A Long Journey in 17 Minutes (The Men's 1500-Meter Freestyle)

Translated by Nobuko Yamasaki and Hanako Yamasaki

The finals in the men's 1500-meter freestyle: Sasaki appears. He is the only Japanese competitor to remain. He undresses on one of the plastic chairs beside the pool. The chair is vermilion-colored. Taking off his navy-blue socks, he places them in his sneakers. The sneakers are white canvas with black lines. Even before this brilliant stage, such quotidian tasks are performed in solitude. A nude figure clad only in a navy-and-white swimsuit appears. His body is fit, with a fox-like hue. Now, at last, this gleaming Olympian will release himself from the grasp of everyday life. From there, he will take off.

From the starting block, Sasaki glances at the swimmer in the first lane. Then he shakes his wrists. With both hands calmly stretched before him, he softly dives in. In this way, the competition begins with greater clerical precision than that of any corporation.

The water envelopes Sasaki's body. From there, he can only move forward singlemindedly, leaving the heavy water, the time, and the distance in his wake.

When watching from a high seat, the sounds made on water by the swimmers in the eight lanes are nothing more than the hushed rustling of bamboo leaves. Their fluttering arms are all angled the same way, flashing between waves like mystical brown flags.

400 meters: Sasaki is increasingly separated from the pack. A sign, where the swimmer turns, displays the number of remaining laps. To the swimmers' sodden eyes, that large, clear number beyond the sprays of water must appear mockingly distorted.

The swimmers' chairs are scattered on the wet concrete around the starting area. On Sasaki's chair, his red shirt and white sneakers quietly await the return of their master—who is out battling the water—like a loyal dog.

Far behind the chairs, the score recorders wait. Farther back still, the diving pool—its work already finished for the day—lies in stark contrast to the noisily splashing main pool, for it hosts subdued water of a heavy cobalt green. Upon the pool fall the reflections of ceiling lights and the faces of spectators, as well as the images of the six diving boards, resembling the beaks of waterfowl. Compared to the raucous water of the main pool, which fails to capture any reflection, the water of the diving pool does not disturb a single shadow.

Getting close to 600 meters, Sasaki maintains sixth place. As the swimmers get closer to the starting point, the many recorders stand up and lethargically approach the water's edge. They record the split time and progress. Then, they sluggishly return to their seats. In this way, the fervent competitors and the recorders come face-to-face fifteen times. There is no other moment at which the roles of this world's actors and recorders, or subjective and objective stances, confront one another in such exquisite polarity.

1000 meters: The progress of Australia's Windel is announced: split time of 11 minutes, 16.3 seconds.

At the 1050-meter mark, a sign shows that nine laps remain.

Sasaki swims earnestly. His face looks flushed as he plays hide and seek with the water. His eyes are closed, and his mouth is open. His countenance looks pained—his wet countenance. What thoughts lie within that wet brow? Even in the midst of something like this, surely humans do not stop thinking. Remarks such as "I was simply entranced" sound like lies to me. This is the enigma of the animals we call human. There surely must be thought, even if it is merely a momentary thought that flares up like a tiny fire.

The last 100 meters: The brass bell is rung, and the swimmers attempt their finishing kick.

Sasaki came in sixth place. He casually wipes his tranquil countenance with the palm of his hand. Just as he did at the start, he slightly shakes his left hand. That was his expressionless gesture of return from a long journey. Tomorrow, once again, this young person will...