2025-03-19

Cape Deai

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Sunlight Breaking Through Storm Clouds
出逢い岬の陽だまり


On my way back to the car, the sun briefly broke through the storm clouds, casting a warm, golden light across a patch of woodland on the southern slope of Cape Deai.

This headland rises steeply above the restless waters of Suruga Bay, along the rugged western coastline of the Izu Peninsula—about 150 kilometers southwest of Tokyo, Japan.

I managed to capture just one frame before the moment slipped away. As I repositioned myself on the seawall to try for a better angle, the clouds quickly returned, plunging the forested hillside back into shadow.

I hope to revisit Cape Mihama in the summer, when the vegetation is more vibrant, and if I am lucky, when the skies are clear. If the timing is right, I might even catch a glimpse of Mt. Fuji rising on the far side of the bay — something I’d love to capture in a future frame.

  • Location: Numazu, Shizuoka, Japan
  • Timestamp: 2025/03/19・7:53
  • Pentax K-1 II + DFA 28-105mm F3.5-5.6 + CP
  • 80 mm ISO 400 for 1/1000 sec. at ƒ/9

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Suruga Bay

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Cape Mihama, Built by the Currents of Suruga Bay — Along the Shores of Nishi-Izu
駿河湾の流れが築いた御浜崎 — 西伊豆の岸辺で


Heading back to the parking lot, I took a short detour and climbed down off the seawall to get closer to the waves crashing against the hazardous shoreline of boulders that have smoothed over time by the relentless weathering of waves rolling in from the deep, formidable waters of Suruga Bay, the deepest bay in Japan at 2,500 meters (8,202 ft).

I managed to capture three shots I liked, though none felt particularly extraordinary. I had fully expected to get drenched by ocean spray, which is exactly what happened. I was a bit worried about whether my trusty old DSLR could handle it, but after a thorough wipe down and some careful cleaning, it seems to have emerged unfazed.

While I’m in no position to fully understand the life of a fisherman, I can’t help but imagine the courage it must take to head out from nearby Heda Port into these rough, bountiful waters. Over the past 40 years of visiting various shores along Suruga Bay, I’ve yet to see a day when the sea has been calm and relaxing. It makes me think that this bay is always in motion, always challenging.

  • Location: Numazu, Shizuoka, Japan
  • Timestamp: 2025/03/19・7:40
  • Pentax K-1 II + DFA 28-105mm F3.5-5.6 + CP
  • 53 mm ISO 400 for 1/800 sec. at ƒ/4.5

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Moroguchi Shrine

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Moroguchi Shrine: Home to Moroki-hime—Guardian of the Sea
諸口神社の「もろき姫」—海の安全と豊漁を祈る場所



Moroguchi-jinja (諸口神社) is an ancient Shinto shrine nestled deep among majestic Japanese matsu (pine) trees, just a short walk from the torii gate that overlooks Heda Port in the small fishing town of Numazu, located in Shizuoka Prefecture—about 150 km (93 mi) southwest of Tokyo.

The first photo features the roofed purification fountain, where visitors cleanse their hands and rinse their mouths in a ritual called temizuya before approaching the main shrine. Located at the tip of Mihama Cape facing Heda Port, Moroguchi-jinja is dedicated to the guardian deity of sailors and fishermen.

Although the shrine’s exact origins have been lost to history, it is believed to date back to Japan’s medieval period. The shrine likely takes its name from the deity Moroki-hime (もろき姫), who is enshrined here. Supporting this theory, historical records compiled in 927 reference even older texts from the Middle Ages that mention a shrine in the Izu Province dedicated to Moroki-hime.

In 1879, the Meiji Government officially recognized Moroguchi-jinja as a village shrine during a nationwide effort to catalog and designate Shinto shrines.

The current structure was rebuilt in 1953. Most recently, on April 4th, local ship owners, members of the fishing cooperative, and their families gathered here for a small festival to pray for safe voyages and bountiful harvests at sea.

The scent of pine needles, damp earth, and salty sea breeze filled the shrine grounds, carried on strong coastal winds that rustled through the trees. Just beyond the surrounding woodlands, the rhythmic crash of waves along the nearby shoreline echoed softly through the stillness.

