Chapter 7: Pilgrimage
Hawaii Incorporated ~ Paradise Gained
If you missed Chapter 1 (A Call to Arms), please click here.
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If you missed Chapter 3 (Brothers in Arms), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 4 (East by West), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 5 (Sally), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 6 (The Scrimshaw Incident Part 1), please click here.
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Hawaii Incorporated ~ Paradise Gained
For db
Our little systems have their day.
—from "In Memoriam A.H.H."
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Chapter 7: Pilgrimage
Created by AB Cooper
Narrated by Michael Smith
Michael Smith here.
After the Big 5 Annual Meeting, Prime Minister Rob Goddard stood up to President Lyndon B. Johnson. He denied the USS Enterprise nuclear battle group entry to Hawaii.
LBJ retaliated by slapping a 200 percent tariff on our sugar and pineapple exports to the States and taunted Rob by holding battle group workup exercises in international waters off the Hawaiian Islands.
Never one to let a good crisis go to waste, the Tripartite accelerated it Islands of Profits strategy and smartly pivoted the Republic’s economy to Japan. Prime Minister Satō, a cousin of Minister Ben Tanaka’s wife Mariko, welcomed us with open arms. We inked a free trade deal that guaranteed fair access to each other's markets. More importantly, the Diet passed an appropriations bill to invest 360 billion yen in Hawaii, which was a lot of money in 1965. The big Japanese keiretsu conglomerates also agreed to build manufacturing plants on Moloka‘i.
To celebrate this new partnership, Prime Minister Satō arranged an audience with Emperor Hirohito at the Imperial Palace.
Rob sent Minister Tanaka and me ahead of the visit to learn from the Ministry of International Trade and Industry. Affectionately known as MITI, it was the gold standard in effective bureaucratic organizations. It played a central role in coordinating Japan’s industrial policy, helping guide the country’s manufacturing strategy. It fostered cooperation between Japanese businesses and the government, creating what some economists called “Japan Inc.” It strategically allocated resources, foreign currency, and import licenses to prioritize industrial development. It also helped Japanese companies gain access to foreign technologies through licensing arrangements. Rob wanted to replicate MITI in Hawaii.
Ben’s cousin, Hiroshi Takahashi, was a senior civil servant at MITI. Our meetings with Hiroshi-san and his colleagues at MITI were a bust.
In traditional Japanese business and social culture, there is a concept called honne and tatemae. It describes the contrast between one’s true feelings (honne) and the public face or behavior expected by society (tatemae). In professional and formal settings, the Japanese tend to be reserved, diplomatic, and careful about expressing direct opinions or criticisms. There is a strong emphasis on maintaining group harmony and avoiding confrontation. The expression that captures this dynamic is deru kugi wa utareru, which translates to “The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.”
The MITI civil servants, and most especially Hiroshi-san, played to type and were tight-lipped about the bureaucratic tricks of the trade. We came out of the meetings with nothing we could take back to Hawaii and apply to our civil service.
Quick on his feet, Ben invited Hiroshi-san and me to climb Mount Fuji.
Hiroshi-san replied, Jūichigatsu ni Fujisan ni noboru no wa kureijīna aidea da, which I later learned translated to "Climbing Fuji-san in November is a crazy idea."
But Ben insisted, which meant Hiroshi-san had no choice but to acquiesce out of respect for his visiting cousin.
Wednesday, 17 November 1965, Mount Fuji at 11,000 Feet
The volcanic gravel crunched beneath my makeshift boots as I trudged up the steep path to the 8.5 station. The bitter November wind sliced my exposed face with a barrage of invisible razor blades. My lips were cracked and split, and the delicate skin beneath my eyes felt like it was being pricked by a thousand tiny needles. A traditional tenugui cloth wrapped around my neck and lower face wasn’t doing any good. Each breath drew frigid air into my lungs that seemed to freeze from the inside out.
Ben moved steadily ahead, his compact frame handling the ascent with ease and efficiency. Beside him, Hiroshi-san maintained a similar pace, the family resemblance evident in their measured movements and economical breathing.
Both were outfitted in proper winter mountaineering gear: insulated canvas field jackets lined with quilted wool, thick flannel shirts, and layered thermal knits tucked into heavyweight climbing trousers. Their boots, leather-soled and treated with mink oil, were fitted with lightweight crampons suited for volcanic terrain. Each carried a Japanese-made canvas rucksack, the kind favored by alpine clubs, with coiled hemp ropes, aluminum canteens, and small thermos flasks of hot green tea strapped to the sides. Wool caps covered their ears, and silk scarves were tied over their faces to cut the wind. Even their gloves, split-fingered for dexterity, looked purpose-built.
Climbing Fuji-san in November is a crazy idea. Climbing Fuji-san in November in improvised clothing is insane.
