To a Woman Contemplating Suicide

you seem to understand neither words

         nor silence

but I will dive once again, foolish man,

     into the sea of self-pity

and loathing that has become your time

        on earth.

inside of me – and you -

             are beauty and terror, both

 doors sometimes leading to each other,

         and also fragile, rich moments

  of  sheer banality

            mind clouds flaring sublimely

a lazy thought minding its own business

            some immutable disinterested synapse

outside, too, terror and beauty

leaning, if we believe the awful news, to terror

where beauty is stark and rare

            yet enough to last a lifetime

but walk outside and sip

            tea under the old bent street trees

and see clouds of vaporous brandy

peach and apricot reflected

in dainty cups at the chic cafe in the tame town

            legacy of multitudes of conquests

now firmly held by your kind and ilk

it’s yours to savor

or continue the drive-by world angry and incoherent

            a victim of defeat and meaninglessness

mauled by law and the stern keepers of your soul

            time on your hands and wracking your brain

for ways to retaliate at your own illusions

take your pick, choose to lose, or refuse

            to slaughter yourself slowly

any door will do, or none at all if contentment

can be found in the slow turning

of the world and the spinning of your mind

After a Morning Shower

so I’ve been thinking as I occasionally  do

during my daily baptism, each morning

washing on a new self (dedicated to truth,

justice and a more human way, which lasts almost until after I’ve donned my briefs),

and somewhere in there I get global thoughts, I mean big ideas and ‘time’

echoes back to me

I suppose ‘the times’ have always been the same

and in the political world demagogues have all ways spoken the words

mobs love to hear

and jingoists have in all ways fashioned

frenzied phrases fixing young and old adrenaline

creating the ‘moral’ basis that entice their children to

murder and be murdered

(I wonder why we wonder when we see the blood-flecked grins on the urchins in the streets)

amidst this and the ordinary dreariness of ordinary exigencies

I am drawn to the echo of your word – ‘time’ -

it is all to us, and it is true I aim to steal what I can of it -

that is my one fundamental honesty –

and so I look for jewels that cannot be bought

a fool, although not on the scale of Camus’ Caligula, who could not be satisfied but by owning the moon in the water, but who can, in plundering pleasure and sensual oblivion,

give deep wounds to a soft heart

and I knew from the first when you strayed from your intended target –

a mild giggle of fate -

that you were a gem formed by tremendous forces

(or like a famous trompe d’oeil, you created yourself in spite of tremendous forces)

and I was fascinated, even distracted, and my thieving self conspired that

I would know that ruby and the soul within

knowing that I was a thief

(time is stingy and has closed claws binding the count)

knowing that I was a dreamer, dreaming of being a thief and at that time

I had been playing the eunuch to a dull and dreary wife with no interest in my dreams

nor even my thievery

bound as she was to her own desires and the depression that seemed to be the only comfort she could take

I don’t know why but when you awoke my dreams the ether changed

and the One Woman appeared, knowing all my secret thoughts

she vibrated

and awoke herself and tenderness blossomed and I was semi-stunned and grateful

and I struggled with the thief and the idiot within

stammered out an apology to my unknown god and returned to the void inside

but then we had tea ( you and I)

and the foreplay was exquisite because your eyes danced and your mind sang in synaptic joy parrying the little bolts of my tease knowing I was made by your taunting laughter

and the flash of your tongue gliding over your teeth like a masterly concerto

and I nearly ached with wanting, torn by the man monster and the god

wanting to be good, wanting to be bad

and your goodbye flipped me out

so tempting so woman

(the black lace enfolding the oh so desirable so fascinating flesh)

then time plowed on and now I think of the drawing never finished, the poem never spoken, the song never heard and the space unfilled

but I loved the dream of playing with you forgetting the worm that waits, the ‘other’

that trusts, the theft of time, the sin of betrayal

I meant no harm though all I offered was emptiness

Eye of the Beholder

By Eugene Gross as told to R. Cantù
 1945 was a heck of a year. Not just for me, a twenty-two year old sailor in the dangerous waters of the Pacific, but for the USA and the rest of the world.

