#nanowrimo Day 12: goal is 20004 words, I've written 10349 = 9655 words behind the pace.
You're been watching the sun rise and set in the sea for six days since you left Midway. This particular sunset, all golden and flaming red baroque clouds, you pause on the forward deck at the rail to soak it in. The dark sleek swells, the tufts of wind waves, the earth turning away from the sun. How would you paint this? You ask yourself. Would it be enough, just water and sky? You wonder how to express the lightening fast color effects as red rays bounce through the blues, the greens that flash on the surface of the gloomy ocean, the gold that glows from within each cloud. How your painter brush keep up with the speed of color changes? You would mix a lot of the colors before hand, a fresh brush in each, you would start with a big canvas lashed to the rail, put the paint where ever you see color, let it dance.
A short chubby Chief  Boatswain's Mate leans into your face, "Hey! Mister." He's saying. "Why are you standing on deck out of uniform?"
"What uniform?" you look incredulous.
"Yeah that's just it, with your sleeves rolled up and your hat on the back of your head, you're not in uniform!" The Chief is putting you on report, writing down your name and how many hours of extra duty you'll have to do to make up for the terrible harm to the Navy's honor you've caused by being wrapped up in the glories of the sea, thinking of art rather than minding your unbuttoned sleeves and the angle of your hat - here, a thousand miles from from the closest land.
Churbuck says, "You've got to watch out for those buzzards." His nose looking more like a bird beak than ever.
You think the Navy better not hold its breath waiting for you to give a shit.
"Fuck the Navy!" you say with venom.
You're carrying out your extra duty, swabbing the mess deck when the ship makes land fall and the available crew is out on deck looking. You're excited to be on the other side of the great Pacific. You want to look, "Next time," you say to yourself and pledge to return to Japan the right way, without the Navy.
As you're finishing up, cleaning out the swab, through an open hatch, you see your old boss, Junior, the Second Class Boatswain's Mate, scanning the hills of Tokyo Bay.
"Come out here," Junior calls, "you should see this."
You leave the swab in the sink, step out on deck with him and watch the land pass by. It's a looming, steep-sided mountain, right down to the water. Here, it's not very populated, a few indications of roads, a few buildings, you thrill when you see something clearly Japanese - the curling roof line barely visible at this distance. You know, you've studied the charts, it's a big bay and you're not going all the way in to Tokyo itself, you're going to Yukosuka, this side of Yokohama. You think of the fabulous population density of Tokyo, of Japan as a whole, ten times the population of California living on the same amount of land. The hills, the trees look disappointingly familiar, to you, like those in California. Is this place going to be wonderfully foreign or not.
"You don't see Japan for the first time twice." Junior smiles.
Your Third Class, Churbuck, the Quartermaster and Funke's Third Class, Miller, Signalman, are taking their two strikers, Funke and you ashore. They'll introduce you to Navy life overseas. You've already been talked to by Murphy, the First Class, who paternalistically told you what to expect from Japanese woman you'd meet in Yokosuka bars.
"There will be one you're going to want to go home with," the tall Petty Officer said with the horizon behind him, "and she'll even say that she wants to, but she's never going to take you home. You are not going to bed with her. The bartender is not going to let you leave with her. They know when you have to get back to the ship. They want you there at the bar drinking and buying her drinks that have no alcohol in them and cost more then what you're drinking. That girl is there to keep you drinking and buying. You can get another girl to fuck or to suck you off, but not the girls who work the bar. Those pretty little things who talk sweet to you and promise to leave with you after their shift, aren't going with you, they're not leaving the bar, their shift doesn't end until you're back on board. They're going to keep you there until your money's gone or you've gotta get back to the ship, which ever comes first."
Miller and Funke, Â Churbuck and you walk through the base on a rainy afternoon head into town on a local bus. Much of what you see disappoints you because it doesn't look very Japanese, it looks much like California. You expected the buildings to be upside down or the roads in the air, you expected it to be completely different over here on the other side of the ocean.
The four of you, in your wool dress blue uniforms walk through streets full of US sailors and lined with bars with big lighted signs, in English. You enter a bar Miller knows and all sit at a round table, a girl sits beside each of you.
A short chubby Chief  Boatswain's Mate leans into your face, "Hey! Mister." He's saying. "Why are you standing on deck out of uniform?"