Finding basic hiking gear in my size, much less proper cold weather gear, was a lost cause in Japan. I had to improvise. My layers included three thermal undershirts made for Japanese construction workers, cut at the sides, neck, and arms so they could stretch over my bucket head and across my chest and biceps. Ben and Hiroshi-san stuffed newspapers between the layers and sealed me in with electrician’s tape. We found an oversized oilskin jacket in a Yokohama shipping yard, and because I couldn’t button it closed, they wrapped me in with more tape. I wore fishing waders for pants. Sealed into all that, I felt like the Michelin Man, and I walked like him too.
Finding shoes that fit was hopeless. We settled on reinforcing the largest pair of sumo wrestler footwear we could buy. We coated the so-called boots in industrial-grade wax and taped strips of rubber, cut from factory conveyor belts, to the soles for much-needed traction.
"How much farther to the hut?" I called out at some dizzying point, trying to mask the labor in my breathing. We were a long way up from Hawaiian sea level, and I was quietly praying, please Lord, don’t let me get altitude sickness.
"Just around this switchback," Hiroshi-san replied without turning. "Hakuunso Hut sits on a small ledge. We can rest there before tomorrow's summit attempt."
As we rounded the bend, the hut came into view, a sturdy wooden structure built low against the mountainside. Smoke curled from its stone chimney, screaming warmth within. I stumbled forward in my Michelin Man suit, muttering under my breath, just put one foot in front of the other, just one foot in front of the other... Somehow, I made it.
The hut keeper, a weathered man with callused hands and tired eyes, greeted us with quiet efficiency. After checking our reservation with Hiroshi-san, he led us to a corner of the main room where a small iron stove radiated precious heat.
Ben took out a Swiss Army knife and cut me free of my shipyard jacket. We agreed that I would have to sleep in my three layers of newspaper-stuffed undershirts.
No doubt bemused by the surgical operation taking place, the hut keeper’s eyes showed some life. "I have a stash of electrician tape if you need more," he said in heavily accented English, clearly for my benefit.
He added, pointing to the rolled futons on a raised platform, "Help yourself to as many as you want. Few climbers in November. You’ll have a quiet night."
Ben bowed and thanked him in Japanese. "We are grateful for your hospitality."
The hut keeper reacted to Ben’s foreign accent. "Where are you from?"
"Hawaii," Ben answered in a guarded tone.
Our host’s vivid eyes darkened. He turned his back on us, muttered something in Japanese, and disappeared.
"What was that all about?" I asked.
"He thinks I’m kikoku-sha," Ben said. "A Japanese who lived abroad during the war and has returned to reap the benefits of the rebuild."
"Not good," I said, catching Ben’s meaning.
"Not at all," said Hiroshi-san. "In my dealings at MITI, I’ve run up against a few returnees. They didn’t suffer with the rest of us. They come over with all these foreign ideas they picked up in Western schools and tell us how things are supposed to be. They’re quite arrogant."
"I see, but that’s not Ben," I said. "Is it going to be a problem?"
"No problem," Ben replied. "Nothing we can do about how he thinks. Let’s eat. I'm starving."
Ben and Hiroshi-san prepared a simple meal of instant ramen, enriched with dried fish and mountain vegetables. The hot broth was reviving, and I felt my energy returning as we ate in companionable silence.
Outside, the wind picked up as darkness fell, whistling through the cracks in the hut’s walls. The hut keeper was right. The three of us were alone. There were no other climbers crazy enough to be here.
Our bellies full, Hiroshi-san cleaned up while Ben reached into the depths of his rucksack and extracted a small cedar box bound with rice straw. The hut keeper emerged with an armful of wood for the stove. His eyes watched Ben carefully place the box on the low table between us.
"Is that—?" Hiroshi-san’s question hung unfinished in the air.
Ben nodded. "Yoshinogawa. An experimental ginjo from Niigata Prefecture."
The hut keeper inched closer, his earlier contempt giving way to curiosity.
"How did you acquire this?" Hiroshi-san asked, clearly impressed.
"You know Mariko’s cousin," Ben said, "the chairman of Marubeni Trading Company..."
"Oh, right," said Hiroshi-san. "I’d forgotten he’s your wife’s cousin."
"They occasionally receive special allocations,” Ben explained, “for their VIP clients.
“This was part of a small batch meant for the National Sake Appraisal competition. It’s a new style using highly polished rice and the Kyokai Number 9 yeast. They say it produces fruit-like aromas."
The hut keeper threw caution to the wind and knelt beside our table; his weathered face now animated. "Is this a gold medal winner?"
Ben smiled and gave a small nod. Then he produced three tin cups from his rucksack. "If you have a fourth," he said in English, "would you join us?"
