neauoire/gist:99872ff71bc3bdf3267e9477a0e70aa0

## gistfile1.txt
"A Japanese boat"

In March 2019, Devine & I sailed our Yamaha 33 "Pino" to mainland Japan from Chijijima. Our plan was to get to Wakayama, riding on the back of a passing system, but because the wind turned earlier, we could not reach our planned port. The temperature was 4 °C, and we had a solid 40 knots of wind on the nose. We wanted to land in Omaezaki, but the wind did not permit us to go there either. The port of Shimizu, tucked at the northwestern end of Suruga Bay, was our next option.

Shimizu translates to "fresh water". I experienced that freshness first hand, with freezing waves splashing over the cockpit. The starboard-side lee cloth was hanging by a thread. The diesel bins too, threatened to leap overboard. At that moment, Lin and Larry Pardey's saying that "anything on deck is sacrificial" came to mind. If it wasn't for sea traffic, wind direction and the layout of the coast, we'd ease off, or heave-to, but sailing near land has a way of making everything more dangerous.

To get to Shimizu, Pino had to through where hundreds of ships converge to deliver goods in and out of Tokyo. We had limited maneuverability. If we eased off to the east, we'd miss the entrance, and cut into even busier channels. The AIS alarm started screaming, and did not stop for many hours. We had over 100 targets around us at all times, we never felt so small. The AIS transponder we installed in New Zealand suddenly paid itself off.

After the cargo ships had passed, we began to shift our attention toward Mount Fuji. The sky was clear that day, with no clouds to obscure the giant's snow-capped peak. As we moved deeper into the bay, the waves lessened, but the cold did not. By then, the wind had eased to the West, permitting us to point our bow toward Shimizu. We took turns at the tiller, cocooned in layers of wet woolen clothes.

We began approaching the port late into the evening, by the time we had reached the breakwater, Shimizu port radio hailed us on VHF. "Pino, what is your intention?" They'd seen us on AIS. Despite their broken English we understood them well. "You need an agent if you want to come into port. Do you have an agent?" We did not know what that meant, and said that no, we did not have one. "I'm sorry, you cannot enter Shimizu port."

"They won't let us in." I said to Devine. By then it was dark, and the wind was still howling and we had nowhere else to go.

We had checked into the country via Chichijima, in the Ogasawara Islands. We had all the necessary papers, and had even warned the Japanese Coastguard. "Why would we need an agent?" I said, "this makes no sense!" Devine was outside motoring in circles, frozen and tired. "I'll talk to them." He said, hailed them again. He gave them references of Japanese sailors we'd met in Chichijima, people that could vouch for us. After much deliberating, they allowed us to dock.

The sun had set but the harbor was lit by the glow of a giant ferris-wheel. As we neared the peer, we began to smell the odors of fast-foods and candies. The night would have been quiet if it wasn't for high-pitched cartoon voices echoing through the open doors of a nearby mall. We secured Pino to the concrete pier, following the coordinates given to us by the Shimizu port authority. "You cannot leave the boat," he told us, we assumed it was because they had to checked us in.

The cruising permit had only been introduced for two years at that point, and many ports did not seem familiar with it. With this cruising permit, one is supposed to be able to land at any port, whether they're open or closed. Boaters previously had to send paperwork to each and every port they were planning on visiting.

The next day, a line of friendly officers came to us with their paperwork, apologizing for last night's events which we concluded was due to miscommunication. After their visit, we stepped off Pino to explore our new neighborhood.

We met local sailors during our stay. Kazupon-san, Nobu-san and Masa-san adopted us, and came by everyday to make sure we were happy. This wasn’t our first visit to Japan, but it was our first time experiencing "Omotenashi" from locals. The meaning of Omotenashi is about more than providing outstanding hospitality, it's about anticipating the needs of your guests, and to offer the best possible service without the assumption of receiving a reward. We also learned in that trip, that there was no way to out-gift the Japanese.

Our friends were eager to promote local traditions, ingredients and sights. "When you eat—" Kazupon-san told us once, "don't leave a single grain of rice. A farmer worked hard to grow, and pick this rice." From that moment on, we licked our bowls clean.

Our little Yamaha 33 was now resting at a popular picture-spot in downtown Shimizu. Many would come and stand next to the boat to snap photos of Mount Fuji, with its iconic symmetrical cone. We had our clothes drying on the lifelines throughout that first week. "Now imagine" Devine began, "all the photos of the majestic Fuji-san, and in the foreground, a foreign sailboat covered in underwear."

Our moorage spot was next to a small private marina, we spotted a few other Yamaha sailboats in it. "Wait" I said, "Shimizu is in the Shizuoka prefecture, which means that this is where Pino was manufactured!" Shizuoka has a significant motoring heritage as the founding location of Honda, Suzuki, and.... Yamaha. We couldn't believe it. We sailed our Y33 around the Pacific with the goal of sailing to Japan, and landed in this birthplace by chance.

