Chapter 2 from Haruki Murakami’s Borders Near And Far
August, 1990. Most people associate uninhabited islands with some romantic notion of adventure, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. Once you read this chapter you’ll understand. The reality is harsh. I was accompanied by Eizo Matsumura. This chapter first ran in the magazine “Mother Nature.” Mr. Murakami, the owner of the island who treated us so kindly, passed away a few years after our visit. It’s unclear what has become of Crow Island since then.
As anyone who has taken a boat along the southern end of Honshu, Japan knows, the Seto Sea is dotted with countless islands. It’s littered with them, really, from the large Awaji Island to ones too small to appear on a map. But among these numerous islands there is a surprisingly small number of privately owned ones. I didn’t know anything about it before this expedition began.
Most islands like these seem to be owned either by a local municipality or by a collective of private citizens. Particularly in Greece, many of the islands are owned by the mega-wealthy such as Aristotle Onassis (complete with a yacht dock and helipad, and inaccessible without express permission). Niihau Island in Hawaii is famous for being cut off from the outside world. They’ve preserved their traditional way of life by barring anyone new to enter for decades. However, none of those types of selfishly held islands exist in the Seto Sea. It might be nice to have just one like that.
Crow Island in Yamaguchi Prefecture is one of the few privately held islands in the Seto Sea. It’s owned by a Mr. Murakami, and I’m sad to say that we aren’t related. He lives across the water from Crow Island. He used to run an old brewery but since shutting it down he lives a laidback existence collecting rare books in his large residence that faces the sea.
Crow Island is about 800 meters directly off the coast from Mr. Murakami’s residence. It’s just under five acres large. When you see it out there only 800 meters off shore you can’t help but imagine swimming to it. However, this spot is known for having the strongest currents in all of Japan. The only times it’s feasible are at high tide and low tide when there are no currents. You’d have to swim out at high tide and then return pretty soon after at low tide, or vice versa. Some say that one kid made the swim to Crow Island a long time ago, but even once you make it there, there’s no electricity, gas, or plumbing, and nobody lives there. It’s truly an uninhabited island.
Nobody lives on the island, and yet there is a large monument. It’s a memorial to the early 20th century poet Bokusui Wakayama, engraved with a traditional waka poem. Most of the time it’s in the ocean sticking out of the water, but when the tide goes out you can walk up to it. It’s elegant and prominent. In it is carved the song “A Thousand Birds Appear Upon The Rocks On The Black Shores Of Crow Island When I Call.” Bokusui composed it for Mr. Murakami (the current owner’s father) upon staying at his home. The Murakamis were muckety-mucks who mingled with many literary greats, but their connection with Bokusui was especially strong. I felt very fortunate for the opportunity to stay in Mr. Murakami’s home. I am someone who writes for a living, yes, but I am far from a literary great. My photographer companion Matsumura is amazing talented, but he too is no literary great.
I was first inspired to come here when I heard stories of this place from one of Mr. Murakami’s relatives who my wife is good friends with. An abandoned, uninhabited island only five acres large owned privately by a family!? I was intrigued. A whole island might sound impressive, but a one room apartment in the middle of Tokyo is probably worth more in today’s money. That’s one thing, this is another. Boat is boat, fuck is fuck. (That won’t make sense if you haven’t seen the movie Shirley Valentine). The type of person who owns an island must be totally different than one who has an apartment in Tokyo. It was as I was pondering this comparison that I got more and more fascinated with going to the island. I’d bring my tent and fishing pole and stay for a number of days if I could swing it. There’s never an opportunity to stay on an uninhabited island in Japan. If I could make it happen, I’d definitely do it. So when Mr. Murakami got back to me inviting me to visit, I happily accepted.
“But you’re going to need to pick up some coffee filters,” he said. “There’s no drinking water on the island. You need coffee filters.”
“Why?”
“You’ll have to filter the sea water so you can drink it.”
As we continued to discuss the practicalities of staying on the island, the whole endeavor felt less and less safe. I got anxious. But I scrounged up a tent, big plastic jug, sleeping bag, provisions, and food canister, packed them all up in the car, and drove straight through a hurricane to Yamaguchi.