The hut keeper’s eyes softened as he nodded. "I would be honored. Let me fetch proper cups from my quarters. Such award-winning sake deserves better than travel cups."
As he hurried away, I commented on the strength of his English.
"Yes," said Hiroshi-san, "there’s more to this old man than meets the eye—and it’s not just his excellent English..."
The Hut Keeper returned with four ochoko cups, small and delicate with a blue and white pattern that seemed to glow in the dim light of the hut. He carefully arranged them on a small wooden tray, then knelt before the stove.
"For this experimental ginjo, we must be precise," he explained, cradling the bottle in his weathered hands. "Unlike traditional sake, this new style is more delicate. Too much heat would destroy its subtle flavors. We must warm it gently, like morning sun touching a flower."
He filled a small copper pot with water and placed it over the stove’s low flame. "In the old days, we served sake hot to mask impurities. But this..." He held the bottle reverently. "This needs only to reach room temperature—what we call hitohadakan, “human skin warmth”. The master brewers at Yoshinogawa are testing new methods with highly polished rice. These create sake with fruit aromas that would vanish with too much heat."
He immersed the bottle carefully in the warming water, his fingers occasionally testing the temperature. "The younger generation is beginning to drink sake cold, but here on the mountain, a gentle warming brings harmony with our surroundings."
After several minutes, he removed the bottle and dried it with a cloth.
"Now we can appreciate what makes competition sake special," he said, breaking the seal and pouring with deliberate precision, filling each ochoko cup barely half full.
Ben, following proper Japanese etiquette, stepped in to pour the Hut Keeper’s cup, a quiet gesture to show there were no hard feelings.
"Drink slowly," Hiroshi-san said to me. "Notice first the fragrance, then the initial sweetness, and finally the clean finish."
He turned to all of us and said kanpai, which means dry (kan) cup (pai). It was my favorite Japanese word, just ahead of totemo oishi desu, which means "it is very delicious."
I took a sip. The warmth of the sake hit me with a rush. It was sharp, fast, and heady. At this altitude, it went straight to my brain and flushed through my body like a heat wave. My muscles loosened. My thoughts slowed. I felt at ease and could feel my tongue, and brain, loosening.
I asked the first of many prying gaijin questions that night, directing it to the Hut Keeper. "How do you know so much about sake?"
Ben and Hiroshi-san shot me a disapproving look for my impertinence, but the Hut Keeper waved them off.
"At high altitudes, we reach bureiko state much sooner than at sea level," said the Hut Keeper.
Everyone laughed except for me. Seeing the blank expression on my face, Hiroshi-san explained, "Bureiko is a special kind of gathering where rank and formality are temporarily suspended. It means 'no manners,' but in the best possible way. A sacred space where we can speak freely, as equals, without concern for status or position."
"Phew," I said.
"Yes, phew," smiled Ben. He gave me a wink.
"You asked me a question about my knowledge of sake," the Hut Keeper continued. "Before I was a keeper of huts, I was a carpenter. After the war, there was much work. Sometimes I was paid in homemade sake, sometimes brewery distilled."
He paused to take a long, slow sip. "I’ve had my fair share of good and bad sake. I’d rank this Yoshinogawa as one of the best I’ve tasted."
He stared into his empty cup. I went to pour him some more, but he waved me off.
"I’ve had my quota," he said. "The rest is yours. I think I have some homemade sake in the back."
He stood and disappeared into the back. I took the opportunity to get up and look for the loo. I headed toward the shoji panel doors and had just started to slide one open when Hiroshi-san bellowed, "No, no, that’s not the bathroom. There’s an outhouse around back."
"Oh," I replied, closing the panel. "Looks like a nice room, though. There’s a scroll and some kind of fancy flower arrangement."
"That’s called ikebana," corrected Hiroshi-san. "He has made that room sacred, and we must respect that."
I frowned and went to find the outhouse. I didn’t like making mistakes like that or being corrected, but any self-loathing was quickly dispelled by the frigid wind. I sprinted for the outhouse and danced to keep warm as I struggled but finally managed to get my waders down and take a leak.
When I returned, Hiroshi-san was engaged in deep conversation with the Hut Keeper, with Ben looking on and seemingly trying to keep up. They switched to English for my benefit.
"He was telling us about building this hut after the war," Hiroshi-san said. "You might find it interesting. Ben-kun told me you are interested in how things work here in Japan."
"Yes," I said. "One of the reasons why I’m here."
"I was telling Hiroshi-san," the Hut Keeper said, "that I learned the hard way that I can’t fight nature. You see, I was sent to the Fifth Regiment as a carpenter, and our higher-ups insisted that we build a railway through the jungles of Thailand and Burma. You may have heard of it."
