Masabumi Hosono
42 years old, Second-Class, Lifeboat 13
The Japanese Ministry of Transportation
sent me to Russia to study the state railway system.
The long-term assignment separated me from my family.
To ease my loneliness,
my wife and children became my inspiration
to finish my work as efficiently and quickly as possible.
Two years later, in the spring of 1912,
I completed my task and began my journey home.
My timing could not have been more perfect.
I would be sailing aboard the RMS Titanic on her maiden voyage.
But first, I made a stop in London where I purchased new clothes for the trip.
Then with other ship passengers, I took the train to Southampton
where I embarked aboard the “Queen of the Ocean.”
Standing beside the gigantic ocean liner, I felt humbled—like a tiny ant.
The ship’s interior was just as impressive as its exterior.
I must write home about the Titanic, I thought.
First, I settled into my second-class stateroom
then took some time to explore before she sailed for France to pick up more passengers.
In the morning, we’d gather the last of the voyagers in Ireland.
I stretched my sea legs and climbed the staircases.
My nose lured me to D-deck where I came upon a dining saloon.
Enticing aromas made me homesick for my wife’s cooking.
How I craved a bowl of Miso soup—with clams.
On C-deck, the library felt inviting with its many tables, chairs, and books.
Then lively music pulled me in the direction of B-deck,
where I found a covered promenade
with a row of rectangle windows to enjoy an endless view of ocean.
In seven days, we were scheduled to arrive in New York.
I had plenty of time to stop by the smoking room for a drink and cigar.
And if I felt lucky, I’d play a hand of cards.
The first five days of the voyage were calm and pleasant.
We would make New York on Tuesday evening or the following morning.
With every golden sunrise, I was closer to home.
I began writing to my wife
and slipped the unfinished letter into my pocket.
Then on the night of April 14th,
there came a hard knock at my cabin door, awakening me from a sound sleep.
I fumbled to put on my eyeglasses then reached for my watch.
It was just after midnight.
I opened the door and found it curious to see fellow passengers,
some in their night clothes, crowding the corridor.
Standing before me, the cabin steward encouraged me to put on my lifebelt
and told me to make my way to the boat stations.
There had been an accident.
I quickly dressed, and as I headed up the stairs,
one of the crewmen prevented me from entering the boat deck.
While permitting others to pass,
he ordered me to return to the lower part of the ship.
When I attempted to explain that I was staying in second-class,
my words fell on deaf ears.
Twice, he waved me away.
Then while he was speaking with other concerned passengers,
I slipped past him.
As I reached the open deck,
I was met by emergency flares fired high into the air.
The ship’s deck was at a noticeable tilt
and the exploding sounds above the distressed liner terrified me.
I watched as women and children were loaded into four lifeboats.
Since men were not allowed into the boats,
I didn’t see any other alternative except to go down with the ship.
So, I prepared myself to accept my destiny--
to die an honorable samurai death.
Still, I remained alert for any possible chance of survival.
Then I saw what I believed to be the last boat on the port side.
An officer shouted, “Room for two more!”
A gentleman stepped into the boat and took a seat.
If I was ever going to see my family again,
this man’s bold example led me to believe this was my last opportunity.
While the sailors appeared occupied with another matter,
I climbed into the lifeboat.
In the frigid night, the small boat was lowered,
and we rowed at least two hundred feet away from the sinking vessel.
From our position, I clearly saw the Titanic as it broke apart
then plunged beneath the waves.
As the frightful shrills and cries from the drowning met my ears,
I bowed my head in silence.
Sobbing and weeping engulfed our small boat.
Women and children were worried about the safety of their husbands and fathers.
And feeling depressed and miserable,
I worried what would become of me in the long run.
Then in the distance, lights appeared in the pre-dawn.
As the ship drew closer to us, we were able to see her more clearly.
With the rising sun came renewed hope and strength,
and we rowed toward our rescuers.
Aboard the RMS Carpathia,
we were given hot brandy, tea, and soup to warm us,
and a place for us to lay our heads to rest.
