Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

When the university’s annual spring rowing competition was just one month away, an urgent vacancy suddenly arose among the Humanities Faculty rowing team members. Asanuma, who had been rowing in the fifth seat, collided with another team member and had to withdraw. As captain bearing responsibility, Kubota was troubled. The rival Agricultural Science team had particularly well-assembled members, showing momentum that had already surpassed even the three faculties of Law, Engineering, and Medicine a full month prior. In contrast, his own team now found itself short a member of its carefully assembled crew once again. However, Kubota did not become discouraged. He persuaded Kobayashi—who had ample rowing experience but lacked the physique—to relinquish his role as coxswain and reluctantly moved him to the fifth seat. As for replacing the coxswain, anyone with decent enough brains and a bit of experience in rowing could do it. Well, as long as their rowing technique was properly perfected, there’d be no problem even if they had to recruit someone as coxswain on the very day itself. This was Kubota’s conviction—forged through six years of rowing on the Sumida River since his high school days. Even so, being a coxswain still required a certain level of skill. The sooner they settled this, the greater their chances of victory would become. Kubota mentally tallied two or three students with boat experience. After careful consideration, he decided to recruit Tsushima—a man who had rowed in the second seat the previous year. However, when Kubota went to visit him, he found Tsushima in his six-tatami boarding house room surrounded by stacks of Buddhist scriptures while writing his graduation thesis. (Tsushima specialized in religious philosophy.) Though Kubota himself was also in his graduation period, he realized he couldn’t impose his own carefree attitude on others under these circumstances. When he broached the topic anyway during their discussion, Tsushima admitted he wasn’t averse to rowing—in fact, he would have eagerly taken up the coxswain’s position—but simply couldn’t commit. He explained that even setting aside his thesis, he was supposed to return home and get married at April’s start. Even Kubota couldn’t press him further under such circumstances. Seeing Kubota’s excessively troubled demeanor made Tsushima feel genuinely sorry for him.

And so the two of them began searching anew for candidates to fill the vacancy. Then at that moment, Kubota suddenly recalled Kuno. Kuno had once served as coxswain in a class selection race during high school—and lost. The previous year he had fallen ill and gone away to recuperate, but he should have returned by now. In fact, Kubota had met him just two or three days earlier on a street in Hongo. At the time, Kuno had mentioned being in the middle of writing another play and made a great show of being busy—but coming from that man himself, his busyness couldn’t be taken as any certainty. "Well then, let's go try recruiting him," they agreed. Though Tsushima hadn’t yet met Kuno, Kubota insisted that approaching him together would likely succeed, so they immediately set off for Kuno’s modest boarding house in Oiwake.

At that moment, Kuno had indeed begun working on his third practice piece—a fairly substantial play—just as he had claimed. On the desk, the manuscript he had hastily hidden upon seeing the two arrive was peeking out from beneath a stack of books. After exchanging brief student greetings, Kubota glanced at the desk and suddenly began speaking to Kuno, who was still struggling to guess why the two had come. “Well, the thing is…”

“We’ve suddenly lost one of our rowing team members, so I was hoping you could take the helm for us—would you be willing to join? I’m truly in a bind.” Kuno seemed slightly taken aback by the unexpected request but looked up at Kubota’s sun-tanned face with a faint smile and said: “You’ve really brought up something strange out of the blue.” “But you don’t have to drag me into this—there must be others available.” “I’m no good for something like this.”

"But there was no one else, so we came to you." "If we went to Mr. Tsushima’s place now, he’d say he’s too busy with his thesis and marriage to do it." "So we both concluded you were the only one and came all the way here to recruit you." “Please, I beg you to join us.” “Even I’m busy writing a script.” “I’ve already promised Mr. Kawata Toshiro at Teibun that I must submit it this month.” “Oh come now—what you’re doing can’t be called a matter of lifelong importance, can it?”

“But for me right now, this is at least a bigger problem than getting a wife,” Kuno said, turning toward Tsushima, who stood silently laughing. Tsushima, blushing slightly, spoke up for the first time. “Please don’t say such things—do join us.” “Mr. Kubota here is utterly desperate.” “If we don’t gather all members, the others can’t commit fully to practice.” “And you know—” “Rowing competitions become quite fascinating once you try them.” “Training camp life offers experiences you can’t possibly taste outside studenthood.” “You’d lose nothing by trying it.” “I stake my honor on it!”

“That’s right.” Kubota, emboldened by this, added his voice. “If you’re someone doing creative work, that’s all the more reason.” “You should try experiencing this kind of group life once in a while.” “Training camp life is something completely simple, primitive, and interesting, you know.” “It’s a sort of beast-like existence.” “You really ought to try it at least once.” “Well, I’m not without curiosity myself,” Kuno replied. “But what with me being in the middle of writing this script, and my experience as a coxswain being so dated now...” “I’m not cut out to be some dignified athlete for the humanities team.”