"What uniform?" you look incredulous.
"Yeah that's just it, with your sleeves rolled up and your hat on the back of your head, you're not in uniform!" The Chief is putting you on report, writing down your name and how many hours of extra duty you'll have to do to make up for the terrible harm to the Navy's honor you've caused by being wrapped up in the glories of the sea, thinking of art rather than minding your unbuttoned sleeves and the angle of your hat - here, a thousand miles from from the closest land.
Churbuck says, "You've got to watch out for those buzzards." His nose looking more like a bird beak than ever.
You think the Navy better not hold its breath waiting for you to give a shit.
"Fuck the Navy!" you say with venom.
You're carrying out your extra duty, swabbing the mess deck when the ship makes land fall and the available crew is out on deck looking. You're excited to be on the other side of the great Pacific. You want to look, "Next time," you say to yourself and pledge to return to Japan the right way, without the Navy.
As you're finishing up, cleaning out the swab, through an open hatch, you see your old boss, Junior, the Second Class Boatswain's Mate, scanning the hills of Tokyo Bay.
"Come out here," Junior calls, "you should see this."
You leave the swab in the sink, step out on deck with him and watch the land pass by. It's a looming, steep-sided mountain, right down to the water. Here, it's not very populated, a few indications of roads, a few buildings, you thrill when you see something clearly Japanese - the curling roof line barely visible at this distance. You know, you've studied the charts, it's a big bay and you're not going all the way in to Tokyo itself, you're going to Yukosuka, this side of Yokohama. You think of the fabulous population density of Tokyo, of Japan as a whole, ten times the population of California living on the same amount of land. The hills, the trees look disappointingly familiar, to you, like those in California. Is this place going to be wonderfully foreign or not.
"You don't see Japan for the first time twice." Junior smiles.
Your Third Class, Churbuck, the Quartermaster and Funke's Third Class, Miller, Signalman, are taking their two strikers, Funke and you ashore. They'll introduce you to Navy life overseas. You've already been talked to by Murphy, the First Class, who paternalistically told you what to expect from Japanese woman you'd meet in Yokosuka bars.
"There will be one you're going to want to go home with," the tall Petty Officer said with the horizon behind him, "and she'll even say that she wants to, but she's never going to take you home. You are not going to bed with her. The bartender is not going to let you leave with her. They know when you have to get back to the ship. They want you there at the bar drinking and buying her drinks that have no alcohol in them and cost more then what you're drinking. That girl is there to keep you drinking and buying. You can get another girl to fuck or to suck you off, but not the girls who work the bar. Those pretty little things who talk sweet to you and promise to leave with you after their shift, aren't going with you, they're not leaving the bar, their shift doesn't end until you're back on board. They're going to keep you there until your money's gone or you've gotta get back to the ship, which ever comes first."
Miller and Funke, Â Churbuck and you walk through the base on a rainy afternoon head into town on a local bus. Much of what you see disappoints you because it doesn't look very Japanese, it looks much like California. You expected the buildings to be upside down or the roads in the air, you expected it to be completely different over here on the other side of the ocean.
The four of you, in your wool dress blue uniforms walk through streets full of US sailors and lined with bars with big lighted signs, in English. You enter a bar Miller knows and all sit at a round table, a girl sits beside each of you.
"Kaseko, " your girl says when you ask her name. She looks down, her black hair cut in bangs over her eyebrows, a crooked half smile as your drinks are delivered. She takes a quick sip of her pink drink, then casually rest her hand on your thigh.
"To a great cruise, to these great girls, to us! " Miller's toast gets you all to click glasses and beer bottles.
"Oh! This is my favorite song!" Kaseko seems genuinely excited. "Do you dance?" She looks up at you hopefully. You say, "ok" getting up. She pulls you over to the very small dance floor in front of the jukebox and you two are the only ones dancing to the syrupy pop song. She shakes her hair and sings the Japanese lyrics making a pouty face, her bare arms high above her head, her legs carrying her through an unfamiliar dance pattern. You take one of her hands and lead her through some basic jitterbug dance moves you learned from your mother and practiced on the girls at high school dances.
"Hully Gully!" Kaseko calls out, slipping out of your grip, shaking her hips, her knees bending low, her skirt rising high, arms above her head in the dance.
