Dragon Boating

October 19, 2007

Last Sunday there was a Dragon Boat race in Nejime, a small town south of Kanoya, maybe 45 minutes away by car. For such a small town, it was a big race. When Rachelle and I drove up at around 8:30 there was a crowd gathered by the river and a small carnival of food vendors, souvenir sellers, and game hawkers set up nearby. Parking lots were full, speakers blared announcements, and the sky a crisp autumn blue.

Rachelle and I had entered the race with our office, the Osumi Board of Education. We had practiced only once, the Wednesday before, at night, in a plain, wobbly boat. Light shining from the small flashlight at the head of our boat onto the black water, we rowed. I dipped my oar deep into the water and drew it out with a splash, trying to hold the same rhythm as those before me. Occasionally we yelled and someone beat a drum, but we were slow. We maneuvered around the bridge and rowed back to the dock. A group of more practiced rowers overtook us as we waddled.

At the race, everything felt more exciting. These boats, dressed in blue, yellow, red, green, pink, white, had cute dragonheads at the tip, rudders for tails. The crowd was thick. Once Rachelle and I found our officemates, we had some time to sit and watch the heats. Some people wore matching T-shirts; some wore costumes. There were teams that seemed to have practiced for months, which rowed quickly, barking out a harsh rhythm to the beat of their drum, oars in, oars out, racing to the finish line, which was the bridge. There was an ALT team, full of foreigners in mismatched garb, who rowed unevenly against each other and shuffled in at the tail end of all other boats. Rachelle and I were glad we elected not to be on this team.

When it was time for our race, we got into a pink boat, already damp from other teams’ exertions. We rowed at what I thought a brisk pace compared to last Wednesday. We rowed and rowed and came to the official starting line. We waited. Suddenly the race began, music blaring from the loud speakers, drummers beating a ferocious beat. We all shouted what seemed to me was issho—the Japanese word for together. Issho, issho. Oar in, oar out. Together, together. Plunge oar in, plunge oar out, moving body in a rocking motion, water splashing wildly.

Soon my arms began to ache and my breath began to catch. But we were not so far from the other teams. There was one boat in particular that we seemed close enough to overtake. The bridge was coming into view. Almost there. Issho, issho. Thrum, thrum, thrum, the beat of the drum. Almost there. Panting, pulling. Blue water rippling to same strokes. Issho, issho. We crossed the finish line. In jubilation, Rachelle said, “We didn’t come in last.” I was tired, half-soaked, but the sun was out and I felt great.

Afterwards, we ate crab soup and onigiri (rice balls) and watched the rest of the race. There was an amusing team dressed as five power rangers in the front, with skeletons and a witch in the back—the baddies. There were all-women heats. Teams came from Kumamoto, four hours away, and even Osaka. No one really seemed to care about who won. They just wanted to see their own people race and cheer them on.

There was an onsen (hot springs) and most of the ALTs went there afterwards. I didn’t—I couldn’t. (There are certain circumstances, certain times of the month, in which women aren’t allowed in onsen, and I’ll leave it at that.) But I sat outside and did some writing. Later, we walked around the carnival area and I bought a snow cone. It was fall, after all, and getting colder; soon I wouldn’t want one. But when we drove home, we could see the bay and the ocean and around it, palm trees and red hibiscus blossoms.