"Yes, I read The Bridge over the River Kwai."
He gave me a puzzled look. "I don’t know that one. Is it a good read?"
"It is," I said. "But it doesn’t paint the Japanese in a good light."
"I’m not surprised," he said. "Trying to build a railroad in a jungle was a foolish endeavor that caused much suffering. The higher-ups were arrogant. They thought they could bend nature to their will."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"I learned in Burma to follow the Shinto wisdom that says form follows nature and nature follows form. Anything that man constructs, whether it is a railway or a hut, cannot contradict nature. In Burma, we were forced to build something that didn’t belong in a jungle, and the jungle kept fighting back."
"You were trying to fit a square peg into a round hole," I said, borrowing a Western adage to signal my understanding.
"Yes," he smiled. "Like trying to fit a square peg in a round hole."
He poured me some of his homemade sake. It was raw, but after the Yoshinogawa, any sake would have been.
"When I came to build this hut in '49, I decided I’d learn from Burma and let the mountain tell me how to build it. I hiked up here in all four seasons and studied where the snowdrifts formed, how the wind moved, and where water flowed during the spring melt. I chose this spot because the ridge protects us from the northern winds and catches the morning sun."
"Your hut followed nature," I said, testing my understanding.
"Yes," he said. "I selected cypress from the lower slopes for the main posts. It resists rot and bears weight well. For the roof beams, I used pine, lighter but strong enough for the snow load."
He pointed to the foundation stones beneath the elevated floor.
"The hut sits on these stones, not connected directly to the earth. This way, when small earthquakes come, the building can shift slightly rather than break. The floor is raised to keep moisture away and allow air to circulate beneath. In Burma, I learned that anything touching damp ground quickly rots."
I looked around the hut. "I don’t see any hardware."
"Astute observation," the Hut Keeper said. "I used no nails for the main structure. See these joints?" He pointed to where the beams met. "That is a dove-joint. It gets stronger with time as the wood settles. And there, a sliding joint that allows the wood to expand and contract with the seasons without splitting. The mountain breathes, and so does the hut."
He continued, "You can’t see it now because it’s dark, but tomorrow you’ll see the roof angle matches the mountain slope behind us. This way, the snow slides off naturally instead of building up. The eaves extend far enough to protect the walls from rain, but not so far that strong winds can catch them."
"While I appreciate the craftsmanship that went into building this hut," I said cautiously, "I see that some of the wood is newer than the rest. The upkeep on this place must be a lot of work. Have you ever considered using metal roofing, something that would better withstand the weather?"
"I could," he replied, "but that would change the wa of the mountain."
"Wa is harmony," Hiroshi-san explained, "and it is of utmost importance here in Japan."
I nodded, taking another sip of the Hut Keeper’s homemade sake. Though rougher than the competition brew, it had a certain character that fit the mountain.
"I understand harmony," I said, "but is it even possible to achieve? I'd like to hear how it actually works in practice—in everyday life, especially at work, which seems to be the exact opposite of harmony."
The Hut Keeper laughed. "I defer to your friends," he said. "I gave up practicality when I moved up here year-round."
He moved to add more wood to the stove, giving us space but remaining close enough to listen.
Hiroshi-san's expression grew thoughtful. He stared into his cup for a moment before speaking.
"In Japan, we believe that wa is not just a pleasant state but a fundamental necessity for society to function properly. It binds us together." He straightened his posture slightly. "Consider this hut. Each beam, each joint, each carefully chosen piece of wood works in concert with the others. No single element dominates or draws attention to itself."
"Like your saying about the nail that sticks out," I offered.
"Precisely. The deru kugi wa utareru principle reflects our understanding that individual ambition must yield to collective well-being." Hiroshi-san gestured around the hut. "Look at how this structure stands against the harsh mountain conditions. It's not through brute force or imposing its will on the mountain. It's through finding balance with its environment."
"I get that," I said, the homemade sake making it easier to be blunt. "But what about work? My Prime Minister sent me over here to figure out if there is a better way than what we inherited from American annexation and British colonialism."
"I can’t speak to other ways," Hiroshi-san responded, "but at MITI we see ourselves as architects of economic harmony."
"Within the Iron Triangle?" I interrupted.
"You know this triangle?"
"I know the three sides are politicians, industry, and civil service. I don’t know how it works—or how it achieves wa."
Hiroshi-san was still on the Yoshinogawa sake. He raised his cup to his mouth and then stopped.
"Think of it this way," he said. "Politicians and industry act out of self-interest. Yes?"
I nodded.
"It is the third side of the Iron Triangle—the civil service, the permanent side—that must create conditions where different industries can support one another, where resources flow naturally to where they're needed most. Our administrative guidance is not about control but about alignment. We bring together competing interests—steel manufacturers, automobile producers, electronics firms, and the like—and help them see how their individual success depends on the success of the whole."