 While I was at sea, part of a vast fleet dedicated to defeating Hirohito’s boys, Hitler’s Master Race was getting its Aryan butt kicked all across Europe.

 But even though the Nazi dream was rapidly turning into a nightmare for Der Fuehrer and his sidekicks, with their troops surrendering by the thousands, the Japanese military was still determined to fight to the last man.

 Thanks to a newspaper printed and distributed to everyone in the fleet we were aware of the ferocity of the struggles being waged by the army and Marines on the islands controlled by the Japanese. As a yeoman aboard the Destroyer Escort Waterman, I was also in on much of the general scuttlebutt about what was happening in the rest of the war as well.

 I knew that the battles that had been slowly won all over the Pacific had cost the sweat and blood of countless American lives and that the enemy was fanatical in its devotion to the emperor and their homeland.

 They were cruel to their captives, as shown by their cold-blooded execution of nearly a hundred POWs on Wake Island, and their treatment of prisoners everywhere they were. Surrender was dishonorable to them, the idea pounded into the troops by their warlords, who had adopted the old codes of the samurai. Just how vicious they actually were was revealed later after the war.

 But nobody fighting them could say that they were not formidable opponents. Their high command knew that every island lost to them meant that we were one step closer to the Japanese mainland, so their plan was to make every inch of dirt taken by our troops be extremely painful. Japanese soldiers were ordered to fight to the death and that suicide was expected of them instead of surrender.

 I’d say I was pretty lucky to be where I was, out at sea instead of hitting the beaches, even though life aboard ship was no picnic. Quarters were cramped, which most of us got used to eventually, but the chow was tolerable enough and at least we didn’t have to worry about being ambushed by well camouflaged guys intent on putting holes in our bodies.

 We had shore leave every three weeks or so for a few hours at places won from the Japanese. Since I was the one in charge of writing passes I made sure I was on the R&R runs, of course. There were games and stuff, although I recall once in Guam where the Red Cross made us buy the coffee and donuts. That made me so mad I never again contributed a penny to them. It just didn’t seem right to me.

 Back aboard ship what we did have to worry about were submarines. If any of them got through to our ships it would be pretty rough going. But if any got through to the tankers it would be disastrous, as the fleet ran on oil. No oil, no go.

 We knew our job was absolutely vital to making sure those guys sacrificing their youth, sweat, and blood had what they needed to do their jobs, all the while keeping our eyes peeled for the dangers that could come at the fleet from out of the sky as well as from under the sea.

 Zeros were to be feared, but our Navy fighters did a great job of handling them most of the time. But then the enemy started new tactics in the Leyte Gulf. They were called kamikazis and old Black Jack told people later that they were the only weapons he feared during the war. “Black Jack “was our code name for Admiral William “Bull” Halsey, who had been put in command of the Pacific forces in 1942 by President Franklin Roosevelt.

 Those suicide bombers were really frightening as they were relentless in accomplishing their missions. A few of those doomed fellows did have second thoughts on their death dives and fell short of their targets, maybe hoping for softer landings in the sea. Didn’t happen, though, and they’d go down into watery graves. The ones that did hit our vessels caused a lot of damage and we all hoped we would never be in their sights.

 I was assigned to a machine gun during general quarters and got pretty good at it. Fortunately for me, I never had to face the banzai charges our troops encountered in places I had never before heard of but never after forgot. Our guys got pretty chewed up in places like Wake, Corregidor, Guadalcanal, Tarawa, Iwo Jima and others now forever part of history, but in the end, they gave better than they got and we continued on our way to the Japanese homeland.

 After Saipan and Tinian fell there was one more big battle before the planned invasion to the heart of Japan itself – Okinawa.

 Vice Admiral Fischer had sent out nearly two thousand sorties six months before the start of the real battle to soften up the enemy and map the terrain. Naha, the biggest city on the island was flattened but cloud cover prevented accurate photos for analysis.

 By that time the Japanese knew they were in bad shape, but tenaciously committed to try and keep us off their actual doorsteps. American High Command figured it would take about ten days for Okinawa to fall. Man, were they wrong.