I slept in the men’s smoking room
where I became the target of cruel jokes.
A good-for-nothing band of seamen heckled me and another foreigner,
making accusations that we had disguised ourselves as women.
I attempted to tell my side of the story, but it was of no use.
They had already marked us as cowards.
Then as the Carpathia carried us to New York,
I recalled my unfinished letter to my wife.
Pulling it out of my pocket, I wrote of my traumatic experience at sea.
Upon my arrival in New York, I contacted friends at my old job at Mitsui,
and they generously loaned me the money for my travel.
From San Francisco, I booked my ocean passage home.
While staying in California,
a newspaper coined me as the Lucky Japanese Boy.
Back home in my country,
I was happy and grateful to be reunited with my beloved family.
Newspapers and magazines requested interviews.
My experience surviving the sinking of Titanic became well-known in Japan.
Then one year later, in 1913,
a book was published by another survivor of the disaster.
Archibald Gracie’s account inferred I had stowed away in the lifeboat.
Overnight, I became a national embarrassment—a coward.
Some even suggested that I commit hara-kiri—suicide.
I was fired from my job.
Two weeks later, I was rehired because I was too valuable to lose.
But things were never the same.
If I had been dragged to the bottom of the ocean with the Titanic
I could have died a noble death.
I would have been a hero in school textbooks instead of a villain.
On that cold and terrifying April night,
in a single moment, I seized an opportunity.
And I chose life.
But my lifeboat became my death boat.
Note: Masabumi Hosono was the only Japanese passenger aboard the RMS Titanic. After he had been shamed by his country, Masabumi refused to speak about the Titanic ever again, and forbade others from discussing the subject in his presence. In 1939, he died a broken man. For years, Masabumi’s handwritten pages about his experience aboard the Titanic and his escape remained hidden in a book at the bottom of a drawer. In 2014, the Hosono family loaned their grandfather’s words to the “Yokohama Minato Museum.” It was displayed as a part of the museum’s special “Treasures Collection.”
42 years old, Second-Class, Lifeboat 13
The Japanese Ministry of Transportation
sent me to Russia to study the state railway system.
The long-term assignment separated me from my family.
To ease my loneliness,
my wife and children became my inspiration
to finish my work as efficiently and quickly as possible.
Two years later, in the spring of 1912,
I completed my task and began my journey home.
My timing could not have been more perfect.
I would be sailing aboard the RMS Titanic on her maiden voyage.
But first, I made a stop in London where I purchased new clothes for the trip.
Then with other ship passengers, I took the train to Southampton
where I embarked aboard the “Queen of the Ocean.”
Standing beside the gigantic ocean liner, I felt humbled—like a tiny ant.
The ship’s interior was just as impressive as its exterior.
I must write home about the Titanic, I thought.
First, I settled into my second-class stateroom
then took some time to explore before she sailed for France to pick up more passengers.
In the morning, we’d gather the last of the voyagers in Ireland.
I stretched my sea legs and climbed the staircases.
My nose lured me to D-deck where I came upon a dining saloon.
Enticing aromas made me homesick for my wife’s cooking.
How I craved a bowl of Miso soup—with clams.
On C-deck, the library felt inviting with its many tables, chairs, and books.
Then lively music pulled me in the direction of B-deck,
where I found a covered promenade
with a row of rectangle windows to enjoy an endless view of ocean.
In seven days, we were scheduled to arrive in New York.
I had plenty of time to stop by the smoking room for a drink and cigar.
And if I felt lucky, I’d play a hand of cards.
The first five days of the voyage were calm and pleasant.
We would make New York on Tuesday evening or the following morning.
With every golden sunrise, I was closer to home.
I began writing to my wife
and slipped the unfinished letter into my pocket.
Then on the night of April 14th,
there came a hard knock at my cabin door, awakening me from a sound sleep.
I fumbled to put on my eyeglasses then reached for my watch.
It was just after midnight.
I opened the door and found it curious to see fellow passengers,
some in their night clothes, crowding the corridor.
