Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

When the university’s annual spring regatta was now only a month away, a sudden vacancy occurred among the Liberal Arts rowing team’s crew. Asanuma, who had been rowing in the fifth seat, collided with another crew member and ended up having to stop. Kubota, who bore responsibility as captain, was troubled. The Agricultural department rivals particularly had their members well-assembled, showing such momentum from as early as a month prior that they even surpassed the three departments of Law, Engineering, and Medicine. On the other hand, when looking at their own side, they ended up losing members from the crew they had painstakingly assembled. However, Kubota did not become discouraged. And so he persuaded Kobayashi—who had ample rowing experience but lacked the physique and had been serving as coxswain—and reluctantly moved him to the fifth seat. As for a coxswain replacement, anyone could do it as long as they had decent intelligence and some rowing experience. Well, as long as the rowing technique was properly perfected, it wasn’t impossible to secure a coxswain by simply asking someone on the very day. This was the conviction of Kubota, who had rowed on Sumida River for six long years since his high school days. Even so, being a coxswain still required considerable skill. The sooner it was settled, the greater their chances of victory would become. Kubota mentally counted a few students with rowing experience. And after much deliberation, he decided to recruit a man named Tsushima who had rowed in the second seat the previous year. However, when Kubota went to visit him, he was astonished to find Tsushima writing his graduation thesis in his six-mat boarding house room, every inch of which was crammed with Buddhist scriptures. (Tsushima was specializing in religious philosophy.) Though Kubota himself was also approaching graduation, he thought that under these circumstances, he couldn’t very well impose his own carefree attitude on others. However, when they discussed it just to broach the subject, Tsushima wasn’t particularly averse to the rowing team—in fact was quite eager to take up the coxswain position—but ultimately couldn’t commit. Even if his graduation thesis could be managed, he explained that he was supposed to return to his hometown and get married at the beginning of April. Even Kubota could not possibly press him to join by overriding this—all the more so. Seeing Kubota’s desperately flustered demeanor, Tsushima couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

And so the two of them set out to search for potential replacements once more. Then, at that moment, Kubota suddenly remembered Kuno. During his high school days, Kuno had once served as coxswain in a class selection race and lost. The year before that incident, he had fallen ill and relocated for recuperation, but should have returned by now. In fact, Kubota had met him just two or three days earlier on the streets of Hongo. At that time, Kuno mentioned he was in the middle of writing a play and made a fuss about being busy, but since that man was the one saying it himself, it likely wasn’t definitive that he was truly occupied. "Well, let's go try to recruit him." That was essentially what the two of them settled upon. Though Tsushima had never met him before, they reasoned that approaching him together would likely secure his consent. So they immediately headed to Kuno’s modest boarding house in Oiwake.

At that moment, Kuno was indeed working on his third apprentice piece—a rather substantial play—just as he had claimed. On the desk, the manuscript he had hurriedly hidden upon seeing the two visitors arrive protruded from beneath some books. When the brief exchange of student pleasantries concluded, Kubota glanced at the desk and suddenly addressed Kuno, who was still trying to discern what business had brought these two visitors.

“The truth is,” “we’re suddenly short a crew member for the racing boat. I need you to take the coxswain’s seat—will you do it?” “This has put us in real trouble.”

Kuno seemed slightly taken aback by the unexpected request but, smiling up at Kubota’s sunburned face, said: “That’s quite an abrupt and peculiar proposition you’ve brought in.” "But you don’t need to drag me into this—there must still be others available." “Someone like me’s no good.”

“But there’s no one else left—that’s why we came to you. When we went to Tsushima here just now, he said he’s too busy with his thesis and wedding to do it. So the two of us concluded you were our only option and made a special trip to recruit you. I’m begging you—please join us.” “I’m busy writing a script myself, you know. I’ve already promised Kawata Toshiro from Teibun that I’d absolutely submit it this month.” “Well now, your thing isn’t exactly what you’d call a matter of lifelong importance, is it?”

"But for me right now, this is at least a bigger problem than taking a wife," Kuno said, turning toward Tsushima, who sat quietly laughing. Tsushima's cheeks colored faintly as he finally broke his silence.

“Please don’t say that—do join us. Mr. Kubota here is at his wit’s end, as you see. Without a full roster, the others can’t commit properly to practice. And really—rowing competitions become quite engaging once you try them. Training camp life is an experience you can’t possibly have unless you’re still a student. There’s absolutely no downside for you in trying it. I’ll stake my word on that.”

“Exactly.” Kubota, gaining momentum from this, added his voice. “Especially for someone engaged in creative work like you.” “You should experience this sort of communal living once in a while.” “Training camp life is fundamentally simple, primal, and fascinating.” “A kind of bestial existence, if you will.” “You really ought to try it at least once.” “Well, it’s not that I lack curiosity,” replied Kuno. “But considering I’m midway through this script, and my coxing experience being ancient history...” “Someone like me could never pass for a proper Liberal Arts athlete.”

