Maybe Hiroshi and Kenzo had different ideas. If his sons did, they’d never had the nerve to say anything about them. If he’d sent them out in the sampan while he stayed home and slept, they might have. As things were, his example pulled them along. If he was willing-even eager-to get out of bed before sunrise and head for Kewalo Basin, how could they tell him they didn’t want to? They couldn’t. They hadn’t yet, anyhow.
Some sampans were coming in even as the Oshima Maru put to sea. A few men went fishing by night, trailing lights in the water to lure nehus and the tuna that fed on them. They were first to market with their catch, and so got good prices. But their expenses were higher, too-Jiro didn’t have to worry about a generator or the fuel to run it or light bulbs. The work was harder at night, too, though that fazed him much less than the extra cost did.
He set a tub of minnows down in the bottom of the sampan. A fairy tern swooped down to try to steal some of the little fish. He waved his hat. The white bird with the big black eyes flew off toward Waikiki.
“Waste time, bird!” Hiroshi said. Kenzo laughed. Jiro only shrugged. He got the Oshima Maru ’s engine going. The sampan shook and thudded with the diesel’s vibration. Out to sea they went. The sky had just started turning pale yellow, out there beyond Diamond Head. Pink would follow, and then the sun.
Today, he got out early enough to suit him. He’d cleared the defensive sea area well before sunrise. Today, other old-school fishermen would be complaining about their lazy, good-for-nothing sons. Not even Jiro could find anything wrong with his boys this morning. They’d done everything he wanted, and done it in good time, too.
He didn’t tell them so. He didn’t want them getting swelled heads. Besides, why should he praise them for merely doing what they were supposed to do? If he did, then they’d want praise for every little thing. They’d expect it, but they’d be disappointed. He wasn’t the sort to throw praise around. He never had been, and he never would be.
They chattered back and forth in incomprehensible English as the Oshima Maru skimmed over the water. When they needed to talk with him, they switched to Japanese. That was almost always pure business. They didn’t waste a lot of time on chitchat with him. This past week, with no progress in the talks in Washington, the impulse to talk had dried up even more than usual. For all his efforts to make them into good Japanese, they saw things from the USA’s point of view.
Jiro looked ahead, trying to spot a good fishing ground. Hiroshi did the same, even if he wasn’t so good at it. Kenzo stared over the sampan’s stern, back in the direction from which they’d come. Jiro almost told his younger son, “Waste time!” but figured he’d be wasting his breath.
Then Kenzo pointed north towards Oahu and spoke one word: “Look!”
The urgency in his son’s voice made Jiro turn around. “Oh, Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed, an oath he used even though he was a Buddhist and Shintoist, not a Christian. Those black clouds on the horizon couldn’t be good news.
“That’s not Honolulu. It’s too far west,” Hiroshi said. “That’s Pearl Harbor. I wonder if some of the ammunition there blew up or something.”
Maybe he would make a proper fisherman one of these days after all. He was dead right about the direction from which the smoke was rising. Kenzo said, “I wish we had a radio on board. Then we’d know what was going on.”
As far as Jiro was concerned, a radio for the boat was more expensive than it was worth. He said, “Whatever’s going on up there, it’s got nothing to do with us. We have a day’s work ahead of us, and we’re going to do it.”
Neither Hiroshi nor Kenzo argued with that. If they’d tried, he would have knocked their heads together, and so what if he would have had to stand on tiptoe to do it? Some things simply needed doing, and he would have done what needed doing here without the least hesitation.
As things were, the Oshima Maru ’s diesel kept pounding away. Most of the smoke to the north vanished below the horizon. Jiro forgot about it. He’d find out what it was when he got home. In the meantime, there were fish to catch. If his sons wanted to go on about Pearl Harbor while they worked, he didn’t mind-as long as they did work.
He steered the sampan to what he thought would be a good spot. Boobies plunged into the sea nearby. That said there were small fish around. Where there were small fish, there could be tuna to feed on them. He killed the motor. The sampan glided to a stop, alone on the Pacific-alone but for that nasty smoke smudge in the north, anyhow. Whatever had happened to Pearl Harbor, it wasn’t anything small.
Again, Jiro made himself shove that aside. He picked up a tub of bait minnows and poured them into the ocean. Away they streaked: little silver darts racing in all directions. “Come on,” he told Hiroshi and Kenzo. “Let’s get the lines in the water and see how we do today.”
The fishing lines followed the bait. To Jiro’s eyes, those big, barbless hooks didn’t look much like minnows. Tuna, fortunately, were less discriminating.
As soon as he and the boys started hauling in the lines, he knew it would be a good day. Fat aku and bigger ahi hung from the hooks like ripe fruit from a branch. Take them off, gut them, store them, throw more minnows in the water to lure more tuna to their doom…
Noon came and passed, and the fishermen hardly even noticed. Most days, Jiro and his sons would break for lunch no matter how things were going. Not today. Today the younger men seemed as much machines as their father. Jiro began to think the weight of fish they were taking might swamp the Oshima Maru. He shrugged broad shoulders. There were worse ways to go.
Kenzo broke the spell about one o’clock, again by pointing north towards Oahu. He said not a word this time, nor did he need to. Those great black greasy clouds spoke for themselves. Even from here, miles away, they boiled high into the sky, swelling and swelling.
Hiroshi whistled softly. “That is something really, really big,” he said. “I wonder if one of the battleships blew up, or if they have a fire in their storage tanks.”
“I wonder how many people are hurt,” Kenzo said. “Something that big, they’re not going to get off for free.”
Jiro Takahashi didn’t say anything. He just eyed the smoke. When the Oshima Maru couldn’t hold another aku, he started the motor and steered the sampan back toward Kewalo Basin. He was not a man to go guessing wildly when he didn’t know. But he wondered whether any accident, no matter how spectacular, could have caused that kind of conflagration. He also wondered what had, what could have, if an accident hadn’t.
Hiroshi pointed east across the water. “There’s another sampan coming in. Maybe they’ll know what’s going on. Will you steer toward them, Father?”
Most of the time, Jiro would have gruffly shaken his head and kept on toward Honolulu. The ever-swelling black clouds to the north, though, were too big and too threatening to ignore. Without a word, he swung the Oshima Maru to starboard.
The other skipper steered his disreputable, blue-painted fishing boat to port. He waved a dirty white cap in the direction of the Oshima Maru and shouted something across the water. Jiro couldn’t make out the words. He cupped a hand behind his ear. The other skipper shouted again. Jiro snorted in disgust. No wonder he couldn’t understand-the other man was speaking English.
“He says, what’s going on at Pearl Harbor?” Kenzo reported.
Hiroshi didn’t hide his disappointment. “I was hoping he’d be able to tell us,” he said in Japanese, then switched to English to yell back at the other sampan. The men on board pantomimed annoyance. They’d wanted to find out what was going on from the Takahashis.