A Gentle Circle Nurtured by the Sea and People

A short 15-minute ferry ride from Toba brings us quickly to Sugashima.
The boat docks at a compact fishing port, where houses cluster tightly along a slope rising from the sea. The scene evokes nostalgia—like a quintessential snapshot of traditional Japan—and it's clear this is no major tourist hub. Our purpose is to meet the local children waiting at the pier. Clad in matching T-shirts and holding a handmade "Welcome to Sugashima!" sign, these kids—17 students in total from Sugashima Elementary School—are our daily guides.

This program, known as the "Island Kids Guide," was born from a collaboration between Sugashima Elementary School and the local tour company, Kaito Yumin Club. Concerned that "children from this quiet island might struggle with communication when venturing beyond its shores, the adults introduced a special class in which students present the island's unique charms to visiting outsiders." Once a year, they hold the Island Kids Guide Festival, a guided walking tour led by the children, which has become a hit.

Enthusiastic voices resonate throughout the gym. It's pouring outside, and the rehearsal—originally meant to be a walking tour around the island—has been moved indoors. Nevertheless, the children's presentations are a joy to watch: they talk about local festivals, the tools of ama divers, the local dialect names for fish caught in these waters, recommended seaweed, and even the plays currently trending among island kids. These are the details you'd never find on the internet—insights you simply can't gain on a standard trip.
It's a powerful reminder of travel's essential lesson: to truly understand a place, you must be there. You won't learn many things unless you set foot in that locale. I couldn't help but smile at a quiz question one of the students posed—""Who's the person who goes fishing on this beach the most?""

When the presentations wrap up, the kids gather around with bright curiosity—it's the perfect example of how friendly and approachable they are, their sense of personal space almost nonexistent.
"The jellyfish I want to see is the one from Africa!"
The self-styled "Jellyfish Professor," who had just introduced me to the species found around Sugashima, leans in eagerly to share more. This project was initially launched to help the children build better communication skills, and judging by their abundant curiosity, it is a resounding success.

After each student's presentation, professional guide Ms. Hyodo offers personalized feedback—suggestions like, "If you try this, you can make your point stand out." This hands-on experience will undoubtedly prove invaluable as they get older, nurturing their communication skills and a sense of pride in their hometown. After all, these island kids live on Sugashima, which is truly special as part of a nationally recognized park.

It's impossible to speak of Ise-Shima National Park without mentioning its ama culture—the women divers whose traditions date back centuries. Although we couldn't see them at work this particular day, as the planned fishing was unexpectedly canceled, we were invited instead to visit an ama hut in Ijika, where everyone had gathered.
Stepping inside felt like walking into a lively club room at snack time, full of chatter and laughter. In the hut's center stood a kamado, a traditional hearth where crackling firewood blazed. Here, the ama prepares for dives and warm themselves—an essential role passed down through generations. A bit nervous, we lingered near the entrance until an ama veteran in her eighties greeted me with a warm smile. "Thanks for coming all this way," she said. "Here, have some mochi."

I've been an ama ever since I graduated junior high. I got a regular job when I got married, but after I retired, I came straight back," she explained.

"Why?" we asked. "Well, the ocean's right here," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"My whole body remembers the sea. It's just the easiest thing for me."

She's a living witness to these waters, her sparkling eyes reflecting decades spent diving off Ijika. Naturally, we asked if the ocean has changed over time.

"Oh, absolutely," she said. "The biggest difference is the decline in seaweed. Abalone love seaweed, so fewer seaweed beds mean fewer abalone."
"The tasty stuff is disappearing, and the kinds we don't want are rising."
"Hijiki seaweed is harder to find, too."
"Even so, Ijika is still better off than most places.

One voice stands out, with a Tokyo accent, among the local dialects swirling in the hut. Sitting toward the back was Ms. Aiko Ono, who moved here from the capital to become an ama.

"I used to dive recreationally and have explored many different seas," she said. "But the first time I dove here, I was astounded by how much seaweed there was—like an underwater forest. I'd never seen such a rich marine environment."

While local ama can sense that the sea's bounty is declining, they know it remains vibrant in many ways—largely thanks to ama culture. Whether it's abalone or turban shells, ama never harvests undersized creatures. For at least two millennia—long before official regulations existed—they've practiced this sustainable approach on their own, passing it down through generations. They also release juvenile shells back into the ocean. Their catch varies by season, from abalone, sea cucumbers, and turban shells to hijiki seaweed.

"If we over-harvest, we'll be the ones in trouble later," someone remarked.

Before people started talking about "sustainability," ama already lived by it. That might be why the tradition has endured so long.

In this hut, the ama divers simply walk into the sea with little more than the clothes on their backs. Another method, funado, involves taking a boat to the fishing grounds as a group.

"Back in the day, we even had husband-and-wife boats in these parts," someone says. "My mother did that."
"When I was a kid," chimes in another, "we'd all shout and cheer while hauling the boats up onto land."
"They were wooden boats back then," a third adds. "You couldn't leave them in the water, or they'd rot."