 While the enemy tactic before had been the banzai suicide charges against our fellows right at the beachheads, in Okinawa a new strategy emerged. Taking advantage of the caves that honeycombed the place, along with ancient tombs, they dug in and waited to decimate our boys in crossfire, while making it near impossible for our ordnance to penetrate their defenses.

 So what appeared to be a cakewalk on April 1st, 1945 as the US Army and Marines came on shore as part of the largest invasion fleet ever assembled in history – including Normandy – after about ten days turned into a slaughterhouse.

 We pounded them with a torrent of artillery from battleships far off shore as well as tons of bombs from countless planes to little avail. There was more deadly tonnage dropped on the place than ever had been in any war, which made life miserable not only for their fighting troops but also for the poor Okinawan civilians who were, in truth, caught in the middle. Only our troops on the ground could grind out an eventual victory.

 A quarter of a million people died during the nearly three months of desperate warring under conditions difficult to imagine. This included over fourteen thousand young American lives, almost 5,000 of those were sailors killed by the dreaded kamikazis. Civilian losses were guessed to be near 150 thousand.

 We knew nothing of what was happening on tiny Tinian on August 6th, nor could we guess what the result would be. But on that morning a lone B-29, accompanied only by two small escorts, took off on the way to the teeming city of Hiroshima. As the first atomic bomb ever used in war dropped, a radio command signaled a trigger of uranium to hurl into the main bulk of purified U235 and created a critical mass that built until the weapon was about 1,500 feet above the center of the condemned city.

 A few days later another one was released over the city of Nagasaki.

 Sometime later - couple of weeks maybe - the exact time escapes me these 70 years later, my ship, along with some others was sent to Hiroshima. There was nothing left. A few shipmates and I went wandering through the ruins hoping to find souvenirs. As young fellows are, we were full of bravado, searching for ‘war trophies’, I guess. I stopped at one point to bargain with a Japanese soldier over a watch or something as my companions continued walking along. I soon noticed that I was alone, surrounded by enemy soldiers, still carrying their weapons!

 I hightailed it out there to catch up with my guys, I can tell you that. I did manage to find a “Rising Sun” flag, but it disappeared from my basement a few years ago.

 Although Hiroshima was completely demolished we did find about fifty of our guys who had been taken prisoner at Bataan. How these fellows managed to survive the POW camps and all they endured is beyond me. The SS Waterman and another ship each took about twenty-five of these men and treated them like royalty, as far as was possible.

 My son-in-law last summer asked me what Hiroshima looked like when I first saw it. “Beautiful,” I replied. I saw the confusion on his face – how could such a terrible thing be beautiful, he must have thought.

 It was not beautiful, of course. Looking back now I am aware that many thousands of people died and beautiful cities destroyed by a force almost too huge to imagine. But I’ve heard that those bombs, horrible as they were, actually saved a lot of lives. The estimate of losses expected if we would have had to invade the Japanese mainland was going to cost about 250,000 American casualties. The Japanese would lose five to six million dead or wounded, according to planners in the High Command.

 The reason for such heavy losses was because of the determination of the Japanese warlords to fight to the bitter end. Even women and children trained with sharpened bamboo sticks and many were prepared to take their own lives in the face of an American victory. Enemy propaganda had pounded into them that we would be monsters who would treat them to terrible fates. They knew no better and were convinced death was preferable to capture or dishonorable surrender.

 Sailing into Yokohama harbor after the peace was signed I saw how heavily defended it was. White cloth had been hung over the artillery placements that seemed to be everywhere and I realized we would have had a heck of a time surviving under the blaze of those guns.

 As a young warrior, having seen and heard of the cruelty of a merciless enemy, the total victory achieved by the dropping of two mighty bombs was wonderful. It meant that we could go home, that our families, friends and our country were safe from the depredations of a committed enemy.

 After so much misery, blood, death, and suffering, to see that enemy vanquished, completely and for good, was at that moment to me, nothing less than beautiful. Beauty, as they say, is in the eye of the beholder, right? Later, my son-in-law said he understood.