Mr. Murakami hosts us at his home the first day, and we set out for Crow Island the next. It’s that perfect weather you get right after a hurricane clears. We leave early in the morning on a boat generously provided by one of Mr. Murkami’s neighbors, first doing a full lap around the island before unloading our baggage on the island’s only beach. Actually there’s another beach but it’s under water at high tide. There’s a drastic difference between high and low tide. There’s no place to dock a boat on the island so we carry our baggage on our shoulders as we slosh our way from the boat to the shore. It feels like being a part of the Normandy Landings. The water is breath-takingly clear and gorgeous.
Speaking of wartime landing operations, the army actually conducted practice landings on this very beach during the war. The Murakami family complied with the army’s request to use the island for training purposes, and it was returned to them after the conclusion of the war. The army constructed the monument I was talking about before as a thank you. There are plenty of monuments that stand as odes to great artists, but this might be the only one that was constructed by armed forces. Despite its small size, this island’s got the sort of deep history you’d expect from an island.
Dense forest makes up 95% of the island. Bamboo flourishes here, and back during the war people came here to collect bamboo shoots. These days, nobody makes the effort. Most people aren’t able to squeeze their way past the thick growth of shrubs and trees. Numerous herons make their nests in the forest. I was terrified the first time I caught a glimpse of one of these large white herons. I thought it was a stork, it was so big. They were hanging out on large rocks right near the edge of the water. They took off with a great flapping of their wings when our boat approached the shore, with perturbed expressions on their faces that seemed to say, “Stop, don’t you dare come to our island.” They landed on some branches in the forest. This island had basically become a wild bird sanctuary. There are black hens and pigeons. And of course, as the name suggests, there are crows. Black crows and white herons taking up residence in the same trees sort of resembles a game of Othello.
No one knows what other birds inhabit these woods. Some believe there are snakes but there’s no direct proof. There’s a rumor that someone brought rabbits to the island and set them lose but again. Every now and again you’ll hear a rustling sound coming from the woods. It could be a bird, but with all the mystery surrounding what lives in the woods it easy to let your mind start racing.
The boat sets off for the mainland harbor once we’ve brought our bags to shore. Mr. Murakami was nice enough to accompany us on the trip out here.
“You really want to camp out here for three days?” he confirms with us as we part ways.
“If possible, yes. We packed enough food and water,” I reply. We’ve got two 20 liter jugs of water and half a dozen bottles of mineral water on top of that. That alone should be enough to tide us over.
When the boat is gone everything gets quiet. You can see houses on the mainland that are only 800 meters away. You can see fishing boats going back and forth across the water. I’m pretty sure that if something happened you could get help by waving your arms or shouting loudly. This is an uninhabited island, yes, but an uninhabited island suitable for beginners. It not your classic single palm tree island you’d find in the comics to represent a remote uninhabited island in the middle of the sea. But ultimately, an uninhabited island is an uninhabited island. Nobody is here except for us. Remembering that makes me suddenly stop talking.
Well, first thing’s first. We pitch our tent. Then we decided to swim. There are no waves, the water is gorgeous, and it feels particularly nice. But I got stung by a jellyfish when I ventured too far out into the ocean. I’ve never liked jellyfish. In high school I stumbled into a swarm of jellyfish while doing a long distance ocean swim and I thought I might go into cardiac arrest. Well, by the time I’d rushed back to shore I had welts all around my waist. Now that it was approaching autumn and typhoon season was over the jellyfish were starting to come out again. Sadly I gave up on swimming for the time being. I stripped naked and sunbathed in the shadow of the large rocks on the beach. This was another thing I was looking forward to doing on an uninhabited island. To be completely honest I love getting totally naked and tanning every nook and cranny of my body. You’ve got to try it for yourself – it feels amazing. But there really aren’t any opportunities to do that in Japan except for this uninhabited island. I laid out on a rock and read short stories by Ann Beattie (I highly doubt this was the best thing to read completely naked on a remote island, but it’s the only book I’d brought) for two or three hours as I basked in the sun. Occasionally a midsized cargo ship or freighter passes between the island and the mainland. The sun’s beating down on me, but everywhere around the island there’s a slight haze typical of the Seto Sea. I feel even more relaxed. “Serves you right,” I think to myself. I’m not sure who I’m directing this towards, but for some reason or another I feel emboldened. Maybe it’s another effect of being on this island.