A "husband-and-wife boat" was precisely that: the husband operated the vessel while the wife dived, tethered to the boat so he could pull her up in an emergency. With hand-rowed oars instead of engines, it was grueling work for both.

"None of those couples are around anymore," someone remarks with a mischievous grin. "They've all gone off to the Great Beyond!"

The crackle of the firewood accompanies this steady flow of banter. Although much of the conversation centers around fishing, the women also swap tips about homemade side dishes and other daily matters. It feels more like a high-spirited club room than a workplace.

"Hide-bā was the best at cutting wakame."
"Oh, you mean how she pressed it with her elbow and sliced it cleanly?"
"I was so impressed watching that."
"Let's try it ourselves sometime."

We observed that skill matters enormously here, and they nodded in agreement.

"Oh, you've got ama ranging from the very bottom to the top," one said.
"Two people can dive in the same spot—one might make 1,000 yen, the other 100,000 yen."
"There's no business like it," another laughed.
"But that just means Aiko over there has a challenge worth pursuing, right?"

Apparently, Ms. Ono is a rising star in their ranks. They're more like friendly colleagues than senior and junior divers. Though the hearth's fire had long burned out, their tea-fueled conversation showed no sign of ending soon.

Walking with Ms. Ono to the shore—her workplace—she looked back at the hut and admitted she was glad she chose Ijika.

"Everyone here gets along so well. Gatherings around the kamado are a lot of fun. Our hut has a wide age range and includes people like me from outside the region, so there's a lot of diversity."

Initially, she never planned on becoming an ama. But while searching for a place to settle outside Tokyo, she came across Ijika's recruitment notice and felt compelled to try it.

"It was unheard of for an outsider to become an ama. I'm so grateful this hut welcomed me. I've often wondered why they've been so kind. I heard that once a house in the village burned down, everyone dived for abalone and sold them to rebuild it. That's the kind of place this is."

Weather permitting, the ama dives around 90 days a year—summer and winter combined—typically twice a day: 75 minutes in summer and 70 minutes in winter. It sounds like grueling work. We asked what she'd learned from this lifestyle.

"I learned not to push myself too hard. Nature is our partner, and there are things you just can't force."

Yet, from what I observed in the hut, there are still many things people can change—mainly through the power of community. As Ms. Ono's life shows, being welcomed into this circle can transform you.

"I've decided to devote myself fully to the ocean. Even if we run out of abalone here one day, I'll move on to helping them come back."

She says this with a smile that carries the relaxed strength of someone who has learned to go with the ocean's flow.

Barrier-free tourism itself was born right here, in the Ise-Shima region.
"Rather than going only where it's accessible, go where you truly want to go."
This inspiring motto belongs to the Ise-Shima Barrier-Free Tour Center, headed by Ms. Ayumi Noguchi. It was here, in the Ise-Shima region, that the concept of "barrier-free tourism" first took shape in Japan.
Ayumi's journey into this field began with a single encounter—meeting her future husband, Mr. Koichi Noguchi, who uses a wheelchair.

"At the time, I was working on a local magazine," she recalls, "when he pointed out that 'people with disabilities can't find the information they really need.'"

The comment that truly struck her was, "We're not going to that restaurant because it's barrier-free. We're going there because we want to go." Up to that point, most 'barrier-free' information merely listed places already equipped with accessibility features—passive details like "Yes, you can enter here." Instead, Koichi wanted practical, on-the-ground insight into features like entry steps or the presence of an elevator—information that helps would-be visitors decide how they might overcome barriers on their own.

"Once you know there's a step at the entrance, for instance, you can figure out a way to get past it," he explained. "But if you have no data, you might just give up from the start, which is no fun for anyone."

Spurred by Koichi's perspective, she began publishing a magazine focused on documenting accessibility in a straightforward, unfiltered way. Two years later, they founded the nonprofit Ise-Shima Barrier-Free Tour Center.

"Our focus is on expanding options. Rather than simply listing places people can go, we want to inspire people to explore—and once they do, the facilities will naturally catch up."

Whenever you decide to travel somewhere or try something new, there will always be some kind of obstacle. Figuring out how to overcome it can actually be part of the fun, regardless of whether you have a disability.

"For example, a person who just couldn't handle two steps in physical therapy might find a way to conquer those steps if it means they get to visit a place they truly want to see."

The circle of people keeps expanding. Koichi, for instance, is now deeply immersed in sailing a yacht known as the Hansa—a passion sparked by his connection to Mr. Osamu Goriki, who later founded Sailability Ise and his connection to Ayumi.

The Hansa is a yacht whose hull design and other features significantly reduce the risk of capsizing. Created by Australian Chris Mitchell, it was intended to be accessible not only for people with disabilities but also for children and older adults, making the joy of sailing available to everyone.

Koichi sets out to sea in his Hansa yacht by himself, with no one to guide him. Caught by the wind, the boat glides off with effortless grace.
When we tried piloting a Hansa on our own, we quickly discovered just how challenging it can be; nature doesn't always let us navigate precisely as we wish, reminding us that, on the open water, everyone's on equal footing.
Sailability Mie has developed an app called B-SAM, which runs on a smartphone and provides real-time audio cues about the distance and bearing to the target buoy. This innovation allows visually impaired sailors to compete independently in Hansa races.