AN UNEXPECTED ENEMY - A BRIEF MEMOIR I 'ghostwrote' this article for my Father-in-law, Eugene Gross, to appear in his a club's newsletter. It is written in the first person as a personal experience. 
  An Unexpected Enemy

Allure of the Sea is the name of the largest and most luxurious cruise ship in the world looming like a small city as we approach the pier in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Also approaching is my ninetieth birthday, which is the reason about twenty of my relatives and I are getting ready to join over five thousand other souls for a seven day jaunt toodling around the Caribbean.

 I cannot help but think how far the distance in time and circumstance is from that moment seventy years ago when I was a young sailor about to embark on a dull gray destroyer escort named the USS Waterman DE 740 to enter the greatest military conflict in history.

 Looking back I can see that the Waterman would appear to be a bathtub toy compared to the behemoth now set to take us on a leisurely tour to tropical vacation spots. And it was certainly no holiday that was intended when I and a few hundred other fellows boarded our warship in 1943.

 Man, were we unaware of what was ahead!

 I had to cajole my dear old mother into allowing me to join the service being that I was not quite seventeen years old, but she finally reluctantly agreed to let me sign up and I joined a National Guard unit in my home state of New York.

It was during basic training when I found myself crawling on my belly through mud and strung out barbed wire that I figured there had to be a cleaner, better way to serve my country. The only route to improving my lot, however, was to enlist fulltime, and I was pretty sure that the one service where there would not be a lot of dirt to deal with was the Navy. So there I went.

After boot camp at the Great Lakes Naval Training Base I was assigned to radio school to learn how to use Morse Code to encrypt and decipher other codes used for secure communications. It was a constant barrage of dots and dashes for hours at a time at the school run by the University of Illinois and after a few weeks my head was spinning with the staccato clicks.

 I was in a fix. My mind seemed unable to make sense of the course and I realized I was not going to be able to cut it, but the idea of quitting was repulsive to me. Finally, though, I went to my commanding officer and explained my problem.

He was not encouraging in his reaction and it did not take long for him to begin the explaining. “Look,” he said, “you’ve cost Uncle Sam fifteen thousand dollars so far sending you to school. You can’t just throw that away.” “Fifteen thousand dollars!” I was flabbergasted by the amount but he went on to itemize the details, and there was no arguing that I had cost the government a pretty penny for the few excruciating weeks I had spent trying to get the hang of the noise in my earphones.

 “Give it another go,” he prodded, “Put your mind to it – you can do it.”

I tried my darndest but it was no use and it was with no small sense of failure that I went back to face the CO and tender my regret at being unable to grasp the course.

 Leaving the school ended my chances for a technical assignment as I was informed that I had already wasted too many of the taxpayers’ dollars.

So it was that I ended up as a yeoman on the USS Waterman escorting tankers in the Pacific.

After the embarrassment of my brief career in the specialist’s school I was determined not to flub up anything else and I became a pretty good yeoman, working on the bridge of the ship alongside the officers.

 One important thing I learned in the Navy was that there are no unimportant jobs aboard a ship and that each sailor has to be totally on task within his given assignment. Unlike the other services where a soldier or Marine has to be able to take on different roles as the situation calls for, a sailor has to do his unique part exactly right for the craft to function the way it should.

 You could say that a ship at war is like a fine watch – there are no extra pieces and what pieces there are have to interact with everything else to keep the proper time.

 That was the way it was with us throughout the well-documented battles of the war against Japan in the Pacific.

 The fights were fierce, with an enemy determined never to surrender and dedicated to inflicting as much punishment as it could. It took a formidable amount of coordination to make sure that the troops involved had whatever they needed to carry out the missions on places that have become legendary in world history.

Tarawa, the Solomon Islands, The Marshall Islands, Iwo Jima, Kwajalien, Guam, Saipan, Tinian and finally Okinawa were all bought with plenty of American blood, sweat, and tears, searing their names forever into the annals of war. And I was there doing my bit while the Waterman and her sister ships provided escort, cover and protection for the tankers, vital mobile fuel suppliers without which the mighty fleets would be rendered virtually useless.

