Collecting shells at Zushi
At home again
There is a giant bee just outside my window about the size of my thumb. The windows have screens, but the bees have found their way around that obstacle before. I don’t know why they want to come inside such a narrow room when they have all of the outside world to themselves.
Early this morning, around 3 a.m, I woke up because there was a bright flash at the window. I sat up and tried to open my eyes. My first sleepy thought was, “camera flash,” and my chest began tightening around its center. A breath later, the slow rumbling sound of thunder followed. I lay back down, watched as the flashes continued, and listened for the deep rolls that trailed along after. It reminded me of my grandmother’s house in summer. We sat on the terrace, watching a storm unfold across the lake that couldn’t touch us. There were wind chimes to our left, waves lapping the small shore below.
The ocean
I traveled to Nokendai Station this weekend—a little-known place on the Keikyu Main Line, south of Yokohama, and north of Yokosuka. The train is red, often delayed, and feels older and quieter than the trains in Tokyo. Before arriving at Nokendai Station, where I would meet a dear friend I hadn’t seen in years, I went to Zushi Beach. Coming from Tokyo, I packed light, but I stood out on the coast. I don’t have sandals. I wore my sneakers that have the least amount of holes in them, mismatching socks, a second-hand vest over a striped leotard (a substitute for a bathing suit), and loose, oversized jeans with a belt. I carried an overnight backpack on my shoulders with a towel, and a change of clothes. A paper gift bag dangled from my left arm, swinging with each step. Inside it were mauve roses for my friend, a purple bucket hat for her newborn baby, a pink purse, and pink sunglasses for her three-year-old.
Before I found a place to sit on the beach, I saw someone I knew. We both stared at each other for a moment, unsure, and surprised. Many Tokyo residents come to the coast, but when we leave the city we seem to fall under a spell that makes us believe that wherever we go is some kind of secret. We don’t expect to be known in the place we run to for change, though we all tend to run to the same places for change. He stood and walked over to me where I awkwardly stood with my bags, and we hugged. What are you doing here? He asked. I came here to swim, I said. Me too, he said. He invited me to sit with his friends beneath a red umbrella that they had rented, identical to the other rented umbrellas around us.
I unfolded my yellow bath towel next to them, and undressed. The roses were beginning to wilt in the heat, so I covered them gently with my vest. The beach was crowded. Every twenty minutes an announcement from the loudspeaker rang out, listing all the rules we were meant to follow in both English and Japanese. There were security guards weaving through the sea of rental umbrellas, watching us; they had serious faces and looked overheated in their navy-colored uniforms.
The shallow waters were swarming with people in floatation devices, bobbing up and down, splashing and screaming at each other in close proximity. Zushi is like this in July; hot and overpopulated. The rules and the security guards felt unusual and uncomfortable, if not entirely out of place. I went for a swim. The sand burned the bottoms of my feet, so I moved quickly through the maze of umbrellas, then slowly and carefully around the jostling bodies in the shallow water. Once past them, once the ground disappeared from my toes, the water emptied and opened; sounds from the shore grew distant, and I met the indifference of the waves like an old friend. I swam for what felt like a while, but it’s hard to know how long.
It was a clear, blue day. I thought I would be able to see Mt.Fuji, but I couldn’t. I remember wondering if it would have been easier to see Fuji from Enoshima, or Kamakura, the other beaches on the west coast of the Miura Peninsula. In the water, I could see the mountains across from Sagami Bay. They were made with unfamiliar, jagged lines and shapes, just faint outlines. I was glad to finally be able to see them, to learn that they too had been sitting behind the clouds the times I came before.
Back on the shore, my eyes scanned the beach for my yellow towel. That was fast. My friend said upon my return. Was it? I asked. I’m not sure, actually, he said. My hair was dripping. He and his friends offered me cookies. The chocolate melted on my fingers when I ate them. I began looking for seashells as the others started packing their things. They told me I could stay with the red rental umbrella: It's yours until 5 p.m, they said. I thanked them, and told them I would be leaving shortly to meet my friend at Nokendai. I gave them each a shell that seemed to match their clothes. After they left, I reached into my paper gift bag, remembering I had bought something for myself too: a gold-colored chain, an anklet. I draped it around my left ankle, attached the small clasp, then returned to the water—the quiet part—for a little longer.
What amazing storytelling! I was there. Perhaps someday. Love the pictures.
I loved how the storm took you right back to your grandmother's porch. As always, the descriptions were so thought provoking. And I loved the series of pictures from your journey, especially where you are holding your treasures. Thank you for letting us join you there