by Chris Ward

Mr Matsumoto has worked on the ferries that circle the tiny islets in the bay of Matsushima, a small town in north-east Japan, for twenty-seven long years. He turns up at the docks at seven-thirty each morning, leaves his bicycle behind the ticket booth and gets to work. First, he sweeps and hoses down the deck of the ferry on duty that day, then he empties the trashcans and loads up the boxes of the corn chips he’ll spend the rest of the day selling to tourists.

Today is Mr Matsumoto’s birthday. At around 11am it will be sixty-five years since he burst screaming into the world.

Today is also his last day.

Matsushima Bay is considered one of the ‘three top views’ in Japan, but Mr Matsumoto despises the very sight of it. He hates the fishy smell of the docks and the crowds of dumb tourists willing to throw their money away, especially on the ‘first class’ additional charge in order to go up the steps to the boat’s second level. He hates the piles of snow in winter which he has to shovel away just so a few hardy tourists can stand shivering at the back rail of the boat as it whisks its way through the icy waters, buffeted by a bitter wind. He hates the litter and the screaming children and the squealing audio commentary which wails away on a loop hour after hour, day after day, even during the winter when the boat is less than a quarter full. But most of all, he hates the gulls.

The fat, lazy, stupid birds. Go further up the coast and their peers are sleek and shiny hunters, but around Matsushima Bay they are a disgrace to their species, whoring themselves out to tourist cameras in exchange for the corn chips held up and tossed out into the wind.

It’s a quiet October day, but even for the 4.30pm departure, Mr Matsumoto’s last ferry, there is a line of fifty or so, shivering against the northern sea wind. Mr Matsumoto feels a little sad, as despite his hatred for the job he would stay on if allowed, having no family at home to keep him company. But Mr Nishimura, the company owner, won’t pay a higher insurance premium, and Mr Matsumoto knows there are plenty of high-school kids waiting to take his place.

One or two people smile thanks at him as they climb aboard, but most, as usual, ignore him. His co-workers are having a small party for him tonight, but the tourists couldn’t care less of course. After all, he’s just the man who sells chips.

Today Mr Matsumoto is smiling as he waves a hand up at Mr Yamada, the ferry pilot, and steps over the ramp before pushing it back on to the dock and shutting the small gate in the ferry guard rail. In his twenty-seven years he’s seen eleven people fall overboard, but none from him forgetting to secure the gate. Every one was an overenthusiastic photographer, trying to get an inch closer to the gulls.

Mr Yamada starts the engines, and the boat starts to pull away from the dock. Mr Matsumoto picks up the flask of miso soup he always has on cold days and his basket of corn chips and makes his way to the back wall, where he always stands. The tourists always prefer the side rails, where it’s easier to hold the chips up for the gulls. If he remembers right, someone won a big international competition once with a photograph taken from the rail of this very boat. The person sent them a large bottle of sake to say thanks, which they got smashed on one night and watched the sun go down. Not all bad, Mr Matsumoto thinks, and smiles briefly. There have been some good, good days too, just not enough.

As the boat reverses and turns around, the tourists find themselves places by the rail. There are only a few gulls around at the moment, most will appear as the ferry pulls out into the bay and crosses the path of the latest incoming boat. Mr Matsumoto takes the opportunity to pour himself a cup of steaming miso soup, which he stirs with a pair of chopsticks and then takes a sip of. It is hot and he sucks in some salty air, before standing it in a homemade cup holder taped to the back wall of the boat.

Mr Yamada steers the ferry to starboard and sets it on a course between the nearest two islets. Over three hundred fill the bay, rocky protrusions out of the sea, some just metres across, others big enough to hold homes, one even big enough to have a school. The ferry course goes out past some of the more interestingly shaped ones, beyond the largest, then back around past the oyster farms to the dock.

‘Two bags please,’ the first tourist, a young man, asks in Japanese, and Mr Matsumoto smiles his sun baked smile, takes the two hundred yen and hands over two packets of corn chips. Another tourist is already queuing up behind, and Mr Matsumoto thinks he’s going to get a good send off trade this route. He’s sold out a number of times, the most on a single journey about two hundred bags, during Golden Week six or seven years ago. Some people have kids, others have a lot of money, and the bags are cheap. The birds will fly right up to the boat, hover just inches from the hand rail, and literally pluck the chips out of your fingers. The tourists love it. Usually he only sells fifty or sixty though, or less in winter.