The enemy could come from anywhere and it kept us constantly on our toes. We were prepared for attacks from submarines, planes and other ships but the scariest moments of the war for most of my shipmates and me came from a completely unexpected source – Mother Nature.

 The exact date, time and location escape me this far removed but the experience remains vivid and fresh in my memory.

 I was on watch, which generally ran from midnight until 0400, perched high up in my usual position on the bridge when the storm began.

The spotters and weather guys knew it was coming, of course, but predicting the erratic course of such storms was haphazard at best in those days. I had learned that hurricanes were called typhoons in that part of the world but I had no idea what the power in such a phenomenon could be. It didn’t take very long to find out.

The wind picked up speed, rain stated to splat with the force of a 50mm and the waves began to boil. That was just the start.

For the next eight to ten hours, which seemed like eternity to me, hell was on the seas. It felt as if the ocean was determined to devour us, aided and abetted by ferocious winds and rain like I had never before, or since, experienced.

 We were tossed around as if we were twigs in a flood. Visibility was pretty limited but I could see that the rest of the fleet was not having it any better. Then a sight through a break in the veil of fog and rain revealed something that was hard to comprehend and probably will be hard for you to really believe – an Enterprise-class carrier suddenly went bow under the waves and the gigantic screws lifted up completely out of the water!

 The power of the storm, of nature in a fury still amazes me. It was so intense and insistent that three ships of the fleet went down, taking over twelve hundred American sailors to the bottom of the deep blue. The Spence, Hull, and Moynihan disappeared as if they had never existed.

The sharks gathering, however, told the truth, and the thought of the suffering of those poor fellows makes me sad to this day.

 Why one man dies in war and the other right next him does not has been attributed by some to fate or destiny. Others will say it is divine grace, while still others say it’s just plain dumb luck. Whatever it is was working for me during that torment, for as I was making my way along the bridge the ship rolled and I lost my footing. Had the Captain not been in that place at that particular time I would not be here to relate my story. He saved me from certain death by grabbing the back of my belt as I was toppling off the deck.

 Destiny, grace, or luck, whatever it was gave me the opportunity to enjoy nearly a century of life so far with the wonderful gifts that has offered of family, friends, and extraordinary experiences and adventure.

 But I will always remember most profoundly my time in service to the Good Ole USA, and the hours when I encountered, and survived, an unexpected enemy

Perestroika – From Russia With Love - and Good Taste

Okinawa is an amazing place. Just when a person thinks they’ve seen all there is to see on this little island, up pops another delightful surprise. Say, for instance, you suddenly get a craving for genuine Beef Stroganoff or a hearty serving of authentic Old World borscht. No need to book a trip to Moscow or St. Petersburg.

It may be a little hard to believe that you can find most excellent Russian food in this part of the planet, but you can. It’s in a tiny restaurant called Perestroika, smack in the heart of Naha.

Owner and operator Elena Nikitenko named it after Mikhail Gorbachev’s philosophy that began the dissolution of the old Soviet Union and the ending of the Cold War. That, in turn, led to more friendly relationships between what is now Russia and the United States and opened Russia to the rest of the world.

That is very fortunate for people in Okinawa because now the sampling of real Russian home style cooking is within reach.

To assure that the cuisine stays true to its roots Ms Nikitenko employs a chef from her native city of Vladivostok who, Nikitenko says, “puts her heart and soul into her cooking.”

She also states, “I would like for everybody to try my restaurant’s food because it is like the warmth of being at home.”

Of course, the home part could be true if you have an ex-grand chef like Irina Sechova doing the kitchen for you. It’s not just anybody who can whip up a real ‘jarkoe’ so perfectly delicious that the bread covering baked on top overflows, like a mushroom gone ballistic. Inside the bubbly stew pod pie is a savory blend of meat and vegetables that compels you to sop up the last little bit at the bottom of the bowl.