For the local sailors and their families, I imagine this shrine holds a far deeper meaning than it does for a visitor like myself. The sea is not only their livelihood—it is also a source of uncertainty and danger. Here, beneath the ancient pines and the care of Moroki-hime, they come to seek protection, give thanks, and show reverence to the forces of the sea.

  • Timestamp: 2025/03/19・6:29
  • Pentax K-1 II + DFA 28-105mm F3.5-5.6 + CP
  • 73 mm ISO 100 for 2.5 sec. at ƒ/11

  • Timestamp: 2025/03/19・6:39
  • Pentax K-1 II + DFA 28-105mm F3.5-5.6 + CP
  • 28 mm ISO 100 for 2.0 sec. at ƒ/9

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Cape Mihama Torii

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A Quiet Moment at Cape Mihama: Torii by the Sea
神域への朱き門:諸口神社の鳥居


Tucked away on the edge of Cape Mihama, just where the trees meet the sea, stands a vivid vermilion torii gate that immediately catches your eye. It's perched at the very edge of a narrow sandy beach, gazing out over the calm, turquoise waters of Heda Port. There's something serene yet powerful about its presence—like it is standing guard over both land and sea.

This gate marks the entrance to Moroguchi Shrine, which lies hidden deeper in the quiet forest just beyond. Like most torii, it serves as a symbolic threshold—crossing it means leaving behind the everyday world and stepping into a sacred space.

What I find especially interesting is the specific design of this torii. It’s known as a myōjin torii (明神鳥居), a style that’s been around since the 9th century. You can recognize it by the way the top lintels curve gracefully upward at the ends—it gives the whole structure a kind of buoyant elegance. Unlike the simpler shinmei torii (神明鳥居) style, this one also has a secondary lintel beneath the main one, and a central support strut hidden behind a framed plaque that bears the shrine’s name.

Traditionally, these gates were made of wood, but nowadays it’s common to see concrete versions like this one, built to last longer, especially in coastal environments where the elements can be tough. The vibrant vermilion paint isn’t just for show either—it’s believed to ward off evil spirits. On a more practical level, it’s made from cinnabar (mercuric sulfide), which has natural preservative qualities that protect the gate from insects and decay. A perfect blend of spirituality and science.

Standing here, with the sea breeze on my face and the sound of the water lapping gently at the shore, it felt like time slowed down. There’s something really special about this quiet meeting point between land, water, and spirit.

  • Location: Numazu, Shizuoka, Japan
  • Timestamp: 2025/03/19・6:27
  • Pentax K-1 II + DFA 28-105mm F3.5-5.6 + CP
  • 28 mm ISO 2500 for 1/250 sec. at ƒ/5.0

  • Location: Numazu, Shizuoka, Japan
  • Timestamp: 2025/03/19・6:34
  • Pentax K-1 II + DFA 28-105mm F3.5-5.6 + CP
  • 28 mm ISO 1600 for 1/500 sec. at ƒ/6.3

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Waning Gibbous

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Cape Mihama at Dawn: A Windy Morning Under a Fading Moon
下弦の月に照らされる御浜岬と駿河湾の夜明け


Looking southwest across Suruga Bay at dawn, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a waning gibbous moon rising over the wind-strewn, choppy waves off the western coast of the Izu Peninsula, approximately 150 km (93 mi) southwest of Tokyo. The sky was painted in delicate hues, and the moon, though faint, added a quiet, lunar presence to the restless seascape.

Capturing this image was no easy feat. The dim pre-dawn light demanded a slower shutter speed, yet the relentless wind—howling through the early morning silence—battered me and my tripod. Each adjustment required patience, as I fought against nature’s elements to steady the shot.

Despite the challenge, I found raw beauty in the moment—a reminder of how nature rarely waits for perfect conditions. Still, I can’t help but hope of returning here on a calmer morning, watching the moon sink closer to the horizon, undisturbed by the wind, and capturing the tranquility I could only imagine on this particular morning.

