By Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia
It all began in the cold, uncertain days of early January 2025. I was in Tokyo, at Odaiba Beach with one of my closest friends, the icy water soaking our feet. It was bitterly cold, the wind merciless, but our love for the ocean pulled us in. We agreed to dip our feet into the sea, just for a few fleeting seconds. The water stung like needles, yet nothing stopped us from laughing, from enjoying the moment, from playing in the waves like children.
New Year had passed only a few days earlier. We were exhausted from celebrations, worn down by sleepless nights, just as we had been throughout last December. Still, that day felt different. It was the first time my best friend and I had reunited together in the Land of the Rising Sun. Back in Madagascar ten years earlier, we used to dream endlessly about Japan, whispering plans and wishes into the air as if they might someday carry us across the sea. And now here we were together in the country we once imagined only from afar.
I call her ‘Tsu Nami’, not her real name but the one she chose for herself. Her true name means waves in English, yet everyone calls her by her alias. We had known each other for years, but I never asked why she chose that name. Sometimes she said it held both serenity and ruin, as if calm and chaos lived inside her simultaneously. I never truly understood it then.
We spoke for hours that day, about life in Japan, the challenges, the bright moments, the ups and downs of living far from home. We were alike in many ways: two souls far from family and homeland yet living in a country we dearly loved. Life alone in a foreign place is thrilling, but also painfully heavy. She confessed the struggles that had pulled her toward depression, and I encouraged her as much as I could, reminding her of her strength, telling her that not everything deserved her energy.
We filmed silly videos, screamed with laughter, and let the waves numb our feet. Deep in the heart of winter, frozen to the bone, she suddenly asked if I knew how to swim. I said maybe, maybe yes, maybe no. I used to swim as a child, but I no longer knew if I still could. I told her I dreamed of surfing someday. She smiled and said it would be incredible if we could surf together in summer. We come from a warm island paradise where surfing is possible, yet neither of us had ever tried it.
Time slipped through my fingers like sand, and I only realised when spring whispered its gentle arrival. Somewhere along the way, I crossed paths with someone extraordinary, a girl from India, whom I will call A. We would see each other occasionally around the campus, studying in the same university, though in different fields. We first met in the early autumn, when the air was neither hot nor cold during a cultural exchange event.
A. seemed cold and distant; when I politely asked for her SNS contact, she answered in a sharp tone. By nature, I am sociable yet quietly reserved, someone who loves meeting new people and treasures cultural exchange, but my introverted side pulls me back, holding me at a distance like an invisible thread. However, A. is the opposite of me. She is entirely extroverted. And yet, something about her fascinated me, an aura of maturity, strength, reliability. Slowly our conversations grew, and the more time I spent with her, the more I cherished her presence. I never would have imagined she would become one of my dearest friends.
A. was warm, kind, and endlessly sociable, the type of person who knows almost everyone in the neighborhood. She understood my introversion, but she never stopped inviting me into her world. She took me along to events, introduced me to people, pushed me gently outside my comfort zone. She wanted me to live, not merely breathe.
Soon winter was coming to an end, and our friends organised a farewell party for A, who had completed her studies and was returning to India. The atmosphere was warm and lively, with music, laughter, and bittersweet goodbyes. It was there that I met J, a friendly and curious soul from Sri Lanka. He became the first person who ever asked so many thoughtful questions about my country, so many that sometimes I did not know how to answer. As we talked, I learned he loved water sports, especially surfing. And when he whispered the word surf, something inside me ignited. I felt the warmth of summer already, I imagined myself riding waves for the first time.
That day, I told Tsu Nami to visit me during summer break, that I had found someone who could teach us how to surf. She was thrilled. Together, we counted the days impatiently. And then July arrived, our university classes ended, and at last we were free. We went to the beach with J.
J. had lived in Japan for years and knew every hidden corner of our prefecture from quiet paths to secret places untouched by crowds. We asked him where the most beautiful beach was. He laughed and said there was not a perfect one here, not the kind you see in postcards, but there were places where the waves were strong and alive, perfect for learning to surf. So, we followed him, nervous and excited, ready to feel the ocean breathe through us.
It was our first surfing lesson, both for me and for Tsu Nami. The evening sun melted the sky into gold, the air warm but soft. Because of a physical issue, I could not surf that day, so Tsu Nami began first. She could not even swim, yet she stepped forward with fearless determination. J. taught her patiently, movement by movement. And in a surprisingly short time, she stood on the board, shaky, unsteady, but still, standing. Minutes later, she balanced perfectly, rising like a wave itself. I recorded it all, my heart glowing with pride. Even though I could not surf that day, I found joy at the shoreline, soaking my feet, screaming with laughter, recording moments I wanted to keep forever.
A few weeks later, I returned with J, but this time without Tsu Nami. She had returned to Madagascar, and her absence echoed through the sound of the waves. I missed her deeply. Yet something inside me trembled with excitement, my turn had finally come.
J. guided me gently, step by step. After a few minutes, I managed to stand on the board, unstable, but still balancing. I fell countless times, swallowed by the waves, but each fall made me rise stronger. The ocean roared like encouragement, whispering: ‘Again. Don’t stop’. I felt alive, truly alive.
A few days later, we went back to the beach again. The sky stretched above us, and the sea sparkled under the sun. Sometimes the waves were too calm to surf, so we simply floated on our boards, talking and laughing.
J. reminded me of a kind uncle, joyful, supportive, and gentle. He told stories about his country that made me laugh until my stomach hurt. J even told me, laughing, that some Japanese people go surfing eveninwinter, when the water is freezing and the wind feels like knives. I stared at him in disbelief, wondering how anyone could survive that kind of cold. He just smiled and said, ‘That’s the real surfing spirit!’ I could not help but burst into laughter, imagining myself turning into an ice statue somewhere in the middle of the ocean.
The ocean has long felt like the place where I truly belong. Every vacation in my homeland, I choose destinations where the beach is close enough to hear the waves. The sea clears my head, softens the storms inside me, and gently repairs the pieces of my heart. Standing at the shoreline, I can breathe again. It is more than just water and waves; it is where I find restoration.
Whenever I walk along the coast or step onto a surfboard, something inside me wakes up, the weight in my chest lifts, and my thoughts begin to move freely. Ideas return, like the tide rolling in, and I remember why I want to write, create, and keep moving forward. There were days when depression felt like weather that would never clear, but the sea gave me solace. It held me together when I thought I was coming apart. Its steady murmur softened the noise in my head, and each wave seemed to lift a little of the heaviness I could not carry by myself.
I cherished every moment of that summer, every surfing lesson, every fall, every laugh. That summer became another precious memory in the Land of the Rising Sun. The beach gave me peace, and a place where my soul felt at home. Now December is here, winter tightens its grip, and the warmth of that summer feels like a distant echo. But the ocean remains, waiting. The beach will always be a place to remember.
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Randriamamonjisoa Sylvie Valencia is from Madagascar and is currently studying in Japan as a trainee student. She enjoys reading, writing, listening to music, and traveling to explore new cultures.
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