We eat lunch and then give fishing a shot. We brought fishing gear for catching little fish that live in the sand just off the coast, but when we cast our lines into the water they get stuck on the rocky bottom of the ocean and we aren’t able to catch anything at all. W give up. Swimming and fishing are both busts. No fried fish for us. We had grand plans but thing aren’t going so well. Swimming and fishing would have made three days go by like nothing. Seems like the two of us aren’t meant to fish – we didn’t get a single bite off the coast of the Black Sea in Turkey either. Well, nothing do to but sunbathe nude and read Ann Beattie. That ends once it gets cloudy.
It’s about this time that our tale of tragedy begins. The best laid plans…
It’s 4 o’clock. Low tide exposes rocks around the perimeter of the island and we decide to walk once around. Matsumura says he wants to take some photos and I’d like to get a better sense of the island. Except for one section, the whole island’s coast is a steep cliff. The only way to walk around the island is to go at low tide. We hop from one rock revealed by the receding tide to another. Even so, there’s one spot where you have to take off your shoes and wade through the water. Matsumura had been taking photos with his Leica camera that’s he’s been carrying by a strap around his neck. No sooner does he step out into the water that he slices the back of his foot on an oyster shell. Instinctively, he reaches out for the rocks beside him, and he cuts his palm open. As you could probably guess, oyster shell are sharp and can cut you easily, and the rocky northern side of Crow Island is covered in them.
We rushed back to camp to patch up Matsumura’s cuts that were bleeding pretty badly. I disinfected the wounds and bandaged them up, but the gashes were deep and he wouldn’t stop bleeding. I brought a first aid kit with disinfectant and bandages, but not nearly enough for this kind of injury. Being on an uninhabited island for this kind of situation is a real challenge. It didn’t make any sense to swim back to shore just to go to a pharmacy. To make matters worse, Matsumura’s Leica broke when it got dunked into the water during the chaos. It was his prized antique camera, and it contained all the photos we’d shot on the island. Our conversation consisted of complaints and reassurances as it got dark: “I’m feeling woozy.” “C’mon, you’re fine.” As the sun set, the bugs came out.
Those damn bugs.
“There sure a a lot of bugs,” I thought to myself as I ate dinner, darkness setting in around us. I didn’t think too much of it. I assumed it was the amount of bugs you’d expect to find on an uninhabited island. I finished eating and had a beer, taking in the sea at dusk as I swatted bugs away. But once darkness fell, the bugs came out in Apocalyptic proportions. There were so many different kinds of bugs. First there were the roaches. There were a bunch of these guys on the rocks we visited in the afternoon but they didn’t get anywhere near us. But once it got dark they got bold, and they crawled right up to us. As you can guess, I don’t like them. Then, these things that looked like long legged spiders started jumping all around us. It didn’t seem like they’d hurt us, but it also didn’t feel particularly good being surrounded by them. Next came the things that looked like single cell organisms. When the sun’s out, they curl up and sleep under the sand. But when the sun’s gone they worm their way up to the surface. Then they look for food. They come in swarms. When people go to a normally uninhabited place and eat a meal, it attracts all sorts of bugs.
Pointing the flashlight around, we can see that the bugs are everywhere. They’re in the bag where we’ve stashed our food, in our luggage, in the camera case, on the plates, and on the tent. We rush to put the most important things in the tent that was still sealed shut, swatting out the bugs that somehow snuck their way in. Then we shut ourselves inside and sit there motionless. We don’t feel any motivation to go back out into the bug-filled evening. The tent’s cramped and humid. It’s not very comfortable for two adult men to be jammed inside. But the bugs are outside. The bugs make this awful sound above us as they swarm on top of the tent. When night falls, small creatures of the night rule this land. We are trespassers. It wouldn’t be right to complain. Small as the island is, it has the kind of self-sustaining ecosystem you’d find on any uninhabited island. You don’t really feel it during the day, but when total darkness comes you’re surrounded by it. We felt it all right… right on our bodies. There was no way to fight it and nowhere to run. The night belongs to them. It reminded me of Algernon Blackwood’s “The Willows.”