“That’ll be fine,” Kubota said, finally sensing Kuno’s resolve beginning to waver. “There’s no need to worry about that.”

“That is perfectly fine,” Tsushima added from behind Kubota. “Since we have a Sumida River kappa like Mr. Kubota here, it’s best to leave everything to him.” “A kappa isn’t about to drown in its own river, is it?” Kuno said, intending it as a witty retort. “If you don’t join the team as an athlete, we’ll sink,” Kubota said, drawn into Kuno’s rhythm as he made an uncharacteristic joke. “Exactly. We’re on the verge of sinking, you know. So please. They say a drowning man will clutch at even a straw, you know,” Tsushima chimed in with an outlandish remark.

“So you’re saying you want to make me your straw?” Kuno continued laughing. “Don’t go regretting it as useless after you’ve grabbed hold.” “Don’t worry,” Tsushima said. “Please—trusting you’ll save us, I beg you.” “Well then, I suppose I’ll reluctantly become your straw,” Kuno replied. “But the others will say Kuno’s started his heckling antics again.” “It doesn’t matter if they say so.” “No, it doesn’t matter.” Kuno’s lips curled slightly. “They say an artist’s first step lies in stirring curiosity about everything.”

“Exactly.” “Exactly,” said Tsushima, pressing the point firmly as he feared Kuno might yet change his mind.

“So you’ll join us, then?”

“I’m still in the midst of considering,” Kuno said with the air of one begrudging a prompt reply, dipping his head as he spoke. “After all, I’m right in the thick of writing it.”

“So when exactly do you intend to have it done?”

“I plan to have it finished by the fifteenth.” “Well then, please join us starting from the sixteenth. That way we’ll have a solid twenty-five days of practice.” “Well then, if I can finish writing it by the fifteenth, I’ll join.”

“Very well.” “Thank you.”

He could finally breathe easy. “Well then, we’ll be going on a four-day long-distance rowing trip to Sawara starting tomorrow, so please finish writing during that time.”

“Alright, I’ll try writing at full speed.”

Through these circumstances, Kuno finally ended up participating in the rowing competition as the humanities team’s coxswain.

II

The training camp was located behind a restaurant called Torikane near Kototoi. Across the road, both in front and to the side, were geisha houses. Next door, separated by a high fence, in a stylish two-story house lived a woman who appeared to be a mistress. In the mornings, her beautiful voice would occasionally carry over as she issued instructions to her maid. However, until they withdrew from the training camp, that woman never once showed herself. At the geisha houses, when those on this side would rise around nine in the morning and open the second-floor shutters, women cleaning across the way—bathed in sunlight—would squint toward them and offer faint smiles. On rare occasions, they even remarked things like, “My, you’re up quite early.” On rainy days, about five geisha from that house would gather and rehearse their shamisen together. The shrill voices of apprentice geisha could be heard, their dancing figures visible through frosted glass. Eventually apprentice geishas began visiting the training camp. “You students certainly talk big, don’t you?” She said something rather precocious like that. ……Somehow everything around Kuno felt discordant—a mismatched world lacking proper composure.

When Kuno first arrived at the training camp, everyone had returned from their long-distance rowing the previous day and had just completed their initial practice. Kuno was shocked by how terribly dark everyone’s faces were. He simply couldn’t believe that such gentle early spring sunlight, even after beating down for four days straight, could have turned them this dark. When Kuno entered, the six darkened faces all turned his way and, with a collective “Oh!”, immediately began eating their meal. Kubota began recounting their long-distance rowing trip. “After all, we had perfect weather all four days. You get tanned much more in spring. Partly because you carelessly exposed your faces to the sun, and partly because the gradual tan builds up and doesn’t fade quickly,” he said. Kuno waited with a somewhat shameful feeling for everyone to finish their meal. Hayakawa, rowing in the second seat, offered his seventh bowl to the maid before Kuno’s eyes while making some sort of excuse. And on top of that, he put five or six eggs into the beef hot pot and ate them. Yet beneath that innocent conversation and bestial appetite, Kuno immediately sensed a peculiar kind of simple, harmonious camaraderie pervading the group.

After meals, everyone gathered in one room and chatted. Conversations about women were exchanged with surprisingly little embellishment. But the main topics remained mistakes made during the long-distance rowing and anecdotes from practice. And in between these exchanges, beneath jokes like "I won’t make my grandchildren row racing shells" and "I never want to hold an oar again until I die," the pain of their training was voiced. Captain Kubota silently listened to this with a smile. And he told them a story about how, during his high school days, he had tried to run away from a training camp because he couldn’t bear the harshness of practice but was caught halfway. “It’s harsh now, but it’ll become enjoyable soon,” his darkly gleaming face with lowered eyelids seemed to say.

