“And remember, no matter

where you go, there you are.”

-Confucius

A grandfather ambled along a beach, his grandson skipping behind him; the old man witnessed the turquoise waters stretching out to the horizon, breathing in the salty tang of nostalgia that overcame his senses. His life had begun here, and ended here as well, an era ago. When he had finally returned he was a different man then – changed yet still whole.

The sun was at its peak, its light bouncing off the pale sand. It would have been near blinding if not for the fanning straw hat which encircled his head. The boy scurried along the beach, soft imprints of his small feet brushed away by the lapping tide. Warm summer winds swayed the fanning leaves of slender trees. Other fishermen waved to them, some bowing. The old man merely nodded in acknowledgement.

He smiled as the boy pushed back first against the boat, feet plowing through the sand, face scrunched up with his effort. The ayul was a humble vessel, spacious enough for three people if needed, each end tapering out to points that would pierce through the low cresting waves.

“Ryo, take the bucket and sit at the front,” the old man instructed.

The boy nodded, his own fanning straw hat dipping with his head. “Yes, grandpa.”

He lifted the dull metal pail with both hands, nearly as large as his body, plopping it near the center of the boat and sat down upon the stern's seat, facing the seemingly endless sea, the Kaiyen.

The old man pushed the ayul slowly out to shore, his callused feet clouding the water with sifting sand. He clambered into the boat and fixed the two oars in place at its middle. His arms pushed and pulled, swaying forth with the oars. Soon the ayul cut through the gentle waves, out into the open water.

“Can we go farther?” the boy asked, a hopeful twinkle to his brown eyes.

“We are far enough,” the old man said gently. He plucked out a plump pale larva from the bucket and lashed it to the hook.

Ryo made a face as he was handed the fishing pole hooked with the grub. “Yuck.”

The man set to preparing his own bait. He raised the fishing rod, just a bamboo shoot, and with a flick of his wrists, the string shot forward with sudden speed to strike into the water.

“Whoa,” the boy said, awed. “How’d you do that?”

“With practice. Your great grandfather was a fisherman, just like his father before him. Today I will teach you how to catch your first fish. Raise both your arms and do not put all your effort into the motion. Remember. Do not put all your strength into a task that needs so little.”

The boy imitated his grandfather and flicked the fishing pole out, the line whipping back to the man’s face. Only that the hook was caught neatly between his fingertips. The boy had not even noticed his swiftness.

“There is no effort,” the old man chided, releasing the hook.

The boy nodded, “Sorry, grandpa.”

He sighed at Ryo’s tearful eyes. “Do so again, but with no force. Do you feel the wind? Let it guide where you place the line. Feel the world, and move with it.”

Ryo began again. This time he paused as he raised the bamboo pole. The steady swelling waves bobbed the boat ever so slightly before flowing back. The warm breeze brushed past his face, following with the rippling water. He swung his fishing pole, the line arcing out into the Kaiyen, led by the wind.

"Very good, Ryo!" his grandfather exclaimed.

The boy basked in his praise before asking, "How do we catch the fish now?"

"With time, and patience. You cannot catch that which must first take part in. Let the fish come to you. Sometimes you must be still, and wait for the right instant. When that instant comes you do not hesitate, for the fish will be free otherwise. Do this, and you may have caught supper."

A time passed. The boy fidgeted in his seat. He saw that his grandfather held his fishing pole resting to the boat's side and did the same.

"Grandpa…" Ryo said with hesitance.

"Yes?"

“How come pa never talks about you?”

The old man paused. Still the boat gently rocked. Gulls cried out, fading before the languid tide brushing past their boat.

“I was not a good father,” he reflected. “When he was your age I wasn't by his side, watching him grow as you are now.”

“Why weren’t you with him?”

“I will tell you, perhaps later, Ryo.”

“Oh.” The boy looked down then. A silence drifted between them. The old man sighed.

“If you want to hear why, you must listen from the beginning. From when I was just a boy, same as you.”

Ryo looked up then, grinning with newfound enthusiasm. “Really?”

“Yes. It was a long time ago. The years have not been kind to my memory, but there are some things that never leave you, no matter how much time comes to pass." His eyes grew distant, to a time before peace, before contentment. "Listen well, Ryo.”

The boy nodded in eager agreement. The old man smiled and began his tale...