The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

A fairly large ship had appeared. The horizon
was already obscure, and it took a quick and welltrained
eye to determine a ship’s origins. Tōru went to
the telescope.
In the clear atmosphere of midsummer or
midwinter, there would be an instant when a ship
would move rudely in over the high threshold of the
horizon; but in the mists of early summer such an
appearance was a gradual separation from the
inchoate. The horizon was like a long, white, soggy
pillow.
The size of the black cargo ship seemed right for
the 4,780-ton Tenrō-maru, and the stern bridge also
corresponded to what the registry had told Tōru. The
wake was white and clean, as was the bridge. There
were three yellow derricks. What was the round red
mark on the black funnels? Tōru strained his eyes. He
made out the character for tai, “large,” in a red circle.
Taishō Shipping, no mistake about it. All the while the
ship kept up a speed of twelve and a half knots, and
threatened to outrun the telescope. It was like a fly
crossing a round window screen.
He could still not make out the name. He was sure
that there were three characters, and foreknowledge
told him that the first was ten, “heaven.”
He returned to the desk and telephoned the agent.