From what he observed, everyone seemed to have blended together completely. The departure of Asanuma had likely brought about a feeling in everyone’s hearts that all foreign elements had been purged, thereby deepening their camaraderie. The minor discord had likely subsided along with the departure of the major one. Everything was carried out according to Captain Kubota’s orders. Kubota never explicitly voiced it as an order, but through years of experience, he set to work in silence of his own accord. Then, the other athletes began following Kubota’s will without any conscious awareness of acting under orders. In the depths of Kubota’s weary-lidded eyes lay silently concealed many stratagems pregnant with victory. Yet he did not utter a single word of it. He didn’t utter a single word of exhortation to the other athletes. And he waited quietly for the other athletes to spontaneously show signs of initiative from their own volition. His attitude had a slight air reminiscent of a veteran.

When it neared ten o'clock, they each did five minutes of back exercises and fell into sound sleep. Kuno alone stayed awake long into the night. He still hadn't finished his play script. Having brought the draft to the second floor of the training lodge, he resolved to write there. Thus he ultimately decided to publish the fourth act in its unfinished form. Past midnight, he too went to bed. The lively string-accompanied songs from neighboring houses had now fallen silent, replaced by what sounded like a factory whistle echoing along the nearby Sumida River. Straining his ears—or perhaps imagining it—he thought he heard the sound of a sailboat crossing the night-darkened water surface. As he drifted into half-sleep, workers at the Kototoi Dango rice cake shop two houses over began pounding tomorrow's mochi. Only Kuno lay awake, tossing restlessly beneath his covers, disturbed by the rhythmic thuds. He envied his teammates' deep slumber and animal vitality. Yet from tomorrow onward, he too could live free of that sickly pallid shadow—this pleasant anticipation began crystallizing in his heart.

“After all，it was good to have tried living this kind of life.” He muttered while forcing his head onto the pillow once more．……

Practice began around ten in the morning. They slept in leisurely, finished breakfast at a relaxed pace, and headed to the barge where the boats were moored. The rival Agricultural Team had already departed. The Engineering Team's boats were likely practicing upstream as far as Senju already, since theirs weren't tied up either. The Law Team had also rowed out. Only the Medical and Humanities boats were always left until last in the morning. These two faculties would often end up together at the barge.

“Hey, how’s it looking?” Nishikawa—a tall man rowing third seat for the Medical Team who’d been acquainted with Kubota since high school—spoke to him.

“We’re in a slump,” said Kubota. “Those Agricultural Team guys have been out since around eight.” “The Humanities department’s always so carefree.” “What are you talking about? Isn’t your side about to head out now too?” “Our side runs thirty minutes every morning to strengthen our legs, then sleeps for about an hour before coming here.” “Ours isn’t like your carefree approach.” “I’m entrusting my side to nature’s rhythm,” “I never push too hard.”

“Hmph, naturalism on the racing shell, eh?” “Just make sure your natural approach doesn’t get you beaten.” “This year’s Agricultural Team is damn strong.” “If you compare just their physiques, they’d be the best among the five faculties.” “What’s more, they’ve got two third-degree judo black belts among them.” “You can’t row a racing shell just with judo.” “Physically speaking, we’re the weakest among them all.” “But well—competitions are unpredictable things after all.” “Well, let’s both do our best then.”

“Yeah.”

Such conversations were frequently exchanged between the two of them. The Law and Medical Faculties always exchanged friendly words with us. Yet with the Engineering Faculty—which belonged to the same Second Division as Agriculture—we exchanged not a single word.

It was past mid-March, but the water surface remained veiled in mist, carrying a lingering chill. When the northern sky cleared, wind whipped up waves across the river. As spring drew nearer, more boats came downstream along the Sumida. Now racing shells from various schools darting through them had grown remarkably numerous.

After completing one power-rowing session, in our boat anchored at Dairen Bay near Suijin Shrine, Kubota—who had been resting with clothes draped over him—gazed at the red flag on the stern of a Gakushuin boat power-rowing past nearby and remarked to Kuno, “The season has truly arrived.” From the helm, Kuno responded ambiguously with a “Mm” while gazing in rapture at the broad stretch of river from Kanezabuchi to Ayasegawaguchi. Various boats glided past before their eyes. A white racing shell glided across the opposite side. When he suddenly cast his eyes toward the bend leading to Senju, what appeared to be a school racing shell in the distance came rowing down, kicking up spray.

“Hey, Mr. Kubota. Isn’t that the Agricultural Team’s boat?” Kuno called out.

Kubota jerked upright. Taking the binoculars from Kuno’s hands, he hurriedly looked toward that direction. “Yeah, Agricultural Team. Agricultural Team.” The boat’s crew all jerked upright in unison. Kubota kept his eyes fixed on the binoculars, then declared, “Power-rowing now! Mr. Kuno, keep track of the time for us. Alright, everyone ready? Begin!” “One... two... three...” Kubota began counting the oar strokes. On the Agricultural Team’s side, they continued power rowing intently. The seven of them held their breath and watched the rival’s boat gradually row closer. When Kubota had counted about a hundred strokes, the Agricultural Team’s boat stopped rowing. Since there was still ample distance to our boat, they on their side apparently hadn’t noticed us. Finally releasing the binoculars, Kubota asked Kuno, “How long did it take?”