Ben leaned forward. "But how do you maintain that balance when outside forces threaten to disrupt it? Like when foreign competitors undercut your markets?"
"That’s where the art of our work lies," Hiroshi-san replied. "We anticipate disruptions and adapt our approach. Sometimes we protect vulnerable industries temporarily. Other times we push comfortable industries to innovate. The goal is always to maintain the wa of our economic system."
I thought about Hawaii’s predicament with the U.S. tariffs. "So, it's like economic aikido? Using the momentum of market forces rather than fighting against them?"
Hiroshi-san's eyes lit up. "An excellent analogy, Michael-san. In aikido, you don't oppose force with force. You blend with the attack and redirect it. At MITI, we do the same with economic challenges."
"That sounds like what we’re trying to do with the pivot to Japan," Ben said.
"Yes, but remember that true harmony isn't reactive. It requires foresight and patience." Hiroshi-san finished his sake. "When we plan, we think in decades, not quarters. We plant seeds knowing we may not see the trees reach maturity. We have a system called ringi-sho that facilitates harmony in decision-making."
The Hut Keeper came over and filled Hiroshi-san’s cup with his homemade sake. He thanked him in Japanese.
"When a proposal is made,” he continued, “it circulates among all stakeholders—bottom to top, not top to bottom. Each person stamps their approval or suggests modifications. By the time a decision reaches the leadership, consensus has already been built."
"That sounds incredibly slow," I said.
"It can be," he acknowledged. "But once a decision is made, implementation is swift because everyone is already aligned. There’s no resistance or sabotage because everyone has had their say."
"But we must move quickly, right Ben?" I turned to him, looking for reassurance. I wasn’t seeing how the principle of wa was going to work in the Hawaiian context.
The Hut Keeper must have read my mind because he returned to the table and sat down.
"Remember,” he said, “what I was saying about form follows nature. If wa is not right for Hawaii, then don’t build a governing system based on Japan’s. Let the nature of Hawaii dictate your form. As you said, don’t try to fit a square peg—"
"—into a round hole," I finished his sentence.
Ben stood up and said, stretching, "On that note, thank you all for this enlightening bureiko session. We should probably hit the rack if we want to reach the summit before sunrise. “
What time’s sunrise?" I asked.
"Six thirty," answered the Hut Keeper. "You should leave here no later than three."
"Three in the morning?" I groaned.
"Yes, three," Ben said emphatically. "We have a big day tomorrow."
"But what about nature following form?" I asked.
"That’s for another day," said Ben.
"Yes," said the Hut Keeper. "For next time. But I will leave this for you to contemplate. Any system…any system Hawaii builds is like the wood of this hut. It will eventually return to the earth, just like I will…all four of us will. Nothing here is permanent. Just temporary shelter on the mountainside, or in your case, on an island. That’s what I’ve learned on this mountain. Everything we build is temporary."
As we turned in for the night, I noticed the wind outside had quieted to a gentle whisper. I climbed onto my bed of three stacked futons and pulled my shipyard jacket over my chest as a blanket, unsure what practical insight into the Japanese system I could offer Rob.
Thursday Sunrise, 18 November 1965, From 8.5 Station to the Summit and down to 5 Station
By oh-dark-thirty, the wind had returned with a vengeance. It was howling outside.
Ben and Hiroshi-san taped me back into my Michelin Man suit. At exactly three, we stepped out of the Hakuunso Hut and began the final ascent. The Hut Keeper saw us off with quiet ceremony, handing each of us a bento box filled with rice balls wrapped in nori, pickled vegetables, and thin slices of dried fish. He had also filled our thermoses with hot barley tea, knowing we would need warmth and energy for what lay ahead.
"It will be bitter at the top," he warned. "Many climbers turn back when they reach the Torii gate. There is no shame in this."
"We'll make it," Hiroshi-san said with a confident nod, though I had my reservations.
It wasn’t long before my breathing turned shallow and strained. I kept my head down, trudging up the narrow switchbacks behind Ben and Hiroshi-san, who were merrily chatting in Japanese like they were frolicking through the hills of The Sound of Music singing “Do-Re-Mi.”
When we finally crested the summit, a wind ripped across the ridge like a blade, but I barely noticed. All around me, the world was dark except for a strip of silver on the horizon.
Then a miracle happened. Slowly the darkness shifted to rose, then to fire orange. The sun breached the rim of the Earth like I had never seen before. I forgot the pain in my legs. I forgot the sting in my lungs. I quit my bellyaching.
We were standing at the top of the world, and below us, Japan lay cloaked in shadow and silence.
