter how much they drank, their throats remained parched. The tie-less dress shirt I wore on top became unbearably hot; finally taking it off, I changed into a mesh short-sleeved shirt. With golf pants below, I fancied I looked exactly like someone standing on a fairway.

That day brought a violent squall. I had heard squalls were intense evening showers, but this surpassed any such notion. The ship became completely enveloped in pure white rain, rendering the view ahead utterly invisible. Where the rain fell resembled a lowered white parasol. All the while, a piercingly cool wind relentlessly chilled the nape of my neck. Still, I felt no inclination to layer on more clothing.

At night, tossing and turning drenched in sweat from recent days, I kept waking up constantly.
The bed's surface became drenched and sticky with sweat.

That day too drew to a close, and the morning of the seventh day arrived.

It was the unbearable tropical heat; everyone was panting like dogs, gasping for breath.

Since this heat was unbearable, we resolutely adopted a form of countertherapy by obtaining permission to tour the ship's hottest engine room.

Inside was an intense heat; when I looked at the thermometer, the mercury had swung around to the forty-degree mark.
In fifteen minutes, I broke out in a heavy sweat and dashed out to the upper deck.
How wonderfully cool was the breeze blowing in from the open sea!

The salon’s thermometer read twenty-nine degrees.
The seawater temperature was one degree lower than that, at twenty-eight degrees.
The water temperature was twenty-six degrees Celsius.
When it rose above that level, they said fish would bite if you lowered a line with decoy bait from the ship.
When I went to check at the stern, sure enough, a taut line stretched downward.
After watching awhile, a fish truly bit.
It was a mahi-mahi.
A yellowish fish that somehow resembled a Western saw.

Everyone's faces had become quite dark.

From then on, the same pattern repeated the next day and the day after that.
At last, the heat reached its peak.

When winds blew from the bow, the deck remained refreshingly cool, but when they shifted to blow from the stern, scarcely any breeze reached us there.
The stifling humidity became indescribable—it felt exactly like being trapped in an evening calm.
I frantically waved my folding fan or fled to the salon to catch the electric fan's airflow.
Yet even that breeze only pushed tepid air against us.
My growing frustration mirrored my complete failure to find relief from the heat.
I kept enduring nights in the cabin until it became utterly unbearable.

So I finally conceived a plan.
That was to take a blanket and sleep on the deck.
Since this seemed like an excellent idea, all my comrades imitated it, bringing blankets and pillows out to the deck.
Some spread blankets over hatch covers, while others spread them across benches.

A cool wind blew in, and it was indeed a pleasant feeling.

They could see the stars while lying down.
The stars sparkled beautifully now that we had entered the tropics.
Their number was ten or even twenty times greater than what we had seen in mainland Japan.

They all slept delighted by this great refined pleasure, but when something icy-cold abruptly landed on their bodies in the dead of night, they startled awake.

Large raindrops splat, splat against their faces.
It was a squall; if they kept dawdling around, they risked being drenched by that waterfall-like downpour.
They woke their comrades.
Everyone returned to their cabins looking disappointed.

The cabin's interior was a superheated steam bath.
There was nothing as miserable as that moment.
In the end, I couldn’t sleep until dawn.

Ship and Bath

We Japanese are extremely fond of baths.

When we departed from the mainland port, it was midwinter, yet we were advised to take a bath every night and never missed doing so each evening.
We didn’t have to bathe, but did so because the ship’s bath was something of a novelty.

That bath was saltwater.
In other words, this involved drawing up seawater and heating it with hot steam from the engine room.
Beside the bathtub was a tank containing freshwater.
The procedure was to enter the saltwater bath first, then draw a small amount of rinse water from this freshwater tank to wash one’s body.

Because the saltwater baths were a novelty, at first everyone happily bathed in them, but in the end, they became disheartened.
Somehow, their bodies just wouldn’t stop feeling sticky.
To remove that stickiness, one inevitably had to draw large quantities from the freshwater tank.
However, if one drew too much of it, the bottom would become visible, leaving no water for those who would bathe later.
Due to lingering mainland habits, we couldn’t economize on this freshwater rinse.
Consequently, two or three of those who entered later had to go to bed with bodies still reeking of salt.

Here arose another problem: the bathroom was ferociously sweltering.
After all，the steam from the engine room carried intense heat.
Even staying in one’s cabin felt like being in a steam bath，but when it came to describing this bathroom’s stifling humidity，it was downright Turkish-bath level.
Thus，the moment one entered this bathroom，their head would grow utterly foggy.

Another problem was that soap couldn’t be used in saltwater.
No matter how much they rubbed the soap between both hands, no foam would form.
They had no choice but to dissolve the soap in freshwater, but when they applied it to their bodies, they again needed rinse water, resulting in significant wastage.

The crew members began to question how they were taking their baths.