“About three minutes and ten seconds,” Kuno said while looking at his stopwatch. “Hmm. “So they’re practicing a hundred power-rowing strokes.” “At that stroke rate, it’s about thirty-six per minute,” Kubota said while lying back down in the boat, his remark directed at no one in particular. “What do you make of their approach?” Kuno asked worriedly. “It’s fine.” Kubota answered simply.

“But we’ve only just managed three minutes of power-rowing,” said Fourth Seat Saito in a tone of quiet resolve. “Well, if we increase by one minute every three days from here on out, we’ll easily handle five minutes by race day. Where’s the toughest part in those three minutes? If you nail these three minutes properly now, those extra two won’t feel half as bad later,” Kubota said soothingly. A flicker of determination stirred in everyone’s chests.

The Agricultural Team's boat power-rowed past the Humanities Team's position several more times under their triumphant confidence. Yet on days when we witnessed these displays, our team's practice sessions gained particular intensity. Even Kuno—who had previously considered victory irrelevant—now found himself gripped by fierce competitive spirit. Our crew deliberately slackened efforts whenever before the Agricultural Team. Still, they observed our departures with equal sharpness. When overconfidence took root, someone inevitably exclaimed, "Let's show our full prowess before them!" But Kubota restrained this impulse. With three days remaining until the race, he appeased everyone by promising an unrestrained demonstration then. By that time, the rowing technique had finally begun coalescing as Kubota envisioned.

One day, such an incident occurred.

On that day, it was decided that the humanities boat would unusually carry boxed lunches and attempt to practice by rowing upstream. Kuno and the others performed two rounds of power-rowing near Senju, then rowed upstream toward Hazenokibayashi using negi—a low-effort rowing technique. Then before they knew it, the Agricultural Team’s boat came rowing up from behind. They too pursued us just as persistently. They likely assumed we would eventually tire out and stop rowing—then they could surge past and make quick progress upstream. At this provocation, we too grew stubbornly determined. We resolved to keep rowing until they relented. Though nominally using negi technique, we maintained efforts verging on full power-rowing. The rivals continued their pursuit at steady pace. Yet gradually a gap began opening between boats. Still fired up, we kept rowing while whispering fiercely: “Let’s leave them behind!” But where they emerged from hazel woods into mid-river stood a dredging vessel churning up sediment below. Having never navigated here before, Kuno couldn’t gauge depth—steering left toward what seemed shorter path only to ground us instantly on shoal. All frantically tried reversing oars, but our momentum had driven us deep into mud—the boat wouldn’t retreat an inch. Though seething at this humiliation, we conceded halting rather than flail pointlessly. Meanwhile Agricultural Team swept past our right flank three lengths away—voices ringing with “Thirty more! Now!”—as they surged onward. We watched them pass through gritted teeth. “Damn nuisance!” “Bastards!” someone roared. Kuno faced everyone with formal bow: “My deepest apologies.” Yet in all hearts lingered unspoken dread—“Could this portend defeat?”—as silence fell.

Had it not been for the gratifying fact that when their comrades-in-arms from the Law Faculty’s boat challenged them to a race that afternoon—a challenge met by everyone with fierce determination as they power-rowed for three minutes and overtook them by half a boat length—the morning’s grounding incident might have remained an unpleasant memory persisting until competition day. Yet this victory over the Law Faculty—whose prowess had made them unbeatable in previous years—even if only in practice, gave the team their first true conviction that they could win.

“What frustrating fellows,” said Ono, who was rowing as Law Faculty’s second seat, turning toward us when the two boats were moored side by side for a rest after rowing practice. “How’s that? This is what we’ve got!” Kubota put on a boastful display.

“Your boat’s a torpedo boat. Spindly as hell, yet fast,” said Ibaraki—who was rowing bow seat for the Law Faculty’s boat and nicknamed “Cop” for his knack for trivial details.

Everyone was in rather high spirits. With more vigor than usual, they stored the boat in the boathouse. For dinner—as a reward—Kubota specially permitted each person about two gō of sake. Allowing alcohol to be consumed openly during training camp was truly unprecedented. There had been times when Second Seat Hayakawa and others among the team members had secretly drunk alcohol before now. Kubota had never particularly reprimanded them for it. However, he would surely impose six or seven minutes of continuous rowing during the next day’s practice. As a result, those who didn’t drink were fine, but those who drank would usually end up suffering—and thus came to truly understand for themselves how harmful drinking during practice was. Yet on this day, though only a small amount, everyone drank unreservedly. Slightly tipsy, they began burning with confidence, declaring things like, “We must win! There’s no way we’ll lose after pouring this much effort into it!” Kubota silently watched them grow animated while leaning against a nearby wall. His face bore a satisfied smile that said everything was gradually going according to his plan.

