These days, Fukumine tends to avoid such risks. So on a recent day when Taiwan became visible -- a sign that can mean, at this time of the year, that a typhoon is approaching -- he did not go out to sea. Instead, he spent the day drinking with fellow fishermen, untalkative at sea but voluble on land over drinks.
On this particular morning, with the waves settling down, he was back on the water, this time with his son. He had pushed so deep into the sea that Yonaguni's elongated silhouette, punctuated by its promontory, had vanished into the horizon.
Hours passed. Fukumine's face remained taut. Father and son rarely talked.
Then in the late afternoon, without saying a word, the son began reeling in the line, but without the urgency that would have suggested a big catch. The bonito had disappeared, as had the hook and part of the line. Only a shark could have swallowed it all, Fukumine said later.
Later that evening, after taking a bath, Fukumine sat alone in his living room. His son's wife had set bonito soup and other dishes on the table before him. He wore a relaxed countenance and a robe open at the chest, revealing an old man's shriveled skin. A support belt for his bad back lay next to him.
"When I don't catch marlin, even alcohol doesn't taste good," he said.
Fukumine spoke of bequeathing the boat to his son by year's end, and of retiring and getting a small one for himself. He was tired of talking, he told his visitors, but answered one more question about whether, after all these years, he loved the sea.
"The sea is beautiful," Fukumine said, then added, "The sea is my friend. It allows me to take fish."
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