You can't go to sea as a tourist— one verb I can't let go of
There's one verb I've never been able to let go of: move. To go where I want, when I want. I'm attached to it — not by logic, but by something deeper.
But the sea was always far away. Even after I grew tired of the city and its trends and earned my license, I couldn't buy a boat. I had no knowledge. No companions to set out with. No signal telling me, "go ahead." So most people turn back just short of the sea. The longing is there, but it isn't an option.
A tourist rides an itinerary someone else prepared; a crew member builds the voyage itself. I always carried a small unease about staying a tourist.
The longing is there, but it isn't an option. I wanted to open up what lies just before it.
It took ten years to become a captain— what I confirmed out at sea
For ten years I walked with the sea as a crew member. Eventually, I became a captain. Out there I confirmed its overwhelming beauty, and a pure "freedom" you can find nowhere else.
The first ship I sailed, the tall ship "Ami," had eight sails. To raise them all takes five people. One by one, calling out, breathing together, you haul. Out at sea, moving the ship forward was, from the very start, collective work.
Later, I got my own boat. The sails, one person can raise. But without serious experience, you can't even bring her alongside the dock. — On one voyage, the engine died. All I had left was the power of the sails. Together with the crew aboard, we thought, decided, divided the roles, took one measure after another, and somehow made it back to port. Had I been alone that day, I might have lost my life.
When we reached port, many people rushed over and lent a hand. Only then could I return to land alive. The freedom of the sea was never something I had grasped alone.
That's when I understood, clearly: there is a limit to what one person can do. The sea is wide. But the number of doors one person can open is small.
The saved become the ones who save— this was a long game from the start
So I decided not to do it alone. To take the sea from a privilege of the few and make it everyone's. To bring idle ships and harbors back to life, and build an entrance where anyone can use the sea as a matter of course.
The core of it is this: a person the sea has saved becomes, little by little, economically independent here — and eventually turns into someone who takes the next person out to sea. No one ends as a mere recipient. For anyone who has once moved their hands here, this remains a mother ship they can always come back to.
This won't end in the short term. I'm prepared, from the start, for a long game — because this world can only be changed by steady, patient work.
Step off the consumer's life. Become the hero of your own story.
Running a fleet, alone— let me write this honestly
Let me write this honestly. I'm good at drawing route after route, but I never have enough hands, and ships pile up in the harbor. Expand, unravel, bundle. I've repeated this many times. I'm quick to launch, but I have a habit of stalling on the final push.
The biggest of these was this voyage. Two years ago, I decided to make the tall ship "Ami" a ship that could last a hundred years, over the next five. At first, the plan was to gather young people and send them out to sea. But the distance and the cost didn't fit reality, so I gave it up. I need an entrance, I thought — so I bought my own boat, "JUNO MARE." As I ran her, I hit two limits at once: the limit of what one person can do, and the limit of what you can do by delivering experiences alone.
That's when it hit me. Even if I kept one ship, Ami, alive, if Japan's marine industry and its marinas themselves disappeared, the whole footing would collapse. In a declining world, what you should do is not raise a single tree. It's to grow the forest again. So I unbundled everything. JUNO MARE, engineering, blockchain, events, politics, travel — I rebundled all of my background, and redrew what to do now, working backward from the largest goal.
The result is Great Cruise DAO.
So I stopped carrying everything alone. Now I leave some of the work to AI. A partner keeps watch on progress, and even while my hands are still, the ship moves a little forward. I gathered the records that tend to scatter into one place, so I can see the whole at any time. Working a day job, and still the fleet doesn't stop — that's the kind of system I'm building, piece by piece.
I still think as I run; that hasn't changed. But I changed one thing. I hide neither failure nor stall, and I always write it down — all the way to "so next, I'll do this." A log, I believe, is exactly that.
A capybara by look, a fleet at the helm— about Kapi
Since middle and high school, my nickname has been "capybara." People still call me "Kapi." It's a creature that sits calmly by the water and can share the same bank with anyone.
Even when I talk about storms, I want to keep my voice calm. I know the fear of the sea all too well. But that is no reason to stay ashore.
The next port— from here, you're the one who draws the course
Let me leave, honestly, where we are right now.
Our ship, JUNO MARE, is not just a means of transport. It will grow into a living space where anyone can spend time at ease — a mother ship for you to voyage freely.
From here, the wake is drawn not by me, but by you. Once you've half-boarded a ship, don't hesitate — climb aboard.