A couple of days later, the Law Faculty team challenged them again out of frustration. At that time, we did four minutes of power-rowing and lost by about half a boat length. But the fact that we were now neck and neck with the Law Faculty was indisputable. And everyone was quite satisfied with that.

III The day of the rowing competition drew steadily nearer. About a week before that, there had been a rowing competition at Gakushuin. At that event, the Humanities and Agricultural Faculties were supposed to participate as guests in a mixed rowing competition. Mixed meant exchanging the middle rowers—the third and fourth seats—between opposing teams to row.

This was the first formal meeting between rivals and comrades.

Both boats waited together at the barge for their turn to come. Among the athletes, there were familiar faces from their high school days, so they exchanged greetings with each other. Then they began discussing something that had nothing at all to do with the boats.

Kubota, the captain of the Humanities team, and Takasaki, the Agricultural team’s coxswain, had been close friends since graduating from the same middle school and entering Ichikō together. However, since their high school days, they had often been placed in adversarial positions, which had somehow estranged them; now, the two spoke only of outings. They began conversing in their regional dialect, their talk laced with unresolved tension. Even,

They exchanged innocuous remarks like, “It’s colder than usual this year, isn’t it?” Even when boats came up in conversation, they traded polite yet hollow compliments about each other’s teams, straining to disparage their own with theatrical modesty. “Mine’s hopeless,” “No, mine’s truly worthless,” they kept insisting to one another. In this manner, all present—ally and rival alike—shared brief exchanges. To their mutual astonishment, their opponents proved unexpectedly decent. Though recognizing animosity as commonplace, each individual grasped how such hostility stemmed from groups deceiving themselves with baseless suspicions. Even Fourth Seat Saito—ever sensitive—later confessed that after finishing his row and hearing “Fine work” from the opposing coxswain, he’d let all former enmity “wash away down the Sumida River.”

However, even during this time, Kubota and his fellow leaders did not neglect to pay attention to the enemy’s boat speed and rowing techniques. During the race, he decided to test how much rowing power the opposing middle rower who had come to his boat possessed by abruptly cranking up the stroke rate at the final stretch. And he came to know his opponent was not to be underestimated.

In that race, the five-man boat of the Humanities team carrying Kuno and Kubota emerged victorious. Kuno obtained his first opportunity to try steering the helm on the race course.

From around that day, practice grew increasingly intense. The seniors came frequently to encourage the athletes and even acted as spies themselves to measure the rival team’s rowing power. One day, Kuno asked a senior named Mizuhara to take the helm and went out on a spy mission himself. He crossed the Ayaseguchi ferry crossing and concealed himself among the withered reeds on the opposite riverbank, waiting for the Agricultural Faculty’s shell to row downstream. While assailed by a strange, tense anxiety, he sat down on the slightly damp ground and crouched in the sunset. Before him stretched the wide expanse of Kane-ga-fuchi, where the waters of the Sumida River—flowing from Senju—curved in a single undulation as they coursed downstream. Several sails and boats glided calmly by before his eyes. On the opposite shore, the red wall of the spinning mill suddenly caught the sunlight and blazed. He gazed beyond it at the distant eastern sky—unusually clear for spring—and further up at the infinite heavens tinged with pale yellow high above his head. For a while, he lost himself in the peculiar sensation of beholding something rare, but suddenly recalling his mission, he peered upstream. When had it arrived? Upstream from the Kane-ga-fuchi steamship dock, what appeared to be the Agricultural team’s shell lay at rest. When he hurriedly took out the binoculars and looked, the coxswain’s identifying black mantle was clearly visible at the bottom of the lens. Startled, he hid himself among the reeds, scanned his surroundings, and smiled. Unaware that one of their enemies was watching here, they began to move. As the coxswain’s rhythm-setting oar moved, six yellow oars swiftly fanned out and entered the water. Kuno held a stopwatch in one hand and pressed binoculars with the other, holding his breath. After rowing a few practice strokes to warm up, they were now about to begin power rowing. “Let’s go!” The coxswain’s voice rang clearly in Kuno’s ears. He hurriedly pressed the stopwatch’s button. The needle began tick-tick-ticking off the seconds.

One, two, three.... The enemy boat cut through the water, rowing vividly about a hundred meters before his eyes. He could clearly see up to where Third Seat splashed and sent water flying with his oar. He saw nothing but the enemy boat cutting straight across the sun-streaked river surface. One minute, two minutes, three minutes.... Eventually they stopped rowing. Kuno reconfirmed the enemy's start and stop positions, then firmly committed the number of strokes and elapsed time to memory. Letting out a relieved breath, he stood up while feeling an odd sense of satisfaction.

When Kuno, satisfied, crossed the ferry and went to the steamship dock on the opposite side, there stood a senior from the Law faculty. “Hey there, out spying today? Did you catch Agricultural’s three-minute power rowing from here?” he asked. Kuno nodded with a smile.

