Rust streaked down from the anchor hole in the ferry's bow. The only noticeable color in the harbor — a bright-red sun rising out of the gray water — was painted on the side of the white ship. There was no sound except the soft clanging of tools from the crew preparing to cast off.
With a blaring of its horns, the Sun Flower Sapporo pulled out of Oarai harbor on the Pacific coast of Ibaraki Prefecture around 100 km northeast of Tokyo — and sailed straight into a thick, bright cloud of fog.
The passengers were unpacking in the dormitories and cabins below, mostly truckers trying to escape the highways for a night, but also low-level yakuza and a motley crew of people seemingly bent on getting far away as cheaply as possible. And then, of course, there was me. Standing alone with my backpack on the outside deck, I was thinking about what I was doing there.