Then the afternoon southerly suddenly struck in, and we scrambled to set the genoa for a final sail. Out of a complex of factories and chimneys and miles of shiploading facilities appeared a small building on a point, flags flying from a tall staff in front. At a puff of smoke the fleet of Yokohama Yacht Club converged on a mark, just as in a race at home. But not quite like home, I thought, looking backward across the bay at the sampans plying among the shipping. Definitely not, I decided at last, reflecting upon a cruise whose sights and mood had been like nothing in the world save the art of Hiroshige.