“That’s no problem at all,” said Kubota, finally sensing Kuno’s resistance beginning to waver. “There’s no need to worry about that point.”

“That’s absolutely no problem at all,” Tsushima added after Kubota.

“Since you’ve got a Sumida River kappa like Kubota here, you should just leave everything to him.” “A kappa wouldn’t get swept away by the river, now would he?” said Kuno, intending it as a witty retort. “If you don’t join as crew, we’ll be swept away,” said Kubota, drawn into Kuno’s rhythm as he cracked an uncharacteristic joke. “Truly, we’re on the brink of being swept away. So please—as they say, a drowning man will clutch at even a straw,” Tsushima chimed in with this abrupt remark.

“So you’re saying you’ll use me as your straw,” Kuno kept laughing. “Don’t go regretting it was useless after you’ve grabbed hold.” “I’ll be fine—please, I’m counting on you to help.” “Well then, I suppose I’ll reluctantly become your straw for this occasion. However, the others will probably say Kuno’s started showing his heckling nature again.” “So what if they say it? It doesn’t matter.” “Well, that’s fine. They say an artist’s first step lies in stirring curiosity about everything, you know.”

“Absolutely. Absolutely,” Tsushima pressed, worried Kuno might back out again. “So you’ll join us then?” “I’m still weighing it,” Kuno replied with deliberate hesitation, bowing his head slightly. “This script’s half-written, after all.” “When do you expect to finish?” “I should wrap it up by the 15th.” “Then start with us on the 16th—please. That gives twenty-five full days of proper training.”

“Then if I can finish writing by the 15th, I suppose I’ll join.”

“Very well.” “Thank you.” This finally put his mind at ease. “Well then, we’ll be going on a four-day training row to Sawara starting tomorrow, so please finish your writing during that time.” “Alright, I’ll try writing at full throttle!”

Through all this, Kuno found himself taking part in the rowing competition as the Liberal Arts coxswain.

II

The training lodge was located behind a restaurant called Torikane near Kototoi. Across the road stood geisha houses both in front and alongside. Next door beyond a high fence lived what appeared to be a mistress in an elegant two-story house. Mornings sometimes carried her clear voice giving instructions to a maid. Yet she never once revealed herself before they left the lodge. At nine each morning when their side opened second-floor shutters, sunlight silhouetted women dusting across the way—squinting toward them with faint smiles. Rarely came remarks like “How dreadfully early you rise.” Rainy days brought five courtesans practicing shamisen together. Shrill apprentice voices carried through frosted glass where dancing shadows flickered. Eventually these novices began visiting camp themselves. “My,” one proclaimed with practiced maturity, “students do love their grand boasts.” ...To Kuno it all coalesced into discord—this jarring world of mismatched tranquility.

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 tanned everyone’s faces were. He simply couldn’t believe that four days under such gentle early spring sunlight could have darkened them this much. When Kuno entered, those six sun-browned faces uniformly turned his way and, with an “Oh!”, began eating their meal. Kubota began recounting their long-distance rowing experience. “After all, we had four straight days of good weather. Spring sun tans you much worse.” “Partly because we got careless exposing our faces to the sun, and partly because once you start browning gradually like that, it doesn’t fade quickly,” he explained. Kuno waited with a vaguely improper feeling as everyone ate their meal. Hayakawa, who was rowing in the second seat, mumbled excuses while placing his seventh bowl before the maid right in front of Kuno. And what’s more, he put five or six eggs into the beef hot pot and ate them. However, Kuno immediately sensed that beneath their guileless conversation and animalistic appetites flowed a peculiar kind of artless camaraderie among the group.

After meals, everyone gathered in one room and chatted. Conversations about women were exchanged with surprisingly little embellishment, though the main discussions centered on blunders during long-distance rows and practice anecdotes. Amidst these exchanges, beneath jokes like "I won't make my grandchildren row crew" and "I never want to touch an oar again in my life," they voiced complaints about the hardships of practice. Captain Kubota listened silently with a smile. He then told them stories like how he himself had once tried to run away from training camp during high school because he couldn't endure the grueling practices, only to get caught midway. "It's grueling now, but soon it'll become enjoyable," his downcast eyelids and sun-darkened face seemed to say.

At first glance, everyone seemed to have blended seamlessly together. Asanuma’s departure must have brought about a feeling in everyone that all foreign elements had been removed, creating an even greater sense of camaraderie among them. The minor discords likely quieted their breath along with the departure of the major discord. Everything was carried out according to Captain Kubota's orders. Kubota never explicitly voiced this as an order, but through years of experience, he simply began doing it himself in silence. Then the other rowers began following his lead without any conscious awareness that they were moving under orders, exactly as Kubota intended. Behind Kubota’s listlessly drooping eyelids were silently concealed countless schemes pregnant with victory. But he never voiced a single word of it. He never uttered a single word of encouragement to the other rowers. And he patiently waited for them to begin showing spontaneous signs of motivation on their own. His demeanor carried a certain veteran-like air.