On the fifth day, a freshwater bath was prepared once.
When the notice stating "Today is freshwater bath day" was posted, everyone erupted in cheers of delight.

That night, they entered the freshwater bath.
They felt absolutely wonderful.
Refreshingly invigorating, their bodies weren't sticky.
As expected, baths were best with freshwater—everyone ended up lingering so long that those waiting their turn among their comrades had to hurry them along—such was how it went.

By the time we reached the South Seas，we had taken freshwater baths only twice.

After entering the tropics，everyone became afflicted with skin diseases.
First，athlete’s foot developed between our toes.
It multiplied rapidly.
Next，our testicles began to itch.
This appeared to be jock itch.
Then a persistent rash broke out all over our bodies.
The itching became unbearable.
This was prickly heat.

When suffering these skin conditions and bathing in saltwater，the affected areas burned with intense itchiness.
We would thoroughly wash the lesions to remove salt residue，but with our ulcerated skin，the salt stubbornly lingered.
Consequently，our symptoms seemed to gradually worsen.
I had heard a man claim saltwater baths cured prickly heat，but this theory proved utterly groundless.

After about five months had passed, I returned to mainland Japan from the South Seas aboard another ship.

This ship differed from the first one in being extraordinarily well-equipped in its facilities.
The passengers were few, and moreover, I held the position of chief first-class passenger.
Owing to this status, not only were the guest rooms splendid, but the steward also guided me to bathe ahead of others.

The bathroom was extremely luxurious.
I somehow felt as if I had returned to a mainland hotel.
However, as expected, the bath inside the marble bathtub was saltwater.
It was that saltwater where soap simply wouldn’t dissolve no matter how much one tried.

However, by this time I had already become quite accustomed to handling saltwater baths.
Even when using freshwater, three small bucketfuls were sufficient.
This was because I had fully mastered the use of precious freshwater through long experience aboard cruisers and other ships on the front lines.

As the ship steadily approached the mainland and entered a port where we would stay one final night, a freshwater bath was prepared.
At this moment alone, I truly felt as though I had been revived.
Unlike the outbound journey, on the return trip, the skin diseases I had acquired in the warzone had grown intensely severe.
The athlete’s foot had been effectively treated with good medication, but at the time I was suffering through yet another bout of prickly heat, and what troubled me more was that the jock itch had become extremely severe.
Moreover, from who knows where in the warzone, I had even contracted ringworm, with red rings forming all over my body.
Soaking in saltwater baths in such a state was not a pleasant experience.

Incidentally, I should mention that even this stubborn skin disease completely vanished after four or five days of soaking in hot springs once we reached the mainland.

Warships have baths.
We entered the officers' bath.
We entered it daily without fail - thankfully freshwater baths.
However,the amount of hot water was extremely limited.
Lying horizontally,the water barely reached one's crotch.
Thus full-body immersion proved impossible.
We had no choice but to vigorously stir and pour this water over ourselves.
Though technically hot water,the low temperature made entering feel chillingly cold.

Outside the bath, a pipe had been installed, from which service water emerged.
This service water was considerably hotter.
This came with strict restrictions—one could not use more than three bucketfuls from the small bucket.
Since I had known beforehand that this water was distilled, it became all the more precious.

Though I hadn’t felt it so keenly aboard the steamship, on the warship I resolved that no matter what happened, I must adhere to those regulations. Thus, I took great care to wash my body effectively within the water limits.
If I paid careful attention, it was by no means impossible.
In the end, I became able to cleanse my body—even applying soap—using about two bucketfuls of water.

I often did laundry in this bath as well.
Even so, just one more bucket of water would suffice for washing.
Before bathing myself, I would first systematically stack up the laundry items, then stand atop them to apply soap for washing my body.
Then I would vigorously scrub myself with a hand towel to work in the soap.
The soapy water would flow down my body, gradually dripping from my feet onto the piled laundry below and soaking through.

Through this method, the soap meant for washing my body became soapy water that thoroughly saturated the laundry.
When I finished bathing and finally turned to the washing, the laundry was already completely soaked with soap as I mentioned earlier.
I would vigorously scrub the topmost laundry item with both hands.
At this point, soap bubbles would form and fall downward as the soapy water landed on the unwashed items below.

By continuing to work through the laundry items one after another in this manner, I ensured that soapy water thoroughly permeated all soiled garments until the end, thus conserving both soap and water.

After letting everything sit like this, I would thoroughly wring out the soapy water before finally placing the laundry in a bucket to rinse with water.
Even if some soap residue remained, after wringing it thoroughly and hanging it over the bedding to dry, it would become completely dry within one or two hours.
And even when worn against the skin, it didn’t feel particularly uncomfortable.

Even after returning to the mainland, this habit remained, and I found it gratifying that I no longer wasted water as extravagantly as before.

*Scientific Knowledge*, Showa 18 May Issue