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••• The International Writers Magazine - Travel in Japan

The Pain Brain and the Ferry. • Michael Webb Hangovers and Stormy weather do not mix ...

I had missed yesterday's ferry, I had got absolutely black out trashed and missed yesterday's ferry, and now my punishment was to lie in a shitty bunk bed with the pain brain in complete control. I could barely stand to lie there as the hours crawled by. Occasionally, I would fall asleep, but only for microseconds until the pain brain woke me right back up again.

“You can’t sleep, you stupid idiot.”
“Shut up. I know that”
“What time is it?”
“It’s early enough.”
“You have to look. You have to check.”
“4:48 a.m”
“Better get up now!”
“What? No, it’s too early. The boat’s not until 9:00 a.m.”
“Ahhh better get up right now, get a taxi now!”

And so it went on until eventually I was dragging my stinking broken body down the stairs to get a taxi going to the port. As I opened the hostel door and allowed the rain to fall onto my hair, one came mercifully rolling by.

"Where are you going?" he asked in Japanese.
"I’m taking the ferry," I replied.
"Which one? There are two ferry ports in Fukuoka."
“Ahhh, really?” I panicked for a moment, my mind fogged as I struggled to express which one I needed. But then it struck me like so many slaps from your mother
“Busan. I’m going to Busan. Does that help?”
"Yeah, I got it," he said. He dropped me off outside the port and tried explaining something else—something intricate—but I was just too tired to decipher it. So I just paid him and got out.

Stepping out into the rain, I made my way to the looming terminal. As I approached the doors, nothing happened, and I began to wonder once again if I had indeed sold my soul. The doors wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t get in; All the while, I became wetter, and the wind hurled my rucksack into the back of my head.  “Is this what the taxi driver was trying to tell me? That it’s closed? But if it’s closed, why would he drive me here?”
Out in the distance were the giant mechanical cranes you often see at docks and ports—the ones capable of handling massive crates like so many chocolate bars handled by a frenzied child— overseen by some helmeted Japanese men lurking in small outposts, smoking thin cigarettes. I waved them down while walking towards them, hoping they would understand my intent. One of the larger-set men met me halfway, cigarette still in mouth.
"What do you want?" he said as he stared me down.
"I’m taking the ferry to Busan," I replied,
“So?” He bellowed and his smoke filled my face.
“Well, ermm, I can’t get into the terminal.”
He took a deep breath and muttered something about foreigners. It didn’t matter to me though; I was glad to talk with someone, even if it was in broken Japanese with a man half the size of a crate full of concrete..
"They open in 30 minutes. You have to wait," he said, this time in English.
"Oh, thanks."
"Don’t come this way again," he added.

I didn’t say anything. I just left. So there I waited, paced, and waited, smoked, and waited until they opened the doors. There was no shelter, only wind and rain.

Once inside, I had a brief sense of relief that fell down upon me. I was in fact going to get on this boat. “Or are you?”  Had I known, however, what was due in store for me for the next 5 hours, I would have never come . As I checked in, the receptionist drew my attention to a small red sign placed prominently in the centre: “Due to high waves and heavy winds, we may not be able to open the cafeteria. “Well, that’s fine” I thought, “I didn’t need to drink.”  Oh, how wrong I was. In hindsight, that little red warning sign should also have read the following: ‘Get as much booze as you can carry and stuff your bag with it. Fill your luggage to the rim with rum. Buckle up, you fools.’

I noticed, nonchalantly enough, that there was a plastic sign next to reception displaying the current wave height, and the crew were changing the numbers. It read Wave Heights 2.0 to 2.5. They were laughing amongst themselves and chatting happily together, so as far as I knew, all was normal, all was well. But even so, the pain brain, the fear brain, woke up.

“Get closer, look closer”, it said. I did, and as I stared and observed them, it became clear that this was not the laughter of joy. These were the laughs of mad fearful folk. The numbers kept changing, and the waves kept getting higher—much like the mania in their laughter and the slight touch of fear in their eyes. Wave heights 3.0 to 3.5.

The pain brain spoke:

“Those numbers keep changing. They keep changing them. They’re making the waves higher.”
“They’re not in charge of the height of the waves,” I thought.
“Yes, they are,” the pain brain replied. “And they’re doing it on purpose.”
“No, they couldn’t be... Could they?”

The wind rattled the windows and shook me out of my hypnotic stare. God knows how long I’d been watching those two crew members laughing, laughing and changing numbers, manipulating the weather itself.
The terminal’s dull fluorescent lights flickered above me as I clutched my ticket, waiting for the final boarding announcement. The cold air inside, paired with the gusts of rain battering the windows, made the terminal feel like a purgatory. Each time the automatic doors slid open, a burst of wind cut through the hall, stirring the wet smell of damp coats and the faint scent of the sea. The pain brain was restless, hounding me in whispers.

Better board now. What if you miss this ferry, too?

I stared at the clock. Still time. But the pain brain persisted.

What if they close the doors early? What if the storm gets worse?

"Passengers for Busan, please proceed to boarding," a mechanical voice crackled over the intercom. The tannoy system rang and moved me back into reality, back to my task. I must continue. My heart thudded in response.
The relief of moving kicked in as I shuffled toward the boarding gate, the terminal’s bright sterility fading behind me. The sudden blast of wind and rain outside hit me like a wet fish, but I welcomed it. At least it was real.