The following evening, the Humanities team's shell deliberately moved up their return time and attempted a three-minute power-rowing session along the same course at the same hour as the Agricultural team had done the previous day. They realized the enemy boat performed more effectively than anticipated. Kuno couldn't shake the feeling their own shell might be under surveillance, so he meticulously scanned both banks through his binoculars. Yet there was no one suspicious in sight. The area where Kuno had hidden yesterday now showed nothing but faintly visible yellow reeds under the cloudy evening sky.

As the season finally arrived, rowing competitions were held one after another at institutions like Kōshō and Meiji. As things progressed, victory or defeat no longer felt like someone else’s affair. Each university department had already begun rowing on the race course. The Humanities team also achieved their planned five-minute power rowing session and began using the race course three days before the competition. With things being this pressing, crying or howling wouldn’t catch them up now. Therefore, they rowed the race course openly and fairly under the watchful eyes of all. On the embankment, jeers hung ready to erupt. They measured and compared the rowing power of both allies and enemies. Gradually, what was called the “embankment assessments” began to take shape. Initially, these assessments had leaned toward the Agricultural Faculty’s certain victory. However, when observed now, the situation was beginning to shift in a manner suggesting that the Humanities athletes could not be easily underestimated.

Kuno, Kubota, and the others were on edge. This was because they intended to row as skillfully as possible to build their own confidence and demonstrate their prowess to the enemy. The time the enemy had rowed was being measured by seniors and various supporters on the embankment. On that day, the Humanities Faculty rowed about ten minutes after the Agricultural Faculty had done so, threading through the dusk. It took five minutes and fifteen seconds. Everyone was disheartened by how long it had unexpectedly taken and, dejectedly, put the shell into the boathouse last of all. At that moment, the seniors who had been on the shore and Mr. Tsushima entered, their faces filled with joy. “It’s fine. We’ve already won,” they exclaimed in unison. When they heard that despite having better conditions, the Agricultural team had taken over five minutes and twenty seconds. And just as everyone was raising their voices to continue elaborating in greater detail, suddenly one of the athletes noticed someone eavesdropping at the boathouse entrance and cautioned in a low voice. In a spur-of-the-moment stratagem, Kuno deliberately raised his voice: “Oh, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s just that they started five seconds earlier and our conditions were worse,” he declared pointedly. The one standing in the dark entrance of the boathouse was none other than Agricultural team coxswain Takasaki.

Amidst all this, the rowing competition was drawing ever nearer.

IV

The day of the rowing competition arrived. The sky had been beautifully clear since morning. A janitor from the school office came early and erected a large khaki-colored flag before the training camp. It looked garishly conspicuous.

The team members were supposed to take the boat out for a trial run around eight in the morning, row once, and return. Everyone boarded the boat in an unusual state of mind. Yet the boat began gliding out slowly as always. Then by Kubota's order, they took an unusual short rest beneath the Komatsu-no-miya Villa. At that moment, a barge boatman passing nearby suddenly spotted something and began making a commotion. When they wondered what it was and looked, a black object floated drifting about nine meters ahead between their boat and that vessel. The boatmen shouted, “A drowned corpse! A drowned corpse!” At that moment, everyone caught only a fleeting glimpse of a black pillar-like object floating on the water. Before long, Kuno—prone to superstition at times like these—declared, “We’ve won today,” yet no one disputed how this somehow instilled an odd unease.

There, they power-rowed for three minutes from beneath Shirahige Bridge to Dairen Bay. Before they knew it, true spring had come to the land there. In the garden of what seemed to be a factory owner’s residence nearby, camellia flowers were blooming. Around Suijin, cherry blossoms already lay scattered. Someone said, “This’ll be our last time seeing this place.” It was an ordinary remark, but everyone masked that moment’s emotion with laughter. And each gazed at the river’s oily sheen, blue-tinged reeds on the far bank, and hazy gas tank in Senju.

“How’s everyone’s condition? Did everyone sleep well last night?” Kubota asked the team. He added, “I really slept well.” It was later learned that he had been troubled by a resurgence of his otitis media that night and had barely slept at all. But concerned about demoralizing the team’s spirit, he had told this groundless lie.

Around noon, teachers and supporters began arriving in scattered groups. The athletes were supposed to take a nap, but they continued talking cheerfully with them. However, when it came to the rowing competition itself, they did not boast about their own abilities. “This year’s athletes are strangely not declaring ‘We’ll win, we’ll win’ themselves,” “Athletes from before went around saying they were all set only to lose, but ones like this year’s team are actually the ones who end up winning,” the teacher who had come to cheer them on said such things, intending them as praise.

However, in the athletes' hearts, by now, victory or defeat itself was no longer in their thoughts. What existed instead was a more urgent desire within each of them—the desperate wish for time to hurry and bring resolution, any resolution, that might free them from this unbearable tension. The true outcome mattered not at all; what every one of them so keenly desired was simply this release from emotional strain.

In the afternoon, the wind blew in under the clear sky, making the flags on the support boats flap noisily. On the course, quite rough waves arose.