As ten o'clock approached, they each did five minutes of back exercises and then sank into a healthy sleep. Only Kuno remained awake for a long time. He still hadn't finished writing his script. So he decided to bring the draft to the training lodge's second floor to work on it. And so he ultimately resolved to publish the fourth act in its unfinished draft form. As it was past twelve, he too went to bed. The music and singing from neighboring houses that had been quite boisterous until moments ago had ceased, and what sounded like a factory whistle somewhere nearby along the Sumida River began echoing through the night. When he strained his ears—whether real or imagined—he seemed to hear the sound of a night sailboat crossing the river surface. While dozing off, they began pounding tomorrow's rice cakes at the Kototoi Dango factory a few houses down. Yet only Kuno lay awake tossing and turning in bed, bothered by the noise. He envied the others' healthy sleep and vigorous vitality. However, starting tomorrow, he could indeed live without those sickly pale traces like them, and this pleasant anticipation began emerging in his heart.

After all, trying out this kind of life hadn't been so bad after all. He muttered this while forcing his head down onto the pillow once…… Practice began around ten in the morning. They slept leisurely, finished breakfast at their ease, and went to the barge where the boats were moored. The Agricultural department had already gone out. The Engineering department’s boat wasn’t moored either—they must have rowed upstream as far as Senju for practice. The Law department too had pushed off. Only the Medical and Liberal Arts boats remained until the end each morning. These two departments often found themselves together at the barge.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Nishikawa, a tall man rowing third seat for the Medical department who’d known Kubota since their high school days, addressed him. “Slump’s hitting hard,” Kubota said. “Those Ag bastards have been out since eight.” “Typical Liberal Arts – always taking it easy.”

“What are you talking about? Isn’t your team about to head out now too?” “We do thirty minutes of running every morning to strengthen our thighs, then sleep an hour before coming here. It’s different from your leisurely approach.” “I’m following nature’s rhythm. Never push beyond natural limits.” “Hmph. Naturalism in rowing? Make sure your ‘natural way’ doesn’t get you beaten. This year’s Agricultural department’s formidable. Physically they’re tops among the five departments. Plus they’ve got two third-dan judo practitioners.”

“Judo won’t help you row a racing shell.” “Well physically speaking, we’re the most inferior.” “But well, you never know how competitions will turn out after all.” “At any rate, let’s both do our best.” “Yeah.”

Conversations like this were often exchanged between the two of them. The Law and Medical departments always exchanged friendly words with our side. However, they did not exchange a single word with the Engineering department, which belonged to the same academic division system as the Agricultural department.

It was past mid-March, but the water surface remained shrouded in mist, carrying a lingering chill. When the northern sky cleared, the wind blew and created waves on the river surface. As the warmth of spring drew nearer, the number of boats descending the Sumida gradually increased. And lately, the racing shells from various schools weaving through them grew remarkably numerous.

Having finished our first power rowing session, in our shell anchored at Dairen Bay beside the water deity, Kubota—who had been resting under piled clothing—gazed at the red flag on the stern of Gakushuin's shell powering past nearby and remarked to Kuno, "The season has truly arrived." From the stern, Kuno offered an ambiguous "Mm" in response while gazing entranced at the broad expanse of river stretching from Kanegafuchi to the mouth of the Ayase River. Various boats passed before their eyes. A white racing shell glided across the opposite side. When he suddenly glanced toward the bend leading to Senju, what appeared to be a school racing shell in the distance came rowing down, kicking up water spray.

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

Kubota jerked upright. Taking the binoculars from Kuno’s hand, he urgently scanned the distance. “Yeah—Agricultural department! Agricultural department!” The entire crew snapped to attention simultaneously. Kubota remained glued to the lenses. “They’re power-rowing! Kuno—watch that stopwatch! Ready? They’ve started! One... two... three...” His count began rolling out as Agricultural’s shell maintained relentless strokes downstream. The seven crew members held their breath while observing their rivals’ approach through narrowed eyes. When Kubota reached about a hundred counts, Agricultural’s oars stilled—still distant enough to remain unaware of their observers’ presence. Finally lowering the binoculars, Kubota turned to Kuno: “How long did that take?”

“Three minutes and ten seconds,” Kuno said while looking at the stopwatch.

“Hmm.” “So they’re practicing sets of a hundred power strokes.” “At that pitch, it’d be about thirty-six per minute,” Kubota said, lying back down in the boat as if muttering to himself. “What do you make of their method?” Kuno asked with concern.

