When we lived in Japan in the late ‘80s, K. and I would sometimes, during the warm summers, take a day and drive north up the Shimokita Peninsula.
When we reached Mutsu Town, we’d follow the turn west in our little Subaru sedan onto the 338 Road that hugged the north coast of Mutsu Bay. Along the way, we’d stop at a market shop, and smoke a couple cigarettes in the parking lot of the shop and perhaps get a couple sandwiches or some sushi or dried squid, and sake.
And I would look at K. as she sat on the hood, the salt water breeze from the bay blowing her shoulder length hair, her skin tanned from the long summer days. Her smile.
And sometimes she would drive. And sometimes I would drive. We were in no hurry back then. We had nothing but time on a warm afternoon when the morning clouds had cleared.
The road then turned north at Japan Station and left the coast, cutting deep into Wakinosawa.
This is the realm of the snow monkeys, on the western coast of the Shimokita Peninsula (“The Blade,” as the Japanese called it).
After a bit of a drive, the road neared the western coast, and now the Sea of Japan, and we arrived at the Hotokegaura Rock Formations.
The water of the sea lapped into coves. During high summer, the emerald green water was warm enough that we’d skinny dip in the warm of that June afternoon. And then we’d sit, silently, watching the tide come in, watching the water rise until we’d leave, least we became trapped.
All on a Solstice Day, long ago.
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