Carry the Entire Journey Home

Robert and Mike arrive beneath a red torii gate. Mount Fuji rises behind them. Cherry blossoms drift. A sign reads: Welcome to Japan.

The journey begins at the water’s edge. Signs point toward adventure, somewhere, and somewhere better. A lighthouse. An airplane. The compass knows where.

Green tea, ramen, yakitori. Mount Fuji watches from the distance. A sign reads: local flavor, timeless memories.

They meet a crane named Tomodachi — friend — in front of a pagoda. He holds a fan painted with a red circle. A yellow sign reads: 友達.

Into the green. A stone lantern, a curved red bridge, a waterfall. A sign reads: adventure is the best teacher.

The coast calls. Boards in the water, a red sun rising behind Mount Fuji. A sign reads: ride the wave.

An evening of performance. Lanterns lit, a stage set. A sign reads: tradition is art that lives forever.

A night festival. Fireworks, lanterns, festival food. They raise their cups. A sign reads: 乾杯 — kanpai.

They step off the plane and onto the tarmac. Suits, bags, the California sun. The city is waiting.

The taxi pulls away from the curb. Palm trees and billboards slide past the window. Neither has been here before.

A formal portrait. Two ducks in black suits. Behind them, the warm red wall of a studio.

Four ducks on the sand. A surfboard. The Pacific. The sky going gold.

Robert catches his first wave. Blue trunks, wide eyes, the curl of water behind him.

Mike rides the next one. Floral board shorts, wings spread wide, grinning.

A roadside tiki god watches them pass. Mike takes a photo. Robert pretends not to be nervous.

They try fishing. The ocean provides. Neither expected the size of what came up.

The journey begins at the water’s edge. Robert and Mike stand on the pier as the sun sinks into the Pacific. Behind them, California. Ahead, nothing but ocean and the slow curve of the earth.

They found it by accident. A pond, perfectly still, ringed by volcanic rock and moss. A rainbow arced over the far shore as if it had been painted there that morning.

They met him on the second day. Taller than both, brown-feathered, with a calm way of looking at the ocean. He wore a lei of white flowers and a hat with a blue bloom.

He appeared on the trail the next morning. A brown bird with a quiet way of moving. Robert showed him the drawing. The new friend showed him a shell. They traded.

The invitation came from their Hawaii friend. One word: luau. By nightfall the beach was alive with fire and music and the smell of something roasted until the skin crackled.

The trail began where the road ended. Three of them walked single-file into the green. The canopy closed above them and the light went soft, the color of jade.

The beach fire burned late. Three ducks gathered around the platter beneath a full moon. A tiki torch glowed nearby. The food kept coming — pork from the underground oven, poke, poi, sweet potatoes wrapped in leaves.

On the last evening, they pushed the boat back into the water. The sun was dropping fast. Their Hawaii friend stood on the shore and raised one wing. The wind caught the sail and the boat began to move.