The moon was full that night, so many years before. The sea was merciless. Wave after wave rose and fell, some fifty feet tall. Far off, the wind howled. Its urgent voice was joined only by the sound of the sea and a simple, beautiful melody.

A Japanese woman with thick jet-black hair sat on the bow of a small fishing boat. In her hands she held a shamisen. The shamisen had been part of Japan’s culture for centuries. The instrument had three strings and a long neck, and it was played with a wide pick—a bachi. The woman brought the bachi down across its strings, striking a sweet, soulful chord.

As she played, a massive wave came toward the vessel. She stood up, letting the rain strike her face. The wave must have been fifty or sixty feet tall. It came closer, threatening to crush the small wooden boat.

The woman raised her hand, then brought the bachi down across the strings. A clear, pure note filled the air. Ahead of her, the giant wave parted, letting the boat pass through to calmer waters.

She could see the shore ahead now. The journey was almost over, and she was relieved, thinking of dry land. She clutched the straps of the woven bag she’d carried for hundreds of miles. The cloth had a small black beetle embroidered onto it. As the boat neared the beach, she smiled, relieved to be close.

She was so happy that she didn’t feel the water pulling back beneath the boat. She didn’t see the next wave, bigger than the one before, coming toward the beach. Before she could look over her shoulder, it was upon her, tossing her from the bow. She plunged into the cold, clear water, twisting in the ocean’s undercurrents.

The wild sea raged beneath the boat. She tumbled over and over again toward the shore, finally landing on the rocky beach. Her head struck something hard. For a moment everything was black. When she finally opened her eyes, her hair was tangled in front of her face, covering a fresh wound.

Somewhere down the beach, she heard a familiar sound. A baby’s cry. She spotted the woven bag a few yards away. It took all her strength to crawl toward it, inch by inch. When she unfolded the thick cloth, she saw that the baby was scared but unharmed. The bandage was still wrapped tightly around his head, covering his missing left eye.

“Kubo,” she whispered softly, hugging her son to her heart.