"Michael-san," Hiroshi said as we were sipping our barley tea, watching the sun rise. "I understand that you have met our Imperial Household Agency."
"Boy, have I," I groaned, watching my breath form clouds in the frigid morning air. "I never imagined there could be so much planning and paperwork for a visit that will last no more than forty-five minutes."
Hiroshi-san nodded sympathetically as he poured more tea from his thermos.
"Months of preparation," I continued. "First, the formal request through diplomatic channels, which Ben’s wife Mariko kindly facilitated. Then long telephone calls with Agency officials at all hours of the day and night.
"The Agency scrutinized everything from the Goddard family’s history to Rob and Sally’s wardrobe choices—and Ben and Mariko’s, and even mine. They even requested our exact heights."
"For the photograph with the Emperor?"
"Yes sir," I replied. "They had a field day with me. Apparently, they’ve never met someone as big as me, and it took them weeks to figure out where to place me in the photo. They finally decided I’ll stand in the back row, where my height won’t tower over His Imperial Majesty."
Ben chuckled. "Don’t forget to tell him about the rehearsals."
I sighed. "The Agency sent us exact specifications for the Pine Chamber where we’ll be received, and they requested—no, urged us to replicate it in Hawaii and hold three full-dress rehearsals to practice the precise number of steps, the exact depth of our bows, and our interactions with the Emperor. They sent a fifteen-page protocol document to cover all that."
"The Agency takes its responsibilities very seriously," Hiroshi-san said. "The Emperor is not merely a head of state but a living connection to our ancient traditions."
I took another sip of tea. “Tomorrow’s the big day. I’m not sure which is more difficult, climbing Mount Fuji-san or meeting the Emperor.”
“You’ll do fine,” Hiroshi-san assured me. “You already know about the Iron Triangle, but there’s another important triangle I’d like to tell you about.”
I was all ears.
He continued, his voice warm and clear. “In Shinto, we call it Sanshu no Jingi—the Three Sacred Treasures: the Mirror, the Sword, and the Jewel.”
Ben nodded beside me, already tracking where Hiroshi-san was going.
“They are the Imperial Regalia,” he said. “And like the Iron Triangle, they form a system. But one founded not on politics or power, but on spirit.”
He pointed a gloved hand toward the sun on the horizon.
“The Mirror—Yata no Kagami—represents wisdom and truth. It was used to lure Amaterasu, the sun goddess, out of her cave. Without the Mirror, there would have been no light.”
I looked out to the horizon and imagined the sun goddess standing in front of a great mirror.
“The Sword—Kusanagi no Tsurugi—stands for valor. It was pulled from the belly of an eight-headed serpent by the storm god Susanoo. But it’s not a weapon of domination. It symbolizes righteous strength, the kind that protects rather than conquers.”
“And the Jewel—Yasakani no Magatama,” he said softly. “Benevolence. Compassion. The emotional glue that holds society together. It was part of the offering that drew the sun back to the world.”
He turned back to me and looked me in the eyes.
“These treasures were handed down to the Emperor’s ancestors to establish harmony between Heaven and Earth. They’re still passed, symbolically, at every imperial succession.”
Ben cleared his throat. “Wisdom, courage, compassion. Not a bad triangle to build a nation on.”
“Or a life,” Hiroshi-san added.
“Thank you, Hiroshi-san,” I said. “It’s comforting that the Emperor comes from such a spiritual tradition.”
We stood on the summit, each of us lost in our own thoughts, until the sun was fully risen. When it was time to go, we began the descent in silence.
The light changed as we dropped in elevation. Shadows grew shorter, the ice underfoot began to melt, and the air thickened, though it was still cold enough to keep my hands buried deep inside my taped-up sleeves.
We didn’t talk much on the way down, which was fine by me. I was preoccupied, oscillating between the upcoming visit to the Imperial Palace and the pain in my old football knees. It’s much harder on the knees to climb down than up.
The Fifth Station came into view: low buildings, an open lot, a rust-colored path leading toward a black sedan idling beneath a twisted pine. A government driver stood by, wearing a cap and white gloves, as if waiting to deliver a well-dressed diplomat and not three half-frozen pilgrims.
I felt like I was walking through two worlds at once—the mystical peak behind us and the political machinery awaiting us below.
As we approached the car, Hiroshi-san paused. “Remember what I said about the Mirror, the Sword, and the Jewel.”
“Yes, sir. I will remember.”
“Good. Because in the palace tomorrow, you will see none of them. But if you carry them in your being, you’ll do just fine.”
Ben opened the door for me. Before I got in, he helped peel away the electrician’s tape and outer layers of my Michelin Man suit, then deposited them in the boot.
I climbed into the back seat and removed the sumo boots. The driver kindly cranked up the heat, and I could feel blood flowing to my feet again.