“We’ll be fine.” Kubota answered plainly. "But we can barely manage three minutes of power rowing," said Saito from seat four with quiet resolve. “If we add one minute every three days from now on, we’ll easily reach five minutes by race day.” “What part of three minutes gives you the most trouble?” “Once we properly master these three minutes of power rowing, the extra two won’t feel half as difficult by comparison,” Kubota reassured them. A faint spark of determination kindled in everyone’s hearts.

The Agricultural department’s shell continued power rowing past the Liberal Arts crew’s very eyes on several more occasions, buoyed by triumphant confidence. But on days when subjected to such displays, our crew’s practice sessions gained particular momentum. And lately even Kuno—who thought competition outcomes mattered little—had come to be dominated by rather intense hostility. Our boat deliberately eased off when passing the Agricultural department. Even so, they kept their eyes sharp as they watched us pass by—no different from how we observed them. When they had built up sufficient confidence, someone among them said, "Let’s show them how well we can row right before the Agricultural department." However, Kubota stopped them. When it became three days before the competition, he placated everyone by saying they would demonstrate to their heart's content before them then. By that time, the rowing method was finally beginning to solidify according to Kubota’s intentions.

There came a day when something happened. On that day, the Liberal Arts crew unusually brought lunch and decided to attempt practicing by rowing upstream. Kuno and the others performed two power rows before Senju, then switched to light rowing—a low-effort stroke—to ascend toward the hazel tree grove. Then, before they knew it, the Agricultural department’s boat came rowing up from behind. They persistently pursued at the same relentless pace. The Agricultural department must have assumed their rivals would eventually tire out and stop rowing—then they could surge ahead and quickly advance upstream. In that case, the Liberal Arts crew too would be damned if they backed down. They resolved to keep rowing until their opponents stopped. Though it was called light rowing, they continued with efforts approaching power strokes. Their pursuers maintained the same relentless pace. Even so, the distance between the boats steadily widened. They kept rowing, still excited, whispering in hushed voices: “Keep surging past them.” However, at a point just beyond the hazel grove where they exited into the river’s center stood a dredger vigorously clearing the riverbed. Kuno—having never rowed upstream here before—couldn’t discern which side was deeper. Thinking the nearer path best, he steered the shell to the dredger’s left side only to immediately run aground on a shoal. Everyone frantically tried reversing oars, but the boat—driven deep into mud by their desperate momentum—wouldn’t budge an inch. Though frustrating, since excessive panic would create an undignified spectacle, they reluctantly called a halt. During this time, the Agricultural department’s boat passed swiftly by on their right side about three boat lengths away—shouting exhortations like “Thirty more strokes! Go!” as they surged past. They all gnashed their teeth watching them go. “Damn it all!” “Damn it!” someone shouted. Kuno apologized before everyone: “I’m sorry—I’m sorry.”

However, deep down, everyone fell silent, each wondering if this wasn’t an omen of defeat.

Had it not been for the heartening fact that when their close compatriots from the Law department’s shell challenged them to a race that afternoon—a challenge met with renewed determination as they executed three minutes of power rowing to overtake the Law crew by half a boat length—that morning’s grounding incident might have remained an indelible mark of shame persisting until competition day. Yet this victory over the Law department—whose usual superiority rendered any contest meaningless—even if merely during practice, instilled in the crew their first genuine conviction of triumph.

“What frustrating opponents,” said Ono, rowing in seat two of the Law department’s boat, turning toward us when the rowing practice had ended and the two boats were resting side by side.

“How about that? This is how it’s done!” Kubota boasted. “Your boat’s like a torpedo boat—lanky but fast,” said Ibaraki from the Law crew’s bow seat, nicknamed “Cop” for his knack with trivial matters. Everyone felt quite cheerful. They stored the boat in the boathouse with unusual vigor. For dinner, Kubota exceptionally allowed each member about two gō of sake as reward—open drinking during training camp being truly unprecedented. Until now, rowers like Hayakawa in seat two had secretly imbibed without reprimand. But Kubota would impose six-to-seven-minute continuous rows the next day—leaving drinkers suffering while abstainers stayed unaffected. Through this they first grasped alcohol’s harm during practice. Yet today they all drank unreservedly, if moderately. Slightly tipsy, they began declaring, “We must win! No way we’ll lose after such effort!” Kubota leaned silently against a wall watching their fervor grow. His face held a satisfied smile saying without words: “Everything’s falling into place as I planned.”

A couple of days later, the Law department came challenging again, nursing their frustration. At that time, we did a four-minute power row and lost by about half a boat length. However, the fact that we could now go toe-to-toe with the Law department was undeniable. And everyone was quite satisfied with that.

III

The day of the rowing competition drew steadily nearer.

