I saw him punch slowly into the wind, first one hand and then the other, in a silent battle with the typhoon. Occasionally he would turn his back to the sea, fighting to keep his balance, and then spin to face into the wind once more. Suddenly both hands snaked out together, fingertips slicing the air. Three times he repeated the motion, and then stepping back, his arms wheeled before him and extended, one palm high, the other low.
I watched, barely aware of the storm, as he repeated his curious movements over and over. The man was built like a bull. I couldn’t tell how old he was, not as old as my father, but he wasn’t a young man either. His face was broad and smooth, his lips thick, his jaw strong. The focus of his gaze was on the far horizon, as if challenging the storm. The black hair was oiled and combed back, as was the style in those days. He was naked save for a pair of khaki pants cut off below the knee. His body was heavily muscled, like a strongman’s from the comic books I saw from the mainland. His thick neck sloped down to broad shoulders and his chest was deep and powerful. The muscles of his stomach stood out like a ripple of waves. His forearms bulged, and his thick legs held him firm against the wind. But it wasn’t the size of his muscles that I found so fascinating, but rather the way they changed and flowed when he moved. I watched him repeat the same movements for what seemed like hours. All fear of the storm banished by the presence of this man who could dominate a typhoon with his bare hands.
The storm battered the island for the rest of the day and into the night. I must have fallen soundly into sleep because when I woke the sun was shining, and I found myself in the strongman’s arms. He was carrying me like a baby to my home in Itoman, the storm little more than a bad dream. For a moment I wondered if it had been real at all, but the debris surrounding us confirmed that it had: tree branches in the middle of flattened crops, fencing and roof tiles littering the road, carts upturned and smashed, dead animals dotting the meadows, paper, straw, wood, leaves, stones, strewn across the earth, and a giant boulder at the edge of my village that I’d never seen before.
“Where do you live?” the typhoon-man asked, carrying me as easily as a straw doll. I pointed dumbly to my house, unable to find the courage to speak. My body felt weak, but my mind was alert. The typhoon-man had me in his arms, arms powerful enough to defeat the dreadful wind. I felt warm and safe and not in the least embarrassed at being carried like a small child.
“Kenichi!”
My mother screamed my name and fell to her knees, crying hysterically and beating the hard ground outside our home. I smiled weakly to let her know I was okay but she didn’t seem to notice. I was still wondering how to convince her I wasn’t dead when father emerged from the house and took me from the typhoon-man’s arms, his jaw set tight. He carried me inside and laid me on the couch and then ran his hands over my limbs. Through my skin, I detected a tremor in his fingertips. Mother appeared beside him, muttering incoherently. She began to examine every inch of my skin for cuts from flying metal or glass, sobbing quietly, and even searched through my hair to check my scalp. I reassured them both that I was fine, but they didn’t hear me. Father gathered me in his arms once more and carried me to bed. Mother covered me with a blanket despite the heat of the day and ordered me to sleep. I closed my eyes. I could hear father speaking to the typhoon-man while mother prepared refreshments in the kitchen. I didn’t feel tired but I must have dozed off, and when I woke, late in the afternoon, the typhoon-man had gone. Mother brought tea to revive me and fed me bean curd soup like an invalid, ignoring my protests that I was perfectly well. It was evening before I was allowed to get out of bed and rejoin my family for our evening meal.
Father waited till the next day before removing his belt and thrashing me. It was the only time in my life that he did such a thing. He was a very gentle man. The pain of the lashes was distant, dulled by the guilt I felt for causing my father to act in such a way.
Mother barely spoke to me for several days. It was as if I’d died and returned a ghost-child. My brothers ignored me too, and only my little sister Yuka, who was too young to know better, spoke to me, reassuring me that I existed at all.
Over the next week, the whole village worked to repair the storm damage, clearing the roads and fields, fixing roof tiles and thatch, mending fences and burying dead animals, until Itoman looked normal again. Only then did I summon the courage to ask my father about the typhoon-man. He told me I’d been rescued by Chojun Miyagi, the head of a family of Okinawan nobility. My parents were doubly embarrassed that such a renowned figure as Miyagi had been forced to rescue their son. I didn’t dare mention that I’d been perfectly safe all along. Instead, I asked what Miyagi had been doing on the cliffs.
“Miyagi is a master of to-te,” My father told me. He was referring to karate by its old name of to-te, which means China Hand, and this piqued my interest further, since China was the home of the classical martial arts.
“Did he learn in China?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered curtly. “All I know is he’s a very famous to-te master and he has a school in Naha.”
Naha was the capital of our island, over two hours’ walk from Itoman. “I wish to learn to-te from Master Miyagi,” I said.
“You’re too young.”
“How old must I be?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged.
“Then how do you know I’m too young?”
Father glowered at me and I knew it was time to be quiet. I sat beside mother, who was grating dried fish, and offered to help. She didn’t refuse and I sat beside her for an hour, grating silently. When we had finished, she told me to put the flaked bonito in a jar and seal it tight. They were the first words she’d spoken to me since the storm.
Life returned to normal. School reopened, and I went about my daily chores as before, but a new idea was forming in my mind and I was determined to carry it through, even at the risk of angering my father once again.
When the weekend came, I completed my chores in double-quick time, and by the afternoon, I was free to go to the capital in search of the typhoon-man. I went to Naha harbor, where my uncle had a ship, hoping he could tell me where to find Miyagi’s dojo. My uncle wasn’t around, but one of his crew told me Miyagi’s training hall was in a nearby school. I followed his directions, and when the school came into view, I saw Miyagi’s broad frame striding a little way ahead of me on the street. I fell in step behind him, summoning the courage to address him.
“You’re too young,” he said without looking round.
“Too young for what?” I asked, hoping the answer wasn’t what I knew it was going to be.
“To learn to-te.”
“How do you know I want to learn to-te?” I asked, running to keep up. I can’t explain how I’d suddenly become so bold—addressing Miyagi in such a familiar manner when before I hadn’t dared to utter a single word to him—except to say that since the typhoon, I’d the feeling our lives were linked by an invisible bond. Perhaps Miyagi felt it too, since he didn’t seem surprised to see me or too put out by my breathless questioning.
“I know.”
We walked side by side in silence. “How did you know I was behind you?” I asked at last.
“I have eyes in the back of my head.”
“You do?”
I stopped in astonishment, but Miyagi went on without breaking stride and I had to run to catch up, “How did you know?”
He fixed me with his dark eyes, “I have a sixth sense.”
“Really? Truly?”
Miyagi didn’t answer.
“Can I get it too?”
“If you sharpen your awareness day and night, you may develop it over time.”
“How much time?”
“A very long time.”