Standing before me, the cabin steward encouraged me to put on my lifebelt
and told me to make my way to the boat stations.
There had been an accident.
I quickly dressed, and as I headed up the stairs,
one of the crewmen prevented me from entering the boat deck.
While permitting others to pass,
he ordered me to return to the lower part of the ship.
When I attempted to explain that I was staying in second-class,
my words fell on deaf ears.
Twice, he waved me away.
Then while he was speaking with other concerned passengers,
I slipped past him.
As I reached the open deck,
I was met by emergency flares fired high into the air.
The ship’s deck was at a noticeable tilt
and the exploding sounds above the distressed liner terrified me.
I watched as women and children were loaded into four lifeboats.
Since men were not allowed into the boats,
I didn’t see any other alternative except to go down with the ship.
So, I prepared myself to accept my destiny--
to die an honorable samurai death.
Still, I remained alert for any possible chance of survival.
Then I saw what I believed to be the last boat on the port side.
An officer shouted, “Room for two more!”
A gentleman stepped into the boat and took a seat.
If I was ever going to see my family again,
this man’s bold example led me to believe this was my last opportunity.
While the sailors appeared occupied with another matter,
I climbed into the lifeboat.
In the frigid night, the small boat was lowered,
and we rowed at least two hundred feet away from the sinking vessel.
From our position, I clearly saw the Titanic as it broke apart
then plunged beneath the waves.
As the frightful shrills and cries from the drowning met my ears,
I bowed my head in silence.
Sobbing and weeping engulfed our small boat.
Women and children were worried about the safety of their husbands and fathers.
And feeling depressed and miserable,
I worried what would become of me in the long run.
Then in the distance, lights appeared in the pre-dawn.
As the ship drew closer to us, we were able to see her more clearly.
With the rising sun came renewed hope and strength,
and we rowed toward our rescuers.
Aboard the RMS Carpathia,
we were given hot brandy, tea, and soup to warm us,
and a place for us to lay our heads to rest.
I slept in the men’s smoking room
where I became the target of cruel jokes.
A good-for-nothing band of seamen heckled me and another foreigner,
making accusations that we had disguised ourselves as women.
I attempted to tell my side of the story, but it was of no use.
They had already marked us as cowards.
Then as the Carpathia carried us to New York,
I recalled my unfinished letter to my wife.
Pulling it out of my pocket, I wrote of my traumatic experience at sea.
Upon my arrival in New York, I contacted friends at my old job at Mitsui,
and they generously loaned me the money for my travel.
From San Francisco, I booked my ocean passage home.
While staying in California,
a newspaper coined me as the Lucky Japanese Boy.
Back home in my country,
I was happy and grateful to be reunited with my beloved family.
Newspapers and magazines requested interviews.
My experience surviving the sinking of Titanic became well-known in Japan.
Then one year later, in 1913,
a book was published by another survivor of the disaster.
Archibald Gracie’s account inferred I had stowed away in the lifeboat.
Overnight, I became a national embarrassment—a coward.
Some even suggested that I commit hara-kiri—suicide.
I was fired from my job.
Two weeks later, I was rehired because I was too valuable to lose.
But things were never the same.
If I had been dragged to the bottom of the ocean with the Titanic
I could have died a noble death.
I would have been a hero in school textbooks instead of a villain.
On that cold and terrifying April night,
in a single moment, I seized an opportunity.
And I chose life.
But my lifeboat became my death boat.
Note: Masabumi Hosono was the only Japanese passenger aboard the RMS Titanic. After he had been shamed by his country, Masabumi refused to speak about the Titanic ever again, and forbade others from discussing the subject in his presence. In 1939, he died a broken man. For years, Masabumi’s handwritten pages about his experience aboard the Titanic and his escape remained hidden in a book at the bottom of a drawer. In 2014, the Hosono family loaned their grandfather’s words to the “Yokohama Minato Museum.” It was displayed as a part of the museum’s special “Treasures Collection.”
