Otoo-sama and Tea

For Papa, the Watcher of the Flame, the Fisherman of Wisdom

The Launch Before Dawn

There was once a fisherman father and his young son,
who each morning at four o’clock,
before the world dared to rouse itself,
would rise in silence.

Their first act was not haste, but beloved ritual.
A steaming cup of tea—not for warmth alone,
but for the tethering of soul to day.
And in that moment, the father would speak:

“Today the water will not yield easily.
But neither should you.”

“The wind has no intention of helping you.
And so your patience must become your sail.”

“You will not always catch fish.
But you must always keep your hands clean, your mind steady,
and your pride far from your eyes.”

After the tea, they would kiss the mother on the forehead—

She would whisper:

“Bring home something beautiful my boys…
Even if it is only a story.”

And off they would go—
walking quietly beside one another
down the wooden wharf lined with nets and salt-worn crates,
greeting locals with tired bows,
the old fishermen lifting their chins in silent salute.
No noise. Just understanding.

They would climb into their small dinghy,
called koi no hamushi, and the father would untie the rope.
And always, always,
he would say,

“You must never forget son — tomorrow is not promised to us.”

And the son, still yawning,
still grumbling about his aching arms,
would nod—
but not understand.

He was still young.
Still caught between duty and dream.
Still looking at his fishing rod with resentment,
not reverence.

He didn’t yet know what his father was giving him.
He didn’t yet know what his mother was giving him.
He didn’t yet know who he was becoming.

The Quiet Now

Now, many years have passed.

The son is no longer a fisherman.
He is now a teacher.
And he teaches many people—some older than he once was,
some younger than he remembers ever being.
He speaks not of fish or sails,
but of design, learning, courage, and clarity.

And yet, each time he sits before a cup of tea,
steam curling like a whisper of incense,
his eyes grow wet.

He remembers the old mornings.
The soft clinking of the kettle.
The creaking of the dock beneath bare feet.
The humming of a tune—half tune, half prayer.

One day, walking home late in the autumn dusk,
he hears a local musician on a side street
playing a shakuhachi.

And suddenly—he stops.
Not from the tune itself.
But from what lies beneath it.

It is the same melody.
The very same.
The one his father always hummed as the water boiled.

He stands there, not moving.
The moment is not dramatic.
It is sacred.
Like watching a flame flicker and realizing it once warmed your entire home.

His mother is now with the kami.
His father’s boat is long untied.
But the wisdom remains.
Not in a shrine.
But in his own stillness.

In the way he waits before he speaks.
In the way he sips, not gulps.
In the way he teaches—not as one who knows,
but as one who has remembered.

And on that street, with his hands trembling,
he whispers softly—almost to no one at all:

“You were the still hand.
You were the old cat.
You were the tide that taught me to row.”