I stepped onto the connecting bridge and was halted by a pretty young woman in a sharp, clean uniform.
"Sorry for the short delay, sir," she said, handing me a small circular pill.
"What’s this?" I asked.
"Just a little seasickness pill. It might get a bit choppy," she said, smiling beautifully and gently. After she went down the line and  ensured that everyone had received a pill, she left, not in fact getting on the damn thing herself. Easy to smile under such circumstances.

Crossing the narrow bridge to the ferry, I could feel the boat's slight sway even before stepping aboard. Each step on the ramp creaked underfoot, a stark contrast to the stillness of the terminal.The boat groaned with the rhythm of the waves, reminding me how small I was against the elements. The metal door clanged behind me as I entered the ship’s dim interior, greeted by the low murmur of passengers settling in, their faces tired and drawn.

The terminal already felt distant, swallowed by the storm. Now, it was just me, the boat, and the rolling waves ahead. Before we departed, music played calmly and the crew on board greeted us with a smile. The cafeteria was open so I ordered a beer and sat in my seat. The pain brain was moaning subtly under the surface, something about the swaying but I was ignoring him. The cafeteria was open, how bad could it be?

I took a seat by the window, staring out into the endless black sea, Then, the first bump hit. The monitor in front of me lit up in bold, harsh crimson letters: Please remain seated. Easy to smile under such circumstances.
As the boat picked up speed, the waves began tossing us, lifting the ferry and slamming it down hard. The shutters to the bar slammed shut with a loud metallic clang, sealing off any comfort the booze might have offered. Crew members started lining the aisles, handing out brown paper bags—emergency sick bags. That smiling lady, with her seasickness pills, suddenly seemed far more prophetic than I had realised. As we drifted out of the harbour, the captain spoke, “Ladies and gentlemen hello and welcome to The Queen Beetle, for your own safety please remain seated unless you need to use the bathroom, thankyou.”

The boat shuffled and the sea bobbed along with us at a wobbly pace. Then the bumps began anew, small and shuddering at first, they soon became intense. I watched out of the window as the whole ferry lifted out of the water, flew into the air and slammed back down with mighty intent. Now, my window was full of nothing, and I mean nothing but water. Water from the immense splashback of the waves, landing hard after being thrown mercilessly into the air, or due to being under the depths themselves. I popped the pill into my mouth, letting it dissolve bitterly on my tongue.

For a moment, I almost convinced myself it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe the ferry ride would just be bumpy, like a cheap roller coaster, and the bar would reopen once we got through the rough patch. But then came another massive hit. The boat lifted, unnervingly weightless for a second, before slamming back down with bone-rattling force. I gripped the armrests instinctively, feeling the air leave my lungs. The window beside me was a sheet of white foam and water. My stomach turned.

They’re making the waves higher, the pain brain whispered.

“They can’t control the weather,” I muttered under my breath. But the thought stuck. Every bump made me feel more convinced that something, or someone, had a hand in this chaos.
 I glanced around the cabin. Across the aisle, near the shuddering cafeteria,  a group of young Korean men laughed and shouted as they jumped in sync with the waves, treating each lurch of the boat like a game. For a second, I almost envied them—how easy it was for them to turn fear into excitement. But their joy felt like a cruel joke to me, a mockery of the churning pit in my stomach and the dread pressing down on my chest.
Another jolt. This one harder, sharper. The boat lifted again, and this time, when it crashed back down, the lights flickered.

They’re making the waves higher, the pain brain insisted.

“No,” I said, louder this time, trying to ground myself, trying to make the paranoia quiet. But the wind was howling louder, the boat lurching more violently. The young men’s laughter was turning nervous, their bravado cracking as the waves kept slamming into us. The windows creaked under the strain, and the once-calm crew were now darting between passengers, their smiles stretched too tight to be reassuring.
    My gaze flicked back to the sign above the bar—still slammed shut, the shutters down like a tomb. No relief, I thought. No booze. No escape.
    And then the ferry lifted higher than it had before—far too high—and for a terrifying second, I swore I felt the earth fall away beneath us.

Look at them smiling at you, laughing at you.

“Shut up.” I muttered.

They’re trying to suffocate those little children with paper bags.

“I said shut up.”

An old couple in front of me turned around.

“Are you alright?”

“Huh? Sorry, I was talking to... I got to go.”

I stood up away from the window seat and sat down at the middle tables near the shuddering cafeteria and the flickering lights. I had to get away from the windows.

There I sat, holding tightly to the table, I watched helplessly as the shutters slammed, glasses fell, and lights flickered. Hour after hour, I held tightly, watching women curl up into balls and cry on the floor and men puking into little bags.
   
I don't know where those Korean men went, but they weren't fighting the waves anymore, that's for sure. Nobody was having fun anymore.

When can this be over? The pain, brain whimpered.

“Just another hour, don’t worry.”

I’m sorry. The pain brain cried.

“It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, due to bad weather, we will be delayed another hour.”

 Just two more hours.

Things done. It’s on purpo…

    And the pain brain finally fell into silence, asleep. I've become so tired, so wired, that it was all I could do to sit there and hold tight to the table as men fell to the floor and women cradled their young children, trying to get them to stop crying.
    But they could not relent, not while the sea threw us around, breaking glasses, light fixtures, and travel plans. I watched. A husk, a shell, tightening my grip to the table until finally, and all at once, it stopped.
    It stopped, and Busan harbor was there in front of us. I let out a gasp of relief and finally let go of the table. Walking back to my seat, I saw the calm begin to stretch along the entire ferry.

I looked out the window to see the familiar steel skyscrapers, and lifting my hand to shield my eyes, I was happy. As blood dripped from my pained fingers and fell onto my rucksack. I was happy.

© Michael Webb March 2025

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