We found our Yamaha 33 on Vancouver Island in British Columbia in 2016. Back then, we were associated the Yamaha brand to keyboards and motorcycles, we didn't think they made sailboats, and we would have never believed that it was to carry us there.
	"A Japanese boat"

	In March 2019, Devine & I sailed our Yamaha 33 "Pino" to mainland Japan from Chijijima. Our plan was to get to Wakayama, riding on the back of a passing system, but because the wind turned earlier, we could not reach our planned port. The temperature was 4 °C, and we had a solid 40 knots of wind on the nose. We wanted to land in Omaezaki, but the wind did not permit us to go there either. The port of Shimizu, tucked at the northwestern end of Suruga Bay, was our next option.

	Shimizu translates to "fresh water". I experienced that freshness first hand, with freezing waves splashing over the cockpit. The starboard-side lee cloth was hanging by a thread. The diesel bins too, threatened to leap overboard. At that moment, Lin and Larry Pardey's saying that "anything on deck is sacrificial" came to mind. If it wasn't for sea traffic, wind direction and the layout of the coast, we'd ease off, or heave-to, but sailing near land has a way of making everything more dangerous.

	To get to Shimizu, Pino had to through where hundreds of ships converge to deliver goods in and out of Tokyo. We had limited maneuverability. If we eased off to the east, we'd miss the entrance, and cut into even busier channels. The AIS alarm started screaming, and did not stop for many hours. We had over 100 targets around us at all times, we never felt so small. The AIS transponder we installed in New Zealand suddenly paid itself off.

	After the cargo ships had passed, we began to shift our attention toward Mount Fuji. The sky was clear that day, with no clouds to obscure the giant's snow-capped peak. As we moved deeper into the bay, the waves lessened, but the cold did not. By then, the wind had eased to the West, permitting us to point our bow toward Shimizu. We took turns at the tiller, cocooned in layers of wet woolen clothes.

	We began approaching the port late into the evening, by the time we had reached the breakwater, Shimizu port radio hailed us on VHF. "Pino, what is your intention?" They'd seen us on AIS. Despite their broken English we understood them well. "You need an agent if you want to come into port. Do you have an agent?" We did not know what that meant, and said that no, we did not have one. "I'm sorry, you cannot enter Shimizu port."

	"They won't let us in." I said to Devine. By then it was dark, and the wind was still howling and we had nowhere else to go.

	We had checked into the country via Chichijima, in the Ogasawara Islands. We had all the necessary papers, and had even warned the Japanese Coastguard. "Why would we need an agent?" I said, "this makes no sense!" Devine was outside motoring in circles, frozen and tired. "I'll talk to them." He said, hailed them again. He gave them references of Japanese sailors we'd met in Chichijima, people that could vouch for us. After much deliberating, they allowed us to dock.

	The sun had set but the harbor was lit by the glow of a giant ferris-wheel. As we neared the peer, we began to smell the odors of fast-foods and candies. The night would have been quiet if it wasn't for high-pitched cartoon voices echoing through the open doors of a nearby mall. We secured Pino to the concrete pier, following the coordinates given to us by the Shimizu port authority. "You cannot leave the boat," he told us, we assumed it was because they had to checked us in.

	The cruising permit had only been introduced for two years at that point, and many ports did not seem familiar with it. With this cruising permit, one is supposed to be able to land at any port, whether they're open or closed. Boaters previously had to send paperwork to each and every port they were planning on visiting.

	The next day, a line of friendly officers came to us with their paperwork, apologizing for last night's events which we concluded was due to miscommunication. After their visit, we stepped off Pino to explore our new neighborhood.

	We met local sailors during our stay. Kazupon-san, Nobu-san and Masa-san adopted us, and came by everyday to make sure we were happy. This wasn’t our first visit to Japan, but it was our first time experiencing "Omotenashi" from locals. The meaning of Omotenashi is about more than providing outstanding hospitality, it's about anticipating the needs of your guests, and to offer the best possible service without the assumption of receiving a reward. We also learned in that trip, that there was no way to out-gift the Japanese.

	Our friends were eager to promote local traditions, ingredients and sights. "When you eat—" Kazupon-san told us once, "don't leave a single grain of rice. A farmer worked hard to grow, and pick this rice." From that moment on, we licked our bowls clean.

	Our little Yamaha 33 was now resting at a popular picture-spot in downtown Shimizu. Many would come and stand next to the boat to snap photos of Mount Fuji, with its iconic symmetrical cone. We had our clothes drying on the lifelines throughout that first week. "Now imagine" Devine began, "all the photos of the majestic Fuji-san, and in the foreground, a foreign sailboat covered in underwear."

	Our moorage spot was next to a small private marina, we spotted a few other Yamaha sailboats in it. "Wait" I said, "Shimizu is in the Shizuoka prefecture, which means that this is where Pino was manufactured!" Shizuoka has a significant motoring heritage as the founding location of Honda, Suzuki, and.... Yamaha. We couldn't believe it. We sailed our Y33 around the Pacific with the goal of sailing to Japan, and landed in this birthplace by chance.

	We found our Yamaha 33 on Vancouver Island in British Columbia in 2016. Back then, we were associated the Yamaha brand to keyboards and motorcycles, we didn't think they made sailboats, and we would have never believed that it was to carry us there.