"We aim for a truly inclusive sport," the organizers explain, highlighting their vision of a level playing field for everyone who sets sail.

Names and natures do often agree. The sight of Mr. Osamu Goriki (強力: meaning strong power in Japanese) of Sailability Mie conveys his formidable energy and unmistakable charisma. When he says "inclusive," he means a setting where people with and without disabilities compete in the same arena on equal terms.

"Right now, some regattas have an 'inclusive' category, but they also run a separate division for disabled sailors. That just doesn't make sense, does it? As far as Hansa sailing goes, there's no need to split people into 'able-bodied' or 'disabled.' In fact, I'd like to break down all such barriers so everyone can enjoy the sport on an even playing field. That's exactly why we developed B-SAM."

It's a world where winning and losing take a back seat, and the very act of challenging oneself becomes the shared thrill. When Mr. Goriki speaks, his words blend warmth and intensity equally.

"I've tried many different sports, but with sailing, I can compete equally with anyone. Even winning a championship isn't out of the question—and that really fires me up!"

Koichi nods in enthusiastic agreement, his smile brimming with new possibilities.

By promoting barrier-free tours and Hansa sailing, Ise-Shima National Park opens the door for everyone—whether living with disabilities or simply advanced in years—to enjoy the region's magnificent vistas and exhilarating adventures. This spirit of inclusion may well define the park's uniqueness, revealing a place where the gates are flung wide for all to enter.
The Barrier-Free Tour Center and Sailability operate beyond ordinary profit models, guided instead by a principle of equality and kindness that grows from human connection. One can't help but wonder if it stems from the ancient legacy of Ise Grand Shrine, which has welcomed diverse travelers for centuries—an "Ise spirit" passed down through generations. It's a hypothesis you find yourself imagining the more you experience the warmth of this region.

"Here's a buoy, and over there is a basket once used in Shima's pearl farming," explains Shoki Tanaka, the Chief Product Officer at REMARE. Every single piece of this marine debris, he says, can be repurposed. REMARE is a company focused on recycling ocean plastic waste. After shredding the plastic into flakes, they use a specially developed press machine to apply heat and pressure, molding it into boards. Although this technology is relatively widespread overseas, REMARE is currently the only company in Japan that offers it. Once the boards are formed, they can be cut and machined into various shapes.
They focused on fishing gear simply because of the sheer volume available. Indeed, it's common to see unused buoys scattered around fishing ports.

"We often end up with mostly black material when we're using fishing gear," Tanaka explains, "so we add splashes of color as accents and experiment with different design ideas."

One of their standout pieces is a table made entirely from recycled fishing gear. Rather than appearing like cast-off waste, the ultraviolet-faded sections enhance the piece, giving it a unique texture. It's more apt to view it as a new, one-of-a-kind material. In fact, the table has been showcased at an art exhibition in Tokyo.

REMARE doesn't just produce furniture. One of its distinguishing features is the ability to turn mixed plastics into board form rather than needing single-type plastics. PET bottles must be stripped of their caps and labels before recycling. Mixing different plastic materials drives up the process costs and compromises product quality.

"Our greatest strength," says Tanaka, "is precisely that—we can recycle materials even when they're all jumbled together."

That's why their raw materials aren't limited to marine plastic waste. In fact, virtually any plastic product becomes fair game. Recently, REMARE has turned its attention to plastic-aluminum composites—like candy wrappers or pill sheets (PTP packaging). Because separating these layers can be costly, few in the recycling industry have ever seriously considered them. But REMARE has successfully shredded, heat-compressed, and molded these materials into board form.

They've gone on to craft furniture and a range of other products using these recycled boards, each with a distinctive and often striking texture—hardly recognizable as former trash. In many cases, the random patterns produced by the process add to the aesthetic appeal. Remarkably, these items can be shredded again and transformed into something entirely new, creating a potentially endless loop of reuse.

After our visit to REMARE, we found ourselves eyeing every bit of plastic and wondering, "Could that be recycled, too? Would this work in a loop?" This perspective shift changes how you see the world around you. National park signs made from recycled marine debris would send a strong message about the potential for repurposing trash and turning it into something new. It's yet another example of how creativity can foster a healthier, more sustainable circle.

On the final day of my trip—an unplanned detour—we found ourselves back in Sugashima, eager to see the island under clear skies. We revisited the spots featured in the kids' presentations: the lighthouse, the beach where they play make-believe, and the breakwater they claim is a fishing hotspot. Through the warmth of the people here, this once unfamiliar place now felt like home.
Of course, the sweeping scenery of one of Japan's most stunning ria coastlines was worth the journey. Yet, the greatest reward of this trip was discovering the vibrant networks of kindhearted people who bring this region to life. As we walked back to the port, nibbling on a croquette from Sugita Shōten—one of the local favorites touted in the children's presentations—we could still hear their lively voices echoing from the school behind me.