  • Location: Numazu, Shizuoka, Japan
  • Timestamp: 2025/03/19・6:18
  • Pentax K-1 II + DFA 28-105mm F3.5-5.6 + CP
  • 40 mm ISO 320 for 1/250 sec. at ƒ/8

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Heda Lighthouse

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Border Collie & Heda Lighthouse
ボーダーコリーと戸田灯台

We arrived at Heda Lighthouse on the western coast of the Izu Peninsula, facing the deep, dark waters of Suruga Bay. Just a three-hour drive southwest of Tokyo (approximately 145 km/90 mi via expressways), we pulled into the nearby parking lot at 5:30 a.m., greeted by the crisp morning air and the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore.

The lighthouse, originally built in 1952 and renovated in 1984, received an upgrade in 2012, increasing its luminosity to reach as far as 12.5 nautical miles. Standing against the coastal winds, it continues to guide vessels navigating these waters.

Capturing a shot in these conditions was no easy task. The early morning darkness, combined with fierce gusts, threatened to topple my tripod and camera off the seawall. Despite the challenge, I managed to frame two special moments—one showcasing the lighthouse standing resilient against the wind, and another of my dog sitting patiently at its base, seemingly unfazed by the elements.

On a clear day, Mt. Fuji rises majestically behind the lighthouse, creating a breathtaking backdrop. Though luck wasn’t on my side this time, I hope to return again—perhaps at sunrise—when the first golden light kisses the iconic peak of Japan’s most famous landmark.

  • Location: Numazu, Shizuoka, Japan
  • Timestamp: 2025/03/19・6:13
  • Pentax K-1 II + DFA 28-105mm F3.5-5.6 + CP
  • 28 mm ISO 1250 for 1/250 sec. at ƒ/10

  • Location: Numazu, Shizuoka, Japan
  • Timestamp: 2025/03/19・6:11
  • Pentax K-1 II + DFA 28-105mm F3.5-5.6 + CP
  • 105 mm ISO 800 for 1/250 sec. at ƒ/5.6

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2025-03-09

Ryuge-ji Temple

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The Green Patina of Time: Ryūge-ji Temple’s Roof・龍華寺の銅板葺屋根:時が刻む緑青の美

The main hall at Ryūge-ji Temple in Kanazawa Ward, Yokohama, Japan, is a historic site founded in 1189 in the Mutsuura mountains. After the original structure burned in 1499, it merged with two neighboring temples, forming the present-day complex. This tranquil Buddhist sanctuary has endured for over 830 years, blending spiritual heritage with the surrounding urban landscape.

One of the most striking features is the kawara-yane (瓦屋根), a traditional curved roof made of fired clay tiles. Introduced to Japan from Korea in the 6th century alongside Buddhism, this roofing style was originally reserved for temples and government buildings. By the 14th century, it had expanded to include shrines, imperial palaces, and feudal castles.

During the Edo Period (1603–1868), kawara-yane became even more widespread, especially in Edo (modern-day Tokyo). Its fire resistance made it a preferred choice over thatch or cypress bark, which were highly flammable and required replacement every 20–30 years, while clay tiles lasted around 75 years.

Ryūge-ji Temple’s roof, however, has been refurbished with copper sheeting (銅板葺, dōbanbuki), which maintains the original curved shape of tiled roofing. Over time, the copper developed a greenish patina due to oxidation and weathering. Given the light green color of Ryūge-ji’s roof, I estimate that the current copper sheeting was installed at least 25 years ago.

Though Ryūge-ji Temple is not a well-known landmark, its history and quiet beauty left a lasting impression on me. Nestled in a local neighborhood, it stands as a reminder that Japan’s cultural heritage isn’t confined to famous sites—it’s woven into everyday places, waiting to be noticed.

Stumbling upon this centuries-old temple during a business trip felt like uncovering a hidden treasure. The aged copper roof, the sculpted trees, the tall stone lanterns—each detail told a story of endurance and tradition. In a fast-paced world, moments like these remind me to pause, observe, and appreciate the quiet legacies that surround us.

  • Location: Kanazawa Ward, Yokohama, Japan
  • Timestamp: 2025/01/09 17:26
  • Fujifilm X100V with 5% diffusion filter
  • ISO 320 for 1/400 sec. at ƒ/2.5
  • Classic Negative film simulation

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