Across the islands of the inland sea

At half past three in the morning, I hear a hissing sound through my sleep and lift my head. The sprinkler head, controlled by a functioning mechanism, slowly turns in my direction, shooting a four-meter jet of what's probably not warm water. I don't know where I got such agility at this hour, but I managed to get out of my sleeping bag, pull the tarp from my bag, unzip the tent entrance, jump outside and cover the danger zone.

A bicycle path runs through the bridges and each of the islands, stretching for two days. At dawn, the sea between the scattered islands looks like a frozen, petrified mass. Still cold, not warmed up yet.

I climbed over the waterfront barrier before sunset to set up my tent. On the rocky beach I found a spot not visible from shore and sat down with a book by the wall, waiting for it to get dark. I had some doubts - the distinct border between the dark (like seaweed) and gray part of the wall suggested that when the tide comes in, water would reach my ear (left or right depending on which side I lay on). Climbed back over to look for another spot. Passing by an auto shop, I decided to stop in to oil my squeaky chain.

The old mechanic handed me a can of oil when I asked for "Oil," accompanied by a gesture pointing at the chain. Then he looked at me and offered "Beer," showing how he downs it by tilting his head back.

After the second Asahi we went to the store for food, and after the third one they sent me to sleep in the boss's office on the second floor. At eight in the morning both mechanics were already working. They never went home. — Why didn't you go home? The old man showed me yesterday's gesture: we drank yesterday, can't drive, so we stayed here.