The summer I turned nine I encountered my very first Japanese glass fishing floats. I was in Oregon, and in addition to populating gift shops and restaurant decor, back then these mystical treasures still occasionally washed up on Oregon’s beaches, particularly after big winter storms. That summer I concluded my 13th consecutive reading of Call of the Wild, and Treasure Island and Robinson Crusoe were still fresh. My mind was filled with dreams of faraway lands. The floats, hand blown by craftsmen, fragile, beautiful, traveling across the vast Pacific over decades and thus providing a link not only with the exotic country of Japan but also with ships and fishermen and a culture of yore were utterly captivating.

Over the years, we’ve been gifted a collection of these floats from friends lucky enough to have lived along one of the few beaches where they still wash up. The gifts are appreciated… but it’s not the same as finding one myself. From California to Alaska, in all the years since that Oregon summer I’ve never visited a beach without harboring vague hopes of finding one.

Somewhere past the town of Shari (斜里町) as we approached the Shiretoko Peninsula, we stopped at a beach to have our breakfast and watch sport fishermen cast into the surf for Cherry Salmon.

Barbra found the first one. My stomach turned a little… conflicted. Happy for her find, but disappointed that it hadn’t been me. But where there’s one… maybe… Planting my feet where she found that first float, I scanned every inch of the beach through binoculars. And then, without a word, I handed the binoculars to Barbra and took off, running with all the joy of a young boy turning nine.