Ohagi and the Sea

猫と海
甘き豆餅
夢の縁

Cat and sea —
sweet bean rice cake,
a bond dream-woven.

When the ocean finally called, I accepted the offer. All to myself, I swam unhurried, unburdened, out to the jagged island of rock that juts up like an old sea castle — the silent guard where wide open waters meet the clear cradle of Ebisu Beach.

Out there, the currents remember things: battles fought offshore, troops repatriated through Maizuru’s sheltered port, fishermen who never came home. They remember my worries too, but only long enough to wash them clean.

This was May, after I returned. No Senbei this time — but something else was calling.

So I listen. I get up at four. The sun peeks through my east-facing room before any alarm can scold me. Daisan’s old voice nudges: Greet the day, fool. Don’t ask why.

So I do. I stretch, sit in the big washitsu, windows wide, morning dew clinging to the moss and stone basin below the pines.

Then I walk — fast, stick in hand like a pilgrim. Up the 106 steps to the hilltop shrine, bow to the sun rising behind Obama’s distant ridges, thank it for today — just today.

Down the other side I skirt Nabae Beach, where even now a lone surfer sits cross-legged on his board, waiting for the story he will ride and remember. Stoic, unhurried, salt and thought drifting together.

I pass the point — all rock and tumble. Prehistoric ammonites the size of my big toe speckle the path. They pretend not to mind the intrusion, peppering away from my steps like I’m just another wave passing through.

Beyond that, the old concrete breakwater stands guard against winter storms. A lone boat bobs there, chained in place, its hull crusted with barnacles and secrets. One day we’ll talk, that boat and I — but not today.

And then — a cat. Not Senbei. Bigger, ruffled, fur the warm color of kinako dusted on fresh ohagi. He sits there like he’s been waiting since before dawn. As I step closer, he blinks once, curls his tail tight, and drops a poem in my head, lazy as the tide:

No, I’m not Senbei.
But he told me about you.
Where’s the cracker he bragged about? Silly man.

I laugh, squat so we’re eye to eye. “Senbei was my cracker cat. You look like kinako on fresh mochi. I’ll call you Ohagi.”

He doesn’t flinch. Tail flicks once. Name accepted. He watches me pass, a monk pretending to be a stray.

At the foot of the Ebisu statue I stand where clear water kisses sand. Ebisu grins his fat fisherman grin without saying a word — but somehow I hear him: Yes. Now.

Off come my shirt and shorts — down to what my wife calls my skivvies — and into the blue I go. Fresh. Cool. Pure.

I swim far, then float on my back, baptized by the same sea that has always known how to hush a man’s noise. Alone yet not alone. Overhead, birds approve. Beneath me, minnows skip school to swirl around my ankles. Welcome back, they say.

I walk home barefoot to Aoba-an, salt drying on my skin. I hose off outside, chuckling — same fool, same old trick: half naked, grinning like a stray dog.

And today, instead of coffee, I think: 
“No. Today calls for tea.”

Tea and ohagi.
I know just the place — a small wagashiya in Seiko（mitsumatsu） I stumbled on once while wandering the tambos. I always wondered why in the world a sweets shop would open at six a.m.

Now I know.

Another of Aoba’s secrets, revealed by a cat named Ohagi and the sea.