About a week prior, there had been a rowing meet at Gakushuin. At this event, the Liberal Arts and Agricultural departments were scheduled to participate as guests in a mixed crew race. This "mixed" format involved exchanging the middle positions—third and fourth seats—between opposing teams. It marked the first formal face-to-face encounter between the rivals. Both shells waited together at the pontoon for their turn, athletes exchanging greetings with familiar faces from shared high school days before drifting into conversations utterly divorced from rowing matters. Kubota, the Liberal Arts team's training coordinator, had once been close friends with Takasaki—the Agricultural department's coxswain—through their shared middle school years and subsequent enrollment at First Higher School. Yet since their high school days, frequent placement on opposing sides had bred an unspoken distance between them; now their interactions never progressed beyond discussing excursion plans. They conversed in their regional dialect, their exchanges fraught with peculiar undercurrents—utterances like "Rather colder than usual this year, hasn't it?" being their only safe common ground.

They exchanged innocuous remarks like “It’s been colder than usual this year,” using their regional dialect. Even when their conversation strayed to matters of boats, they praised their opponents with frosty courtesy while affectively downplaying their own capabilities. Their exchanges followed a ritualized pattern—“We’re hopeless,” “No, my side’s worse”—each insisting on their own inferiority with theatrical modesty. Amidst these formalities, every participant from both crews managed to share a few words. Mutual surprise arose at discovering their adversaries’ unexpected agreeableness—what they’d presumed as natural animosity revealed itself as institutionalized suspicion between factions rather than personal sentiment. The sensitive fourth-seat rower Saito would later confess that after completing his stroke and hearing the opposing coxswain’s “Fine work today,” he felt all prior hostility “wash away into the Sumida’s currents.”

However, even during this time, Captain Kubota and his crew never neglected to observe their rivals' stroke rate and rowing techniques. He decided to test how much rowing power the opposing middle position rower in his boat possessed during the race by abruptly increasing the stroke rate with full force in the final stretch. And he came to understand these opponents were not to be taken lightly. In that competition, the five-man boat from the Liberal Arts contingent containing Kuno and Kubota emerged victorious. Kuno obtained his first opportunity to attempt steering the helm along the race course.

From around that day onward, their practice sessions grew increasingly intense. The seniors would frequently come to encourage the rowers and even acted as spies themselves to measure the rival athletes' stroke power. One day, Kuno asked a senior named Mizuhara to take the helm and went out himself on a spy mission. After crossing the Ayase ferry crossing, he concealed himself among the dried reeds on the opposite bank and waited for the Agricultural department’s boat to come rowing downstream. Assailed by a strange, tense uneasiness, he settled onto the damp ground and crouched in the sunset’s glow. Before him lay the broad expanse of Kanegafuchi, where the Sumida River waters from Senju made one undulating curve as they flowed downstream. Several sails and boats glided quietly past before his eyes. On the opposite bank, the red wall of the spinning mill flared into brilliance under the sun, blazing fiercely. He gazed beyond it at the distant eastern sky—unusually clear for spring—and further still at the boundless heavens high above, tinged with pale yellow. For a while, he was so absorbed in the feeling of beholding something rare that he lost himself, but suddenly recalling his mission, he peered upstream. Then, before he knew it, upstream from Kanegafuchi’s steamship dock, what appeared to be the Agricultural department’s boat lay at rest. When he hurriedly took out the telescope and looked, the coxswain’s distinctive black mantle came clearly into view at the bottom of the lens. He suddenly ducked into the reeds, scanned his surroundings, and smiled. Unaware that one of their enemies was watching them here, they began to move. With the coordinated stroke, six yellow oars spread open and entered the water. Kuno held a stopwatch in one hand and pressed a telescope to his eye with the other, holding his breath. After rowing a few practice strokes to warm up, they were now about to shift into power rowing. “Let’s go!” said the coxswain’s voice with perfect clarity in Kuno’s ears. He hurriedly pressed the stopwatch’s button. The needle began ticking off the seconds with mechanical precision.

One, two, three… The enemy boat cut through the water, rowing vividly past a spot about a hundred meters before his eyes. He could clearly see up to where the third seat rower made a splash, sending water flying up with an oar. He saw nothing but the enemy boat cutting straight across the river surface grazed by the sunset. One minute, two minutes, three minutes... At last they stopped rowing. Kuno double-checked the enemy’s start and stop positions, then firmly committed to memory both the number of strokes rowed and the elapsed time. And he let out a relieved breath as he stood up, feeling a peculiar satisfaction.

When Kuno crossed the ferry satisfied and went to the steamship dock on the opposite bank，a senior from the Law department stood there. “Well，if it isn’t our spy．Did you see those Agricultural department men power rowing for three minutes from here？” he asked． Kuno laughed and nodded．

The next evening, the Liberal Arts boat deliberately adjusted their return time earlier to attempt three minutes of power rowing along the same course at the same hour as the Agricultural department had done the previous day. And they realized the enemy boat performed better than anticipated. Kuno somehow felt that their own boat was being spied on by someone and meticulously scanned both banks with his telescope. However, there was no one who seemed to fit that description. The area where Kuno had hidden yesterday now showed nothing but dimly visible yellow reeds under the overcast sky that had set in since evening.

