You Can't Win Them All

To get from Rebun to Sasebo, my next destination requires a travel feat of near biblical proportions. First, you must catch the last ferry from Rebun to the mainland, a not particularly difficult feat when front door delivered to the ferry terminal. The afternoon ferry is subject to the afternoon and evening storms that regularly roll off the ocean into Wakkanai Bay. I combat the roll and pitch of the waves by sleeping through most of the trip, knowing that if I was awake I would be wrapped around a toilet. In this way, I pass the two hour ride.

We arrive too late for me to catch a train from Wakkanai to Sapporo, which is bad because my flight leaves at 1000 tomorrow morning, and it is at least a six hour train ride back. The ticket vendor sees me begin to slip into panic and holds a hand out. "No train – Bus."

I let out a long breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

The night bus to Sapporo leaves at 2300, and arrives at 0500. I kill the six hours waiting by reading on my tablet and answering emails. When I finally climb aboard the bus, I realize that my life is about to become an utterly miserable odyssey of uncomfortable seats, wide eyed insomnia, and occasional slips into not quite sleep.

Significantly the worse for wear, I arrive at Sapporo station. It is raining as I rush, bleary eyed, from the bus station to the train station. Somewhere between getting off the bus and getting tickets, my watch disappears. Ticket to the airport in hand, with less than twenty minutes left, I scour the area for my watch and eventually find it outside at the bus station. My outdoor search has drenched me, but the satisfaction of finding my watch pushes my frayed morale back to optimism. Maybe I'll sleep on the plane.

Now back inside the train station, I pass a short Japanese man with what can only be described as a balding mohawk. He stares at me as I pass, and I stare right back at him, thinking about how weird he looks. Something about his gaze makes me uncomfortable, but I am too tired and too happy to have my watch back to think much of it.

A minute later, standing on the platform waiting for my train, I spot him again. Staring at me. Again. I lock eyes with him and acknowledge his presence with a nod. He seems to take this as leave to come over. Passing in front of me, I brace myself for another conversation in broken Japanenglish. This is not what happens.

He stops an arm’s length away, looking at me. Then creeps closer. And closer. I open my mouth, and am halfway through a "Can I help you?" when he presses himself up against me, puts a hand on my thigh and starts upward.

I'm not sure how fast neurons travel, or how long it takes a command to get from the brain to the rest of the body, but I assume it is somewhere in between the speed of sound and the speed of light, both of which are fast, but not fast enough. I shove him back, harder than I meant to, and wish fervently that I knew the Japanese for "No." English will have to do.

He looks surprised, and scared. I outweigh him by at least sixty pounds, and the look on my face was hardly friendly. He puts both hands up and makes what sounds like an apology, while vacating the area as fast as his legs can carry him. I blink, at first unable to process what has just happened to me. After a second, I notice two middle aged Japanese women trying to hide their mirth. Intellectually, I realize that I should feel something about this, but at that point, I had been awake for roughly twenty four hours, my body moving through space for nearly all of those.

I begin to laugh too. At me, at him, at the whole situation, it seemed like the only response.

An hour train ride gets me to the airport. My flight departs on time, and I am on it. An attempt at sleep while waiting for the plane ends in futility, and once in flight, I close my eyes and pray that the Gods, any God, will let me sleep. Unfortunately, the plane ride is just as uncomfortable as the bus ride, and the Gods and I don't talk enough for them to take requests. After a short transfer in Tokyo, I arrive at Nagasaki airport at 1600. It has been nearly 18 hours since I left Wakkanai – another 18 since climbing to the top of the bluffs near Wakkanai. I have stayed up for this long before, at OCS, but I'm out of practice and fried from traveling alone and all that has happened.

Nagasaki Airport is a bit of a lie, as it sits nearly an hour and a half's bus ride away from Nagasaki. My objective is not Nagasaki, but rather Sasebo, its neighbor, two hours to the north. My friend Marty is stationed at the Naval base there and has offered me free lodging. I jumped at the chance to see one of my closest friends.

In my rush to make it to Sasebo to arrive at our pre-agreed meeting point, I catch the wrong bus and end up in Nagasaki proper. I am too tired to be anything but resigned to tardiness. A two hour train ride to Sasebo gets me there three hours late. I sit in a coffee shop and try to contact Marty over facebook messenger, my only resource since getting a temporary mobile phone in Japan requires something of a minor miracle.

After an hour, I give up, find the nearest English speaking person, a young Asian woman who is teaching English to a younger Japanese girl, and ask to borrow her cell phone. She readily agrees, and asks me if I’m here on Navy business. I laugh a little bit. Apparently, despite the beard, hair and civilian clothes, I look like a military man.

My phone call to Marty is short. "You were coming in today? I thought it was Friday. I'm on duty until tomorrow afternoon."

Oh well. You can't win them all.