The tide gradually came back in during the night. As I said earlier, the difference between high and low tide here is drastic. Keeping this in mind, we set up the tent at the furthest spot possible back on the beach, but the tide rose so high that it was lapping at the front of our tent. I was sound asleep but in my dreams I heard the sound of the waves getting closer and closer. I wasn’t sure that everything was going to be ok, but as a sound sleeper by nature I slept through it, my mind somehow reassuring me that it would be fine. Matsumura, however, was too worried to sleep. Poor guy. He’d dropped his Leica into the sea, cut his hands and feet, been attacked by bugs, and couldn’t sleep. Not one good thing had happened to him.
Day broke, and the bugs disappeared once again. The little crawlers had dug their way back into the sand leaving countless little holes. Digging into the sand with my shovel revealed a bunch of them curled up asleep deep below. Exposed to the sun, they squirmed around as if to say, “Cut it out, give us a break, ok?” before digging they way back down into the sand. I dug up some more, tormenting them. “You cut out, you can go fuck yourself,” I thought. (I was losing my composure.) Once that felt pointless I took off all my clothes and read some more Ann Beattie.
Mr. Murakami stopped by later that morning.
“How’s it going, any problems?” Mr. Murakami shouts from his boat. He’d come by to check in on us.
Matsumura and I agreed that we didn’t want to spend one more night out here with the bugs. Also, we were worried about his injuries.
Mr. Murakami told us that that washing cuts you get in the ocean with ocean water is enough to clean them out so it shouldn’t be a problem, and that the bugs aren’t all that bad. That’s certainly one way to look at it, but neither Matsumura nor I were here to rough it out. We just wanted to relax on the beach of an uninhabited island. We didn’t want to spend night and after night cramped inside a humid tent surrounded by throngs of bugs. So as defeated as I felt, we decided to have Mr. Murakami come back to pick us up before nightfall.
In our remaining time we took another lap around the island, and this time Matsumura brought his Canon. I took a close look at the life on the seashore. There are so many different things living on the rocks revealed by the low tide. There are sea anemones, shrimp, snails, bugs I’d never seen before, crabs, and so much more, all doing their best to survive. I could stare at it all day and never get bored. It’s said that Emperor Showa would never tire of looking out at the people of Japan. Get too caught up in it and you might get addicted. A long time passed as I gazed blankly at the sea life. Maybe the late emperor spent some time relaxing and gazing blankly at these denizens of the shore as well. It is but a simple conjecture regarding the Emperor’s former affairs from I, Murakami. (I don’t know, I figured formal speech was appropriate when talking about the Emperor).
The sun slowly went down to the west and twilight approached. Just as the thousands of sand crawlers awoke below the sand and started to crawl their way back up to the surface, Mr. Murakami came back for us. We loaded up the boat, and Mr. Murakami took us on one final lap of the island. As always, the white herons were relaxing on the large rocks above the coast, and when we approached they flap about as if to say, “Hey! Hey! You again? Stay away!” But this time the boat turns away from the island, and the uninhabited island returns to the way it was before. The sand crawlers, the denizens of the shore, whatever lives in the woods, the herons and the crows come out. The island legally belongs to Mr. Murakami, but to the life on the island, legal matters are complete bullshit. “Hey man, fuck off.” It’s of no concern to them. Law is law, uninhabited island is uninhabited island. Boat is boat, fuck is fuck.
Despite all of our unfortunate incidences, the uninhabited island was a truly fascinating place. It might only be an uninhabited island for beginners, but it still packs a punch. To anyone who plans to stay on an uninhabited island – and I’ve got no way to figure out how many Japanese people are in that position – please be careful. More than I can ever express, I am grateful for the hospitality of Mr. Murakami of Ihonosho Distict, Yanai City, Yamaguchi Prefecture, Japan.