Shinsuke Sakuraba

Journal Entries

• An ode to soldier and traveler

  I did not bring ample safety equipment. I did not wear the proper attire one needed to battle the elements. I was armed with a pair of old slacks, a summertime yukata shirt, and wheat sandals with socks that had holes in them. In my nap sack were three balls of rice, each one covered in a seaweed wrap. I remember starting the climb hours before the sun rose, and reached back down to ground level just as it set. The moon was very high in the clouds by the time I got home. My parents were waiting for me along with three village officers. When they asked where I've been (quite angrily in fact, but rightfully so) I told them what I'll tell you now:
  
  I climbed Mt. Kubotai.
  
  The officers couldn't help but laugh. My mother thought I was making light of the situation and slapped me for saying it. I remember looking into their eyes, each of them flashing a look of disbelief, all except for my father. He said nothing, but veiled by the shadows cast from the porch lanterns I swear I saw him grin.
  
  It shocks me to this day that I did such a thing at eight years old.
  
  Most explorers would bare the honor proudly, yet all I can think of is how fortunate I am to have lived to tell the tale. This was not seeded by some profound goal. I was not influenced by the villagers and mountaineers, belching tales around campfires about its mythic climb. What provoked me was the simple desire to look beyond the canopy of endless green. To see beyond Imoju, if such a thing were possible.
  
  To my surprise it was very possible. Unbelievably so.
  
  I stood at the very peak and saw what only a select few had witnessed. It was like a massive painting, curved to loop around my entire field of vision. The Uji Jungle appeared smaller, like a lake of lush greenery, overshadowed by the expansive weight of the surrounding ocean. The sun had reached its peak by then, and its rays lanced through scattered clouds, turning the sea into radiant diamonds. I looked down below, beyond the capital city and to the west where my village sat. Oji Village, known for its giant red windmill, a speckle compared to the grandness before me. In this moment I realized that the world was much bigger than Imoju.
  
  This vivid memory resurfaces every time I embark on a new journey.
  
  Yet, with all of the things I've seen and the adventures I've experienced, my stories are sure to leave many baffled. In fact I've been called a charlatan for recounting such tales to non-believers.
  
  I won't lie.
  
  To hear someone attempt to invalidate my claims briefly saddens me. Not for my ego's sake, but for the memories of those who couldn't live to tell the tale themselves.
  
  But it is in those moments where I imagine my father looming in the background, just like he did when I came home that night...grinning with approval. I'd like to think all of the men and women that died serving their country, or trekked for discovery, are nodding in agreement too. Romanticized as that may seem, it is a comforting thought nonetheless.
  
  When I follow them into the next life ... I hope my story will be told, regardless of whichever ear it falls upon, so long as it echoes in the wind and find its way back to the red windmill of my village...