September 6th, Okinawa


With Rupert and Kozo-sensei at a dockside fish restaurant, all invited there by Yoza-san. High-prowed trawlers bob at their moorings and I’m squinting at the brightness below the grey clouds, hot after the car’s astringent air-conditioning, sweat forming between my shoulder-blades. The restaurant – that doubles as a wholesaler – is busy with the sounds of chatter, of footfalls, chairs scraping, chefs chopping, frying and calling orders, trays of food placed on tables, tea pouring, chopsticks snapping apart and clicking against raised bowls. A yellow fin tuna is carried through the diners to gasps and mobile phone clicks to gather a crowd.


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