turnaround
he turned around to pick me up. two softcovered surfboards, two landry baskets lined with plasitc bags and a relaxed face fill the small car. i find place sitting in the trunk. actually two. my backpack resting on the wave riding devices. my butt slowly getting wet by means of the leaking wetsuit. in aurstalia is where he picked up on surfing, working holiday. now he is working as a driver. his days off he goes surfing. he drives me right to the door. its a museum i want to visit before checking into a shower and a real bed. i get out and thank him for the ride. not a word was said about where he was going, he just wanted to know where he should take me. its the world that tells him where to go. the people where they want to be picked up and dropped, the waves commanding until where he can go, where to break.
he works for wind energy. before he worked in kobe at kawasakis submarine doc. i saw it once, cloaked in black nets to obscure from overly curious views. before that, he wasnt working on submarines, he was working in them. navy - submarine medic.
how long is the ship underwater at a time?
i cant tell anyone, i will take this secret to my grave
oh, thats a really long time
on his days off, if its a sunday or national holiday, he revs up the “busa” from his collection of bikes. (a kawasakis gxr6000 aka “hayabusa”(falcon), the world fastest production bike, top speed 312kmh) on this road we are driving down now in his work car at a steady 130, he once in a while goes well over double the speed. hitchhikers are out of question, i guess. it is tempting to ask but i still have some spicy secrets to pile up before being incinerated.
i ask him, if he compensates for the missing adrenalin on the sub. a smile, he thinks so.
cigarette smoke mixes with the car-deodorant. the former from the well loaded ashtray, the latter from an almost empty scent-dispenser in glass-human-skull-optic. he is a diver, working on ships underwater. the malboro red, resting in the cave between steerer and speedometer beg a question.
being a heavy smoker is not a problem in this profession, he says. 50yo, married, kids. hobbies? pachinko and drinking with friends. “its really bad” he tells me and lights one. the phone rings. call from a friend.
“i am just driving this foreigner i picked up until XY and will be right there”
“is he a good guy?”
he turns to me“are you a good guy?”
“i am almost a good guy” and light one myself.
“yea, hes a good guy…sure sure, see you there”
i open the window out of reflex, smoking in the car. “oh, even opening the window!” yes, i am a good guy.
who knows whats next? kunde