As the season now fully arrived, rowing competitions were successively held by institutions such as Kōshō and Meiji. When matters reached this stage, victory and defeat no longer felt like another's concern. The university departments too had begun rowing along the race course. The Liberal Arts department managed to reach their planned five minutes of power rowing, and from three days before the competition began practicing on the official course. With things this pressing, neither tears nor shouts could bridge the gap. Thus they would row the race channel fair and square under public scrutiny. Jeers clustered along the embankment. They measured and compared allies' and enemies' rowing strength. Gradually something called 'embankment appraisals' took form. These initially leaned decisively toward certain Agricultural department victory. Yet now when observed, the situation showed signs of shifting toward acknowledging that Liberal Arts athletes couldn't be easily dismissed.

Kuno and Kubota were restless. They wanted to row as skillfully as possible to build their own confidence while staging a demonstration for their rivals. The time their opponents had rowed was being measured by seniors and supporters along the embankment. That day, the Liberal Arts crew attempted their row through dusk's fading light about ten minutes after the Agricultural team finished. It took five minutes and fifteen seconds. Everyone grew disheartened at the unexpectedly long time, wilting as they finally put their boat away last into the boathouse. Then seniors from shore and Tsushima came through the door radiant with triumph.

“We’re fine. We’ve already won,” they said in unison. It turned out that despite the Agricultural department having better conditions, their time had exceeded five minutes and twenty seconds. Just as everyone was about to continue explaining loudly in detail, one crew member suddenly noticed someone eavesdropping at the boathouse entrance and quietly warned the others. In a quick-witted scheme, Kuno deliberately announced loud enough for all to hear: “Oh, there’s nothing to worry about. They started five seconds earlier—our conditions were just worse.” The figure standing in the boathouse doorway’s shadows was almost certainly Takasaki, the Agricultural department’s coxswain.

Amidst such developments, the rowing competition was drawing ever closer.

IV

The day of the regatta had come. The sky cleared beautifully from morning onward. The caretaker from the school office arrived early to plant a pale gold flag before their riverside lodge. It stood glaringly ceremonial. The oarsmen were meant to take their shell out for one trial row around eight that morning. They boarded with uncharacteristic solemnity. Yet their craft slid forward with its usual liquid ease. Then came Kubota's unprecedented order—a pause beneath Komatsunomiya Villa. As they drifted there, passing bargemen erupted in sudden uproar. Peering through oar-glare they saw it—a blackish mass floating nine meters off between hulls. "A floater!" cried the watermen. "A bloater!" rose their shouts. What showed itself proved merely some stake-like debris. Still Kuno—prone to superstition at such moments—declared they'd won that day; none could deny how his words seeded disquiet instead of confidence.

Therefore, they engaged in three minutes of power rowing from beneath Shirahige Bridge and proceeded to Dairen Bay. Before they knew it, true spring had arrived on the shore there. In the garden of what appeared to be a factory owner’s residence next door, camellias had burst into bloom. Around Suijin, the cherry blossoms were already scattering wildly. Someone said, “This’ll be our last look at this place too.” It was an ordinary remark, but everyone masked their emotion of the moment with laughter. And they each gazed at the oil-like surface of the river, the blue-tinged reeds on the far bank, and the hazy gas holder in Senju.

“How’s everyone’s condition holding up? Did you all sleep well last night?” Kubota asked the crew. Then he added, “I really slept well myself.” It later emerged that he had been suffering from a recurring middle ear infection that night and had barely slept at all. Yet fearing a collapse in morale, he had told this groundless lie.

Around noon, teachers and supporters began arriving sporadically. The rowers were supposed to take a nap, but they kept chatting cheerfully with these visitors. Yet regarding the competition itself, they refrained from self-praise. “This year’s crew is strangely not going about declaring ‘We’ll win, we’ll win,’” “Those athletes before kept saying ‘We’re all set’ only to lose—this year’s team, the sort that doesn’t boast, might actually prevail,” remarked the teacher who had come to cheer, intending it as praise.

However, now that it had come to this, the actual outcome was no longer in the athletes' minds. There existed an even stronger demand in each of their hearts. It was the hope that the moment would arrive as soon as possible when things would be settled one way or another, allowing them to escape this unbearable tension. The true outcome mattered not at all; what each of them desperately desired was simply this relaxation of emotion.

When afternoon came, the wind began to blow under clear skies, making the flags on the support boats flap noisily. Fairly rough waves formed on the race course.

But just as the Bunno rowing competition was about to begin, an unusual evening calm settled in.