The jarkoe is only one of the culinary concoctions familiar to Russians but probably unknown to most Americans. For example, how many have tasted Sibirskia Pelmeni? It is a traditional dish of minced meat filling surrounded by thin dumpling dough. And how about Morskoi Zamok, which is filleted cod in a spinach sauce? The variety is tempting. Golybcy, Russian style rolled cabbage – delicious! Then there’s Myaso Po-rybatski, described as flavorful pork served with scallops, onions, tomatoes and cheese.

Some of Perestroika’s menu items might be recognized by taste, if not by name. Vareniki is also called a perogie in Canada or pirogi in Chicago. It’s a dumpling stuffed with mashed potatoes and sour cabbage.

Beef Stroganoff is a well-known classic but this version is the genuine article, made by someone who would never think of using stuff that comes in a box. Real beef, real sour cream and real Russian soul go into this delectable offering.

There are other surprises you will want to discover, from the creative salads to the out-of-this world desserts.

There is one extra special treat if you go on Saturday or Sunday – the passionate dancing of Leila Askerova. She performs traditional folk dances and a temperature-raising Russian Gypsy dance with energetic, earthy abandonment.

The restaurant is open Tuesday through Sunday from 6:00 pm to midnight with last orders taken at 11:00. Prices range from ¥ 1700 to ¥ 3200 for complete sets, with all items available ala carte.

To find this gem take Highway 58 south from Kinser, past the Kukasai turnoff to the overpass with sign announcing Highway 330 (before the actual intersection to 330) and take a left. Go to the end of the block, turn right, heading south. There will be two small parking lots where you should park as the restaurant has only two spaces. Walk south past the first small street and look for Perestroika in the middle of the next block on the west side of the street.

Phone (098) 863-2206 or check out their website . It is in Japanese but you can use your computer translator for a general look.

Kendo, The Art of the Sword and the Keen Mind

Tom McGee is a real stand out in his class. Literally. For one thing, the six foot plus Georgia native is the only ‘gaijin’ in the Kendo group, and, what’s more, the rest of the students are all elementary and middle school age children.

But McGee is not really bothered by those facts. He accepts that as a virtual newcomer to the art long associated with the swordsmanship of the classic samurai he must start at the beginning. The former Marine has been in Okinawa for sixteen years and is married to a local woman. He became interested in kendo after his children started attending the classes at the Haebaru Community Center.

“Not every sensei in Okinawa that teaches Kendo is as gentle and considerate as Yamashiro-san,” Mc Gee says. “Some make the parents sit on their knees for the whole session.”

Sensei Hideki Yamashiro is a calm, charismatic man of seventy-five years whose working life was spent in corrections at the prison near Haebaru. He started the kendo club in 1985 and has achieved the honored level of 7 dan. The highest level possible is a 9 dan but few ever reach it. The 10 dan is no longer awarded.

That he is respected by the young boys and girls is evident from the outset. Like all children they run about and yell after each other before the formal training begins. The sensei puts on his ‘dogu’, the distinctive flowing garment used as a uniform, serene and confident amidst the bustle. But when it is time to begin, he issues a firm command, without lifting his voice, and the class immediately responds.

They line up, kneeling on the floor of the community center, which transforms with their use into a ‘dojo’.

McGee sits at the far end, a little apart. His children, nine-year old Ryo, seven-year old Minè and five year old Rin, know the drill and are as attentive as the rest as Sensei Yamashiro kneels facing them.

They begin with a meditation, which is the result of a long ago association with Zen Buddhism. When Zen reached Japan hundreds of years ago many samurai studied its teachings and incorporated them into their practice. Because one of the tenets of Buddhism involves the concept of reincarnation, it gave the samurai courage in the face of danger. If one dies having lived an honorable life why fear death if it only leads to another life?

After the short respite where the mind is cleared the children line up in rows and take up their shinai, or bamboo swords. One child is given the task of calling out the moves and for a period of some time they practice lunges, shouting out and executing a ritual stamping of the forward foot. The sensei watches carefully and corrects students individually as needed.

McGee, who has been involved with the group for over a year, said that most beginners, including him, are not even allowed to join the exercises until they have spent much time, even months, perfecting the precise thrusts of the shinai off by themselves.