I had been to the summit and learned a lot about building huts and wa, but I wasn’t sure if I had the answers Rob was looking for.
Friday, 19 November 1965, The Imperial Palace
The crisp November air sharpened Tokyo’s edges, lending the city a crystalline clarity that made the ordinary remarkable. Our motorcade drove across the Nijūbashi Bridge, its elegant arch spanning the moat that encircled the Imperial Palace. The water mirrored the morning sky, while moss-covered stone walls, ancient and immovable, rose before us. This bridge was reserved for the Emperor and official state visits, an honor that had not escaped me.
For a farm boy from Michigan who once gaped at the State Capitol in Lansing on an Eagle Scout trip, the grandeur of this moment was overwhelming. The Imperial Palace seemed untethered to time, a testament to tradition, even as Tokyo’s steel and glass skyline loomed in the distance.
Inside the car, Ben and his wife, Mariko, were tense. Mariko smoothed her already flawless kimono. The steady hand I had seen on Ben at Mount Fuji-san was now trembling as he flipped through the Imperial Household’s protocols one last time. I sensed that Ben and Mariko bore the weight of this moment more acutely than we gaijin did. The stakes were high for all of us, but none more so than for them. As Hawaiians of Japanese descent, and given their connection to Prime Minister Satō through Mariko, they no doubt felt the pressure to execute every bow and phrase with flawless precision. Anything less would be worse than a faux pas; it would be a deep personal failure.
Just two decades earlier, the Emperor, whom we were about to meet, had been the subject of fierce debate among the Allied powers. General MacArthur’s decision to preserve the Imperial institution by shielding Emperor Hirohito from war crimes prosecution and recasting him as a symbol of Japan’s democratic rebirth had been highly controversial among world leaders, but it had without question saved the nation.
Now Prime Minister Satō’s government was using an Imperial audience as a tacit form of recognition and approval of Hawaii’s new republic. The very fact that we were here, about to be guided through the palace by white-gloved officials of the Imperial Household Agency, was a masterstroke of diplomacy. Prime Minister Satō was deftly leveraging the Emperor’s ceremonial role for diplomatic gain, even as the Imperial Household maintained its carefully cultivated detachment from such considerations.
Our motorcade halted just beyond the Nijūbashi Bridge, and Agency officials materialized around our vehicles in a synchronized ballet. Six men in identical black morning coats, their white gloves pristine against the dark wool, moved with such coordinated grace that they opened all of our car doors in a single fluid motion, as if they were members of the Tokyo Ballet.
"Remember," Ben whispered as we stepped out, "no direct questions to His Majesty the Emperor. Wait for him to speak first. Maintain eye contact, but don’t stare. And whatever you do, don’t turn your back when—" He cut himself off as the head official, distinguished by a subtly different cut of his morning coat, approached. He bowed precisely and gestured in a way that conveyed both welcome and command.
We walked in formation: Rob and Sally in front, the Tanakas three paces behind, and me bringing up the rear. Officials flanked us on either side as we followed a gravel path, our steps falling into an unconscious rhythm dictated by theirs.
The path led us through a series of courtyards, each transition marked by massive wooden doors that opened soundlessly at our approach. The gardens were immaculate. Every pine branch seemed positioned by a compass. Every stone deliberately placed. The gravel beneath our feet had been raked into such precise patterns that walking across it felt like sacrilege.
As we moved deeper into the palace grounds, more officials joined our procession until we were enveloped by a silent phalanx of black morning coats and white gloves. No words were exchanged; subtle gestures sufficed. The only sounds were the whisper of silk and wool, the distant caw of crows from the meticulously pruned pines, and the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath our feet. The massive stone walls loomed around us, their ancient blocks fitted so seamlessly that not even a blade of grass could take root between them.
The walk revealed the palace in glimpses, each view more striking than the last, until the full grandeur of it consumed me in a way I can only describe as otherworldly. It was an out-of-body, spiritual experience that left me feeling both insignificant and awed. I silently thanked God that I was so far down the totem pole that all I had to do was follow the Agency officials’ lead.
Inside, Agency officials guided us through a labyrinth of corridors, our footsteps muffled against polished wooden floors that gleamed like amber beneath the filtered light of papered shoji screens. The faint fragrance of tatami mingled with the earthy aroma of aged cedar, a scent both grounding and ephemeral. Every turn, every pause, every movement was preordained. The officials spoke in hushed tones, their instructions gentle but absolute. When one of us shifted even slightly out of place, white-gloved hands materialized to make microscopic adjustments, ensuring that we remained in perfect formation.
