I Nearly Died Between Shikoku and Onomichi

By: David Krishna Strong Upadhya

While backpacking through Japan, I spent three days biking the Shimanami Kaido, the closest place to heaven on earth I have ever experienced.

Perhaps it is only natural that I came too close.

Zooming on a bicycle across giant bridges from island to island, we were high. Our view was a triple-decker sandwich of clouds, mountains, clouds, mountains, and clouds above those. Fishing boats passed underneath us, frothing water white against cerulean sea. Irontwine ropes slanted unfathomable heights upwards into the clear sky, suspending the bridge upon which we rode. The engineering was as breathtaking as the view; the asphalt as smooth and serene as the trees were lush and vibrant. As toe’s math-rock album, the book about my idle plot on a vague identity, serenaded through my headphones, we were quite literally, coasting.

Eventually, I biked ahead of Sam (my companion). The thrill of pedaling thoughtlessly without friction evoked a sense of carefree ease. Life in Japan felt safe, gentle and cloaked in comfort.

As I reached the end of the bridge, I began descending a tightly corkscrewing road, following the painted blue line that indicated I was on the right path. Reaching the end of the view, I must have become temporarily dissatisfied. Bored maybe. Yearning for a podcast discussion on modular synthesis, a different math-rock song, an ambient album…

As the road curved and steepened downwards, I reached for my phone to change what I was listening to. I did not anticipate the momentum. Overextending, my hand jolted the handlebar, turning the front wheel far, too far.

The bike screeched to a stop. I did not.

Flying over the handlebars, the vast blue ocean opened before me with indifferent grace.

A bird flew below.

I knew it would be the last thing I saw.

Searing pain came as my skin tore open. My legs, chest, inner arms, shoulder were scraping against the asphalt, until my head hit the small fence protecting me from the great blue, and came to a stop.

I lay there a while.

Eventually I got up. In a daze, I rode back up the way I came down, and stopped again at the top.

My companion, Sam, was nowhere to be seen.

A car passed. A romantic couple biked by. Another bird.

No one knew how close I had come to disappearing into the ocean.

Realizing I had gone the wrong way, I followed a different blue line on the ground. There were many. I almost thought I was seeing double from internal bleeding. Did I mention my phone had died?

I went a different wrong way, then another, until I eventually converged with the main road that aligned with my compass.

I rode it, panting, until the first 7-Eleven, where I dismounted, stepped inside, and with garbled English-Japanese excused myself  to the washroom to wash my cuts.

I spent a while in that washroom.

Emerging, I felt ravenous. A symptom of my refreshed mortality, no doubt. Scanning the store for mochis, sushi, and my favorite chocolate-coated-macadamia nuts, I took my mind away from facing the impending nightfall, alone and wounded the good-old-fashioned way: through consumption.

Then the doorbell to the 7-Eleven rang.

A whooping holler, and a broad smile. Relief swept through me. Who did I see?

The only man in the country that I knew.

My friend, Sam.

We sat on grass across from the store, watching the sea. We murmured apologies about being separated from each other, making jokes about my near-death experience. I was reminded of the true value of friendship: simply having someone; not rushing, pushing, critiquing, worrying, or judging. He waited patiently as I ate my food. Simply being there, with me.

I remember the taste of rice and seaweed.

We biked onwards through paradise. Stayed on one of the more remote islands for an extra day. I biked alone for a bit, found an elderly woman from Amsterdam adventuring alone who spoke of teaching children in pre-K. She enjoyed that I was a writer, and when I told her the name of my novel, she said she'd keep an eye out at her local bookstore. We arrived at Onomichi after three days on the islands. We roamed streets sheltered by Japanese street-roofs. A fabulous print and zine shop enticed me; the cashier had more tattoos than anyone I had seen in Japan, stickered across her skin like someone collecting memories. Some were blood red, some blue, most were ivory. She spoke English, asked what brought us here, and as I purchased my new shirt by an unnamed local designer (one of one, displaying a proud slogan: good taste is appreciating all kinds of taste), she told us of a legendary eighty-six-year-old saxophone player, Akira Sakata, who was “going to die soon” and was performing that night in the golden temple halfway up a mountain. We attended. It was exquisite. It was sweaty and spiritual: we sat in zazen throughout the duration, front row. Some of it was nearly unendurable. I'd never heard jazz like that before. I barked like a dog when the drummer held a polyrhythm for two minutes straight. We had no idea if this was what the elders of this seaside town had been expecting, but if it was, they earned my respect. The next day, we climbed to the top of a different mountain, to the highest temple in Onomichi, talking about Sam's understanding of Jesus before surrendering to Shinto, reading prayer wheels that thanked the great formless nothing for birthing our universe. We climbed the chains on the side of the rock, took off our shirts, balanced on one foot, and watched the trains threading through the city, ferries coming in and out, people walking slowly. For a long moment, everything was precise, clear, and right in front of us, until a security guard scowled and shouted, and we moved through the cemetery back down to our hostel to find dinner. 

The last day in Onomichi, I walked down to the seashore in the morning to journal.

As I watched the water, I decided I was ready to go home.

In part, I am sure it was due to the cosmic splendor that seaside town offered me.

But at large, it was because I had nearly died.

Paradise gifts us every splendor.

But what makes it valuable is that it can be taken away.

We bike, we walk, we fly, and it lives in the back of our mind, this knowledge that we will end. We forget and pretend that we have eternity and can throw caution into the wind.

And then.

In the blink of an eye.

Anyone can die.

This gives value to every experience, mundane, miraculous; it is magic that it is happening at all!

I am hesitant to turn a story like this into a cautionary tale.

The adventure of a lifetime is a wonderful thing.

Yet I must advise.

Be safe, when you can.

Steer clear.

Do not become distracted in the face of danger.

Do not ignore death.

This will end. If you must, play pretend. But do not forget.

Death is the reason life is precious.