These weren't the harrowing capes of New England or the wild coasts of the Pacific Northwest,
but the rocky terrain encircling Zamami-jima, (Zamami Island) certainly felt like unchartered territory to me.
Zamami was the island's name, but it also became the endearment I used to address my two female
travelling companions, who, conveniently superior in years and naturally wiser, were thus
worthy of the reverent moniker. They were attempting to take that shortcut
'real mom says' you never should; the bee-line to the video store that leads you to the ghetto,
the "oh, I'm sure it's just around the corner" that leads you to the shipping docks. But we
were on bite-sized island in the middle of the Pacific and 'real mom' was thousands of miles
away, so I did as any good lass would do: I followed the mommy(s) available like a dog on a short leash.
It had been a sweepingly sunny day, relaxing on a coarsely sanded beach, reading Dave Barry Does Japan
to each other aloud and laughing even louder. If humanity had been in earshot, our excitement
may have startled them. It was November, and even though Zamami island, two hours southwest of
Okinawa, was bursting with sunshine, the locals were indoors warming with green tea, and most of tourists
were S.C.U.B.A. diving on the horizon. For us, it was near paradise.
That is, until chose to challenge the islands geography and met our nemesis,
the rocky sea-crags of Zamami's northern cape. At this point, the sun had gone
and now it was gloomy, dark and overcast. The clouds had rolled in, and it was getting colder. We could no longer lounge on
the beach comfortably. Our hotel and the beach were on separate shores of the island, and a steep hike up and over a
well-paved path (are there dirt roads in Japan, I wondered?) seemed to be the only route between the two.
That is, until Zamami #1 (or was it Zamami #2) considered the crags.
This seems to always happen to travellers. One minute you're enjoying a margarita and a sunset,
the next you're fighting with your umbrella to keep its shape.
"We should try and hike our way around this," one of my Zamamis said. Really?. Don't let them
see you sweat. "Yeah, why not," I jabbed back non-chalantly, as if I traversed shores like this for a living.
If I could see Zamami's village and our hotel, then surely we could make it there safely, I deluded myself.
But seeing was not believing, and I was still skeptical of our chances even though our destination was well in sight.
It wasn't just that I thought we would get wet. The water was fairly warm. It was nearing dusk
at the time and the waves had picked up their pace and power, and they were beginning to
crash up against the crags with menacing force. The first few minutes were uneventful - we skipped
our way atop the rocks that resembled razor blades. As long as we stayed on top of
them, where they were flat, we could continue at this pace all the way around the cape.
I began to regain confidence and my tough-guy facade became easier to act out. Some parts of the path were so smooth that
it almost felt that someone had been here before, someone who had paved out a path around
this promontory specifically for us to follow.
My two Zamamis had led the way for most of the horizontal climb but after a while I raced ahead of
them to pretend I was a pro. "Hey, look at me!" I thought. "This is easy! Look, mom(s), no hands!" For a moment,
I truly felt like I had conquered the island and had control of the chaos of its crags.
And then, twenty minutes from the beach, in the natural progression of a career of fame, my bubble burst.
A mini-bay, surrounded by diamond-sharp rocks jutting out at right angles.
The years of water's endless crash had carved an inlet the length of a picnic table, but with
unsanded edges and a strong undertoe below. Should we jump or should we swim?
We still had all of our belongings in bags - books, cameras, towels - so jumping seemed
to be the most logical choice. But maybe the leap was too far, and if you fall short,
a nasty gash that would be. I practiced jumping in my mind....one, two, three....it was
the classic "betcha ten bucks you can't do it!" gamble, only this time I wasn't with my
smelly school buddies. My two Zamamis actually thought I could do it. They probably would
have bet ON me!
"Should I jump?" I asked.
"Are you crazy?" they replied, almost in unison. "No, we want you to swim," and they laughed.
Oh, I see, I thought. You just want me to play guinea pig. "You run over there, son,
and tell me what you see. You be careful now!"
Well I guess my spirits were high, because I was confident to a fault and agreed to
brave the raging tides. It didn't at the time matter to me if my two Zamamis were truly
scared or simply smarter. They had placed their confidence in me,
for whatever reason, and that meant the world to me.
Any other day and we may have been whale-watching, Zamami-jima's most famous pasttime.
Today that passive adventure was out of season, but I wasn't dissappointed.
Ours was clearly an carpe diem affair. We were legitimately risking our lives here.
One misstep and...