The waiting room followed the same exacting standard. We were positioned and repositioned until our arrangement met some geometric ideal known only to the Agency. Mariko’s hands trembled slightly as she adjusted her obi one last time. Ben stood so rigidly at attention that he seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. Even Rob, usually unflappable, kept checking his tie. Sally, by contrast, carried the presence of a football player just before kickoff. She was focused, composed, and ready. I half expected her to drop into a three-point stance.
The room itself epitomized Japan’s mastery of harmonizing tradition and modernity. Elegant Shōwa-era furniture, minimalist in design, stood alongside fresh ikebana arrangements so artful they made Hawaiian floristry seem garish by comparison. Every detail, from the precise alignment of a lacquered table to the layered colors of the floral displays, radiated a level of attention that was both humbling and awe-inspiring.
When the moment finally arrived, it was not announced with words but with a barely perceptible shift in the officials' posture. Without a sound, the doors before us parted, and we were ushered into Matsu-no-ma, the Pine Chamber.
I was blown away.
Here I was, standing in the throne room of Japan. Even though it had been recently rebuilt after the original palace structures were damaged during the war, it felt as if it had always been here. Though constructed of ferroconcrete and steel, the chamber honored centuries-old imperial design principles. The ceiling beams, though new, followed ancient proportions. Diffused light filtered through paper screens crafted by artisans using techniques passed down through generations. The walls featured subtle pine motifs that gave the room its name. The polished ancient wood floors gleamed.
Emperor Hirohito and Empress Nagako stood before two elegant chairs. The Emperor, smaller in size than photographs had suggested, radiated a quiet authority that commanded immediate respect.
Rather than traditional Japanese imperial robes, he wore a perfectly tailored Western-style morning coat with pinstriped trousers, which I was told by the Imperial Household had been his standard attire for diplomatic functions since the war. I had done some research of my own and learned that this may have been a deliberate attempt to present Japan as modern and international. The Empress, dressed in a formal Western-style suit dress rather than a kimono, complemented his appearance.
Their bearing achieved the seemingly contradictory feat of carrying the weight of centuries of tradition while dispelling any lingering controversy from the war years.
Ben and Mariko transformed instantly, their bodies folding into bows that met the Agency officials' standards for foreign-born Japanese. Precise enough to signal proper breeding but, later I learned, lacking the ineffable quality that only decades of cultural immersion could produce. By comparison, the Goddards and I were clumsy, our bows hesitant and imperfect.
The ceremonial exchange was brief. Through an interpreter, pleasantries were exchanged in a carefully measured cadence. Every word, every nod, every pause had been choreographed to maintain the delicate balance between imperial dignity and diplomatic courtesy. When the Emperor inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment of our presence, the gesture carried the weight of centuries of tradition.
The audience concluded exactly as scripted, neither a moment too long nor too short. As we backed away with our final bows, we mirrored Ben’s movements, careful not to turn our backs on His Majesty the Emperor.
The Imperial Household then ushered us into the Chōwaden Reception Hall. We were arranged in our proper positions, and then Emperor Hirohito and Empress Nagako entered, and the photograph was taken. The entire process took no more than five minutes.
I still have the photo. It’s framed in my study. I am in the back, grinning from ear to ear like an overgrown Opie Taylor from The Andy Griffith Show.
Walking back through the palace corridors, the air felt lighter, tinged with the faint scent of jasmine drifting in from the gardens. My thoughts wandered to my family’s farm in Michigan. How would they make sense of this moment? Their son, who once thought Detroit’s neon skyline was the pinnacle of sophistication, had just stood before the Emperor of Japan.
Rob, sensing my amazement, placed a hand on my shoulder as we approached the motorcade.
"Pretty far from Midland, isn’t it?"
I nodded but added, "My bow was a complete disaster."
Ben laughed. "Actually, it was perfect. It’s like the Parisians who sneer at foreigners attempting to speak French. The Japanese believe their culture is fundamentally closed to outsiders. If a foreigner executes the bow flawlessly, it isn’t seen as respect. It’s an intrusion, a transgression of an invisible boundary. Your clumsy bow, and mine too, reassured them that we knew our place, and they could remain comfortable in their superiority."
At that, we parted ways with Ben and Mariko. They were off to the Kantei, Prime Minister Satō’s office and residence, for lunch with cousins.
I joined Sally and Rob for the ride back to the Imperial Hotel.
As the car inched through the city’s bustling streets, I briefed them on the Mount Fuji talks. I told them I had failed. That I didn’t see how MITI could work in Hawaii.
“You didn’t fail us,” Rob said. “You confirmed that harmony isn’t the goal— and that a bureaucracy is merely a means to an end. You saved us from making a grave mistake by trying to imitate MITI and relinquishing some of our power to the bureaucrats.”
I was exhausted from the visit.
Rob released me from the conversation, and I turned to stare out the window.
Next on the docket: Not-so Quiet Riots
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