But just as the Humanities-Agriculture race was finally about to begin, a rare evening calm set in. All the athletes put on their khaki uniforms in the tatami room of the sakura mochi shop within Chomeiji. To Kuno, that somehow made his body tense up. They had left there by 4:15. For if they were not moored by the designated time of four o'clock, they would be omitted from the rowing competition. On the embankment, the crowd made way for the athletes in khaki-colored uniforms with a mixture of respect and curiosity.

The Humanities racing boat was the first to depart from the barge, sent off with applause. Kubota and the others began rowing at a more relaxed pace than usual. They did about thirty practice strokes. At that moment, Mizuhara in the third seat somehow made a big splash. A slight shadow passed over everyone's faces.

“Let’s get all our mistakes out now before the actual race,” Kuno said quickly, encouraging Mizuhara who had grown pessimistic. Everyone rowed about twenty more strokes with a “do-over” mindset and moored to the rope extended by the judge’s boat. Next, the Agricultural team’s boat was also moored.

From the boathouse, embankment, and support boats rose a tangled chorus: “Humanities!” “Agricultural!” “Khaki!” Voices shouting “Purple!” erupted in chaotic overlap. The judge’s boat towed both vessels toward the starting point. The rowers lay flat inside their boat. Kuno fiddled with the rudder lines, trying to gauge whose cheers dominated. No matter how he listened, the Agricultural supporters seemed louder. Near the washing area stood Kuno’s friends Matsuda and Narisawa. “Kuno, give it your all!” they called, hats fluttering in their hands. Laughing, Kuno removed his khaki cap.

“Red! Blue!” Amidst generic cheers like these, these words directed solely at him stirred in Kuno a momentarily strange, yearningly sentimental mood. At that moment, Kuno’s senses became so startlingly acute that he felt he could distinctly recognize every face and voice along both banks. And he managed to clearly distinguish Matsuda’s sun-tanned round face and Narisawa’s pale slender features from amidst the bustling dark-clad crowd. Downstream from the ferry landing, one or two of the Agricultural Faculty’s support boats were stationed at each key point. The Humanities athletes listened to the cheers rising from their rivals’ boats with a desolate mood. Amidst all the cheering commotion, there was a desolate emptiness. Perhaps the tension in their own hearts had made them perceive it that way—so Kuno thought.

The boat reached the red buoy marking the starting point. When Kuno looked out over the waterway, he found the wind hadn't fully subsided after all. It kept blowing from the northeast, twisting the bow leftward. To compensate, Kuno repeatedly had the second seat make slight oar adjustments. Departing with a skewed bow would only worsen their boat's existing tendency to drift toward Asakusa's shore - stray from the channel into shallows on such a day, and their speed would grind to a halt outright. Each time the Humanities boat shifted position near the judges' station on shore, officials shouted "Keep oars clear!" until Kuno grew frantic with anxiety. Then came the "Prepare!" command. A sudden gust wrenched the bow sideways again. "Fine then," Kuno muttered through closed eyes, "let whatever happens happen." The starting gun boomed across the water. Though mere seconds separated the preparatory call from the shot's report, that interval felt agonizingly prolonged to Kuno. Both boats' oars sliced into the river as one.

In Kuno’s eyes, there was nothing but the enemy boat and the white-glowing waterway ahead of their own craft.

Kuno's boat had a rather poor start. “This is bad. Everyone panicked,” both Kubota and Kuno thought simultaneously. When they looked at the enemy boat, its first and second seats indeed appeared to be ahead of theirs. “Steady!” Kubota shouted. Kuno relayed those words to the entire boat once more in an even louder voice. Everyone’s rhythm finally began to synchronize. At this moment, the Agricultural coxswain—notorious for jeering at rival boats during races—shouted, “We’ll overtake them by half a boat length!” Kuno instantly retorted, “That’s a lie!” Kuno, who had remained silent until now, felt as if the tension in his jaw had suddenly released once he spoke those words—and he became astonishingly eloquent. Before long, the Agricultural team’s third seat made one big splash. Water spray shot up vividly in a sharp burst. Kuno shouted as if seizing the opportunity, “We did it! Such a huge splash!” Both those who had seen it and those who hadn’t were all invigorated by these words. The rival boat, conversely jeered at by Kuno, fell completely silent. Finally, the two boats drew even. And in front of the watergate, the Humanities team was leading by about half a boat length. Even so, the Agricultural Team Coxswain shouted, “They’re already worn out over there!” he jeered. Kuno also retorted, “What nonsense! We’re the ones leading here!”