All the athletes put on birch-colored uniforms in the tatami room of the sakura mochi shop within Chomeiji. That made Kuno feel as though his whole body had tensed up. They had left there fifteen minutes before four. Because if they weren't moored by four o'clock sharp, they would be excluded from the competition. On the embankment, spectators made way for the athletes clad in birch-colored uniforms with a mixture of respect and curiosity. The Liberal Arts boat was first to depart from the pontoon amid applause. Kubota and his crew began rowing at a more relaxed pace than usual. Then they executed about thirty practice strokes. At that moment Mizuhara in seat three somehow produced one massive splash. A faint shadow fell across everyone's faces.

“Let’s get all our mistakes out now so we don’t make them during the race,” Kuno said in that split second to encourage Mizuhara, who had momentarily succumbed to pessimism. They rowed about twenty more strokes with a “do-over” mindset and moored to the rope extended from the judge’s boat. Next came the Agricultural department’s boat being moored.

From the boat house, embankment, and support ships arose a chaotic chorus of "Liberal Arts ah! Agricultural department ah! Birch ah!" Voices shouting “Purple!” and other cries became tangled as they rose. The judge’s boat towed the two shells toward the starting point. The rowers were all lying down inside the boat. Kuno fumbled with the rudder lines while trying to gauge the volume of cheers. It still seemed like the Agricultural department had more supporters. By the washing area stood Kuno’s friends Matsuda and Narasawa. The two said, “Kuno, do your best!” and waved their hats. Kuno took off his birch-colored hat while laughing. “Red! Blue!” Amidst generic cheers like these, this phrase directed solely at him stirred in Kuno a brief, strange, wistful, sentimental feeling. At that moment, Kuno’s senses became terrifyingly acute; it seemed he could distinctly recognize every face and discern every voice along both banks. And amidst the teeming black-clad spectators, he could clearly distinguish Matsuda’s dark-complexioned round face from Narasawa’s pale slender features. Downstream from the ferry landing, one or two Agricultural department support boats were positioned at each strategic point. The Liberal Arts athletes listened to the cheers rising from their opponents' boats with forlorn hearts. Amidst all the cheering uproar, there lingered a melancholy void. Perhaps the tension in their own hearts had made them perceive it that way——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 truly calmed. It kept blowing from the northeast, warping the bow leftward. To correct this drift, Kuno repeatedly had the second seat make slight oar adjustments. Departing with a skewed bow would only worsen their natural tendency to pull toward Asakusa bank. Should they stray from the channel into shallows today, their speed would surely stall. Each time their boat shifted at the judges' stand ashore came shouts of "Keep oars clear!"—leaving Kuno taut with nerves. Soon the "Ready" command rang out. A sudden gust twisted the bow once more. "Fine then—let fate decide," Kuno thought, eyelids sealing shut.

The starting gun resounded across the river. Though the interval between “Ready” and the starting gun had been a mere instant, to Kuno it felt excruciatingly long. The oars of both boats entered the water simultaneously. In Kuno’s eyes, there existed nothing but the enemy boat, their own boat ahead, and the white-glinting waterway stretching before them. Kuno’s boat hadn’t gotten off to a good start. This won’t do. “Everyone panicked,” Kubota and Kuno thought simultaneously. When he looked at the enemy boat, their first and second seats indeed seemed to be ahead. “Steady!” shouted Kubota. Kuno relayed those words to the entire boat once more in an even louder voice. Their rhythm finally began to synchronize. “We’re overtaking them by half a boat length!” shouted the Agricultural department coxswain, notorious for heckling rival boats during races. Kuno instantly countered with a roar: “That’s a lie!” Kuno, who had remained silent until now, felt as if the tension in his mouth had suddenly loosened once he uttered those words, becoming terrifyingly eloquent. Before long, the Agricultural department’s third seat made one large splash. A spray of water shot up vividly. Kuno, as if seizing the opportunity, shouted, “We did it! Look at that huge splash they made!” Both those who had seen it and those who hadn’t found renewed vigor in these words. The enemy boat, instead, fell silent after being jeered by Kuno. Finally, the two boats drew even.

And before the water gate, the Liberal Arts department was leading by approximately half a boat length. “They’re already spent!” the Agricultural department coxswain retorted defiantly. Kuno shot back, “What do you mean? We’re the ones ahead!” Yet mentally, he hadn’t the slightest capacity for such verbal sparring. As they approached the water gate, Kuno shouted ahead of their rivals: “Here’s the water gate!” Preemptively calling out locations every coxswain would inevitably announce formed its own tactical advantage—the crew that declared first would reach each marker sooner. Belatedly, the Agricultural department executed ten special power strokes at the water gate. The boats drew even again. There’s something about being overtaken from behind that makes one feel perpetually laggard. Kuno’s boat seemed inexplicably slower than usual. Kubota compared stroke rates with the rival craft, thinking This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. After a tense interval, the Liberal Arts boat gradually edged forward once more. “Maintain this rhythm!” Kuno barked. Silence gripped the Agricultural department’s vessel. Now their ten power strokes at the ferry landing held no sway over us. Watching their efforts through slitted eyes, Kubota finally relaxed enough to increase the pace.

