深島

The ferry from Kamae port runs three times a day, threading past Yakatajima before reaching the smaller island shaped like a gourd, two landmasses tied by a narrow strip of sand. Fukashima sits at the southern edge of Ōita, where the Nippō coastline frays into the Pacific. Cats outnumber residents by a wide margin, and they have learned the schedule of arrivals better than anyone.

There is one inn, Inn Ebisuneko, and one place to eat, Cafe Mugi, both run by the same hands. Decisions narrow on an island this size. The miso, made here since the 1990s and now sold as Fukashima miso, carries the salt of a place that has had to make what it consumes. The community hall takes overnight guests when needed; the rest of life happens between the pier, the kitchen, and the rocks.

Below the surface, the coral shelves that earned the coastal designation continue their slow work, and divers come for water that stays clear most of the year. Above the surface, the rhythm is mostly weather, mostly cats, mostly the sound of one's own footsteps on the path between the two halves of the island. Such places ask little of a visitor beyond attention, and return the attention in kind.