Yet in his heart, there was not the slightest room for such verbal sparring. As they approached the Watergate, Kuno shouted “Now, the Watergate!” before the rivals could. Calling out instructions for locations that any coxswain would inevitably mention—but doing so before the rival boat could—was itself a tactical maneuver. After all, the boat that called first would reach that spot before those who called later. Belatedly, the Agricultural team executed ten special power rowing strokes at the Watergate. And so the boats found themselves side by side again. There was something about being overtaken from behind that made it feel as if they’d been left behind all along. Kuno’s boat somehow seemed slower than usual. Kubota looked at the enemy boat, comparing their stroke rates, and thought this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. After a while, the Humanities boat steadily pulled ahead again. Kuno shouted, “Keep this pace!” The Agricultural Team’s boat had fallen silent. And now, the ten power rowing strokes at the ferry landing no longer had any effect on them. Kubota, observing their power rowing with half-closed eyes, finally relaxed and began increasing the stroke rate.

At the washing area, they were leading by more than half a boat length. However, this half-length advantage here would mean nothing if the Agricultural Team’s final heavy sprint took effect. Kuno shouted, “One minute left! You can drop dead afterward!” he urged them. The practiced phrase “One minute left” energized the crew more than anything else. If it was just sixty seconds, they could keep rowing even if they collapsed afterward.

Everyone grew tired. Then strangely, the boat began moving well. When fatigued, each rower in the Humanities boat shed individual quirks until their rhythms aligned perfectly. Their coordination finally became uniform at this moment. Following Kubota’s oar strokes, they mechanically rocked their bodies forward and back. The Agricultural team’s final sprint emerged splendidly. Yet while Kuno monitored their effort, the Humanities’ own heavy stroke proved devastatingly effective. Kubota’s seasoned expertise drove their stroke rate relentlessly higher. “Ten more!” The finish line approach stretched agonizingly long. Kuno wondered if the judge’s gun might misfire even after crossing. The starting pistol cracked through air. They ceased rowing and collapsed into the hull.

And Kuno heard, for the first time, the storm of cheers resounding across the water. The cheers had been roaring nonstop since they approached the finish line, yet none of it had reached his ears.

“Which side won?” Hayakawa in the second seat asked through labored breaths, his voice tinged with desperation.

“Rest assured. It’s us,” Kuno answered. However, Kuno himself was not certain of their victory. And he couldn’t feel at ease until he saw the birch-colored flag raised at the judge’s stand.

The cheers were still continuing. The unprecedented closeness of the contest had sent even spectators belonging to neither side into a frenzy.

“Mr. Kubota, shall we bring the boat to shore?” Kuno said.

“Wait. There’s no need to hurry. This doesn’t happen often—let’s take our time savoring this victory.”

Kubota answered. And the boat continued drifting quietly across the water's surface within the still-roaring whirlwind of cheers.

At that moment, Kuno glanced at the Agricultural Team’s boat. It had just been brought ashore. Their supporters were lifting the defeated athletes from inside the craft and helping them ashore. The large man from seat three was being carried away, leaning on two supporters’ shoulders while wiping his tears. Whether they were putting on an act or genuinely incapacitated, they were exhausted beyond standing unaided.

What a chasm of emotion a mere half-boat-length difference had created. In terms of time, it was a span not exceeding half a second. In spatial terms, it was a distance not exceeding twelve feet. And when viewed against the entire race course, it was truly a margin not even reaching a hundredth of its length. Where on earth did this slight yet astonishingly decisive difference come from? Had Captain Kubota truly anticipated that each oar stroke would produce such incremental differences? Could even Kuno himself believe that a few minutes of slight superiority in their daily practice had produced this difference? What if one of our athletes had let a single oar slip? In an instant, victory and defeat could have been reversed. What if Kuno had slightly mishandled the rudder? In an instant, their boat might have been overtaken. It had been a truly precarious victory. “Be that as it may, we’ve undoubtedly won,” Kuno thought, still gazing at the enemy boat they had left behind.

In the meantime, support boats rowed in from all directions. The athletes finally began to feel their victory, as if revived.

The emotion brought by victory was truly the most strangely complex of all. Kuno thought. The setting sun now grazed the waterway where the battle had been fought. Once again, Kuno curiously surveyed that scene and then turned his gaze to the uniform faces of the supporters who had rowed closer to shore near the spectators.

V

That night, in accordance with the established custom, a victory celebration was held at Tokiwakadan. Several hours had already passed since the rowing competition. Thus each athlete now possessed the composure to methodically recount those moments of past tension whenever they recalled them.

As the alcohol began to take effect, even those who had until then attributed victory's cause to others now hurried to speak of their own merits. And recounting each of their battle exploits with exaggeration began to seem necessary for deepening and delighting in their sense of triumph. Thus each of them approved others' exaggerations to have their own approved in turn. By the gathering's end, a splendid battle chronicle had taken shape. Every coincidence began assuming an air of inevitability. Then all events came to be recalled as auspicious omens. They seemed to take greater pleasure in narrating their rowing victory than in having achieved it.

The listeners, too, thinking they had no choice but to listen cheerfully to the athletes, found themselves inadvertently fostering this tendency.

Kuno would drink down cold sake and exert himself to coldly observe the scene. Yet he too was someone who needed to get drunk on recounting victory.