At the washing area, they were leading by more than half a boat length. However, a mere half-boat-length lead there would prove useless if their rivals’ final heavy strokes took effect. Kuno shouted, “One minute left. “You can drop dead afterward for all I care!” he urged. The phrase “One minute left”—a command they’d grown accustomed to during practice—did more than anything to boost the rowers’ spirits. After all, they should be able to keep rowing for one minute no matter how spent they were.

Everyone grew tired. Then strangely, the boat started moving smoothly. When fatigue set in on the Liberal Arts boat, each rower shed their individual idiosyncrasies as their collective rhythm fell into unison. Their cooperation truly equalized for the first time at this moment. Following Kubota's oar, they all rocked their bodies forward and back like clockwork. The Agricultural department's final push came through impressively. Yet while Kuno was still assessing their effort, the Liberal Arts crew's heavy strokes showed remarkable effectiveness. Through years of seasoned experience, Kubota's stroke rate climbed steadily. “Ten more!” The approach to the finish line felt excruciatingly drawn out. Kuno found himself wondering—what if they crossed into the winning zone but the judges' signal gun didn't sound?

In that instant, the starting gun rang out. Everyone stopped rowing and threw themselves down inside the boat in unison.

And for the first time, Kuno heard the tempestuous cheers resounding across the water. The cheers had roared ceaselessly since they approached the finish line, yet none had reached his ears until now.

“Which side won?” Second Seat Hayakawa uttered in a desperate voice through labored breaths.

“Rest assured. It’s us,” Kuno answered.

However, Kuno himself hadn’t been certain of their victory. And he could not feel relieved until he saw the birch-colored flag raised at the judges’ stand.

The cheers still continued. The unprecedented closeness of the match had driven even neutral spectators into frenzy. “Kubota, shall we bring the boat ashore?” Kuno said.

“Wait now.”

“You can go even slower. “Since things like this hardly ever happen, why don’t we take our time savoring this feeling of victory?” Kubota answered. And the boat continued to drift quietly upon the water amidst the still-raging whirlwind of cheers.

At that moment, Kuno suddenly looked at the Agricultural department’s boat. It had now been brought to shore. And from within the boat, jeerers were helping up the defeated athletes and making them go ashore. The large third-seat rower leaned on the shoulders of two jeerers and was carried away while wiping away tears. Whether they were feigning it or genuinely immobilized, they had exhausted themselves to the point of being unable to stand unaided.

What a stark difference in emotions that mere half-boat-length gap had created. In temporal terms, it amounted to no more than half a second. Spatially, it measured under three and a half meters—barely two ken by traditional reckoning. Viewed against the entire waterway’s expanse, it constituted less than a hundredth fraction. This sliver of separation with its terrifying consequence—from what origin did it spring? Had Captain Kubota truly planned for each oar stroke to yield such cumulative variance? Could even Kuno himself believe their scant daily practice advantages had borne this disparity? What if any of our rowers had missed a single stroke? The victory’s tally might have flipped instantaneously. Had Kuno erred slightly in steering? Their boat could have been overtaken in a breath. Truly, this outcome balanced on a knife’s edge. "Regardless—we did win," Kuno thought, still watching the rival boat recede behind them.

In the meantime, support boats rowed in from all directions. The athletes finally began to feel their victory as if revived. The emotions that victory brings are truly the most strangely complex among all those that exist. Kuno thought. The setting sun grazed the waterway where the battle had just taken place. Kuno looked again with curiosity at that scene and at the uniform faces of supporters who had rowed up near the spectators on shore.

V

That night, following the usual custom, there was a victory celebration at Tokiwa Kadan. Several hours had already passed since the rowing competition. Thus, each athlete now possessed enough composure to recall those tense moments from the past and articulate them coherently. As alcohol began circulating, even those who until then had attributed their victory to external factors now hurried to recount their own contributions. It began to seem that each exaggerated telling of their battle exploits was necessary to deepen their sense of triumph and revel in its joy. Thus each member approved others' embellishments to have their own exaggerations validated. By the time the gathering concluded, a splendid chronicle of their battle had already taken shape. All chance occurrences came to bear an air of inevitability. Then every event came to be recalled as an auspicious sign. They appeared to take greater pleasure in recounting their victory than in having won the rowing competition itself.

The listeners, feeling they ought to listen cheerfully lest they wrong the athletes, were not entirely free from a tendency to encourage this. Kuno repeatedly drained glasses of cold sake as he strained to maintain a detached observation of the scene. Yet he too was someone who needed intoxication to speak of victory.