A Drive to Yūhi Park Hamada The sun is sinking low beyond Hamada Marine Bridge

At the end of September, I set out in my red convertible on a trip west along the San’in coast. I took the expressway from Ariake to the Sea of Japan coast, then kept heading west a little at a time each day, with the sea on my right. Today I was on my way to the inn where I’d spend my fourth night, and I’d picked Yūhi Park Hamada as my sunset stop along the way. With “sunset” right there in its name, I thought I might get to watch the sun dip into the sea beyond the harbour.

I drove along Route 9’s Hamada Bypass and pulled into the roadside station’s car park. I got out and walked to the park by the sea. There was a seaside path and a lookout, and the harbour opened up little by little with every step. The cardigan over my floral dress fluttered in the breeze. I stopped where I could see beyond the wooden fence; the setting sun was reflected on the harbour water.

Hamada Marine Bridge stretched across the harbour before me. Slender cables fanned out from its tall tower, and I followed them with my eyes, one by one, from the top of the tower to the far end of the bridge. Before I came, I looked it up: it spans Hamada Fishing Port, was built in 1999, and is 305 m long. It’s also described as a symbol of Hamada, a city known for its fishing industry. Once I knew that, the bridge seemed to carry itself with a little pride as it ran straight over the harbour.

I was getting a little hungry, so I pulled out the akaten I’d brought. I held the paper tray in my left hand and lifted one piece to my mouth with my right. The first bite was crisp on the outside and soft and chewy inside. Then the chilli heat came through with a little kick, and I caught myself smiling. It’s a Hamada speciality: fish paste mixed with chilli, coated in breadcrumbs, and fried. That heat had me reaching for another almost right away.

After swallowing the akaten, I looked up and noticed that the light on the water had stretched farther than before. The sun had been sinking all along, even while I was eating. I tried to guess where it would disappear behind the island, holding two fingers up against the gap between the sun and the island. The gap had been two fingers wide; after watching the bridge, I checked again and it had narrowed to just one.

As the sun drew near the island, I moved to the gazebo in Yūhi Park behind the roadside station and sat on the bench. From the gazebo, I looked out over the sea from a lower vantage point than I had at the lookout, and the light on the water seemed to reach all the way to my feet. I pulled my cardigan closed and decided I’d save my last piece of akaten for when the sun touched the island.

While I waited, I remembered reading that the roadside station had a Japanese restaurant on the second floor serving seafood from Hamada Fishing Port, and a food court on the first floor. I went with the akaten I’d brought today, but next time I pass through Hamada, I’ll have fish from the port for lunch, then wait for the sun to go down on this bench.

I finished the last piece as the sun disappeared behind the island. When I folded up the tray and headed back to the car park, the harbour was starting to darken, and only the bridge’s cables still stood out sharply. Tonight’s inn was a little farther west. I turned on the lights, took the wheel in both hands, and set off west on Route 9.