Once the students have achieved a certain proficiency they can don the armor consisting of a helmet, called a ‘man’, the torso covering known as a ‘do’, and the flaps that protect the lower body, called ‘tare’. They then take up wooden swords, ‘bokuto’, and, working with partners, perform a series of formalized movements, including striking specific areas of the opponent.

One interesting test of courage and concentration pits one budding ‘kendoka’, or swordsman, without helmets, against another with one standing still as the other feigns a blow to the head, stopping short of actually striking him.

The entire point to the practice of the martial art is the development of self-discipline, as real swords are rarely used except as exhibitions by top masters.

Keiko Arakaki, whose son, Toshinari, has been engaged for about three years in the practice is clear on how the training benefits the children. “It has made him a better student in school and provided positive changes in behavior, respect for others, and confidence in himself,” she says.

At the end of the session, the children, and McGee, once more line up, kneel and bow respectfully to the sensei. After that the young kendoka once again become energetic children, boisterous in play.

Really Inuit – Taking a Kayak to Launch

It was the Inuit of the northern climes, in Alaska, Greenland and Canada, who first covered a driftwood skeleton with animal skins to create the lithe kayak. It was an important tool in their survival, dependent as they were on the sea.

While its method of construction has undergone some changes, the form of the kayak has remained basically the same as the high-tech built craft enjoyed by Geoff Hunt, an expert kayaking guide and instructor. But while the evolution of the water skimming boat has been fairly straightforward, this guide’s journey to the sea has been quite a bit less direct.

Far from any significant body of water, growing up in the mountain village of Pine in Arizona, Hunt didn’t even realize that Japan is an island. His first question, when he was called by DoDDs in the mid ‘90’s about a teaching job there, was, “Does it have an ocean?”

His interest in the deep began as a fourth-grader back in the White Mountains when he used his hard earned allowance to buy a subscription to Scuba Diver magazine. The periodical stoked his daydreams of diving, fishing and exploring exotic locations.

Still it took two years after making the move to mainland Japan before the kayaking fever struck. “… I knew from the very first moment that I loved it,” he says.

Visiting Okinawa on his honeymoon with new bride, Kaoru, Hunt was “totally dazzled by the emerald blue,” of the sea. He quickly applied for a transfer and considers himself lucky to have gotten it.

He spent the next couple of years mapping routes and currents off of Okinawa and the surrounding islands. He is a stickler for safety, emphasizing it to his clients. As he exclaimed, “I frequently meet people on the water who don’t have their PFD (Personal Flotation Device) on – what good is that? – or don’t even have the minimum of safety gear!”

It is that cautious attitude that assures anyone hiring Geoff as their guide or instructor that an outing on the sea will be a pleasurable experience.

For the $50.00 a day fee he supplies the kayak, skirting, and other necessary gear. The client is responsible for their own lunch and proper clothing.

Kayaking may be addicting. As Hunt puts it, “Paddling isn’t just a hobby, it’s a way of life.”

His eyes come alive as he describes experiences he has had, such as exploring the Izu peninsula on the mainland, which is full of lava tubes that created caves, tunnels, inlets and deep wall refractions. Or the time a large manta ray flew overhead, startling the group he was guiding.

Okinawan waters present unique challenges as there are not as many nor as large protected areas as the mainland. Because of that, Hunt has researched a variety of routes, planning entries and exits, noting escape areas. In his wanderings he has discovered the best spots for snorkeling and day hiking. He gives credit and thanks to Eric Eckman, a fellow kayaker and dive instructor at Kadena Marina for helping him in the process.

The business, which is called Devil’s Cove Kayakers, now boasts a flotilla that includes eight kayaks, of which six are single seaters, one for two people and one for three.

He says, “I can take up to eight people out to see some of the most beautiful areas of Okinawa.”

His final thoughts and words of advice sum up his approach. “If conditions are at the edge of your ability, stay on the beach. There is always a better day. Practice safe kayaking, plan your trip, be prepared, be aware of your impact on the environment. Respect wildlife, and be considerate of others – you never know when you might need to lend a hand to someone, or need to reach out your hand for help.”

Geoff Hunt can be reached at 090-8723-6985.