The moment I knew came the instant we split ways and I realized Hitomi was the one. I spent years hoping for the chance to see her again.
In my early twenties I left my job in New Zealand and moved to Sydney to train in martial arts. In 1982, after competing in the World Pugilist Championships in Hong Kong, I hitchhiked across Japan for about a month, then took a ferry to Korea in January 1983. I’d heard airfares to Korea were cheap back then. There was no internet to guide me!
On boarding the ferry, a striking Japanese woman with limited English approached me and said that if I bought a box of bananas and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label, I could finance much of my trip to Korea. Those items were in high demand at the time.
Her name was Hitomi. We started talking on the ferry—I spoke almost no Japanese, and she was teaching herself English as a hobby. She and her friend were traveling to Korea to buy clothes and accessories to resell in Japan. I knew nothing about Korea, so she suggested we travel together.
We spent a week in Busan and another week in Seoul, visiting local temples and Busan Tower. We’d just met; romance didn’t cross my mind at first.
Surprisingly, airfare within Korea was pricey, so Hitomi invited me to return to Japan and spend some time in Miyazaki, Kyushu, where she lived with her mother. Their home sat in a quiet valley framed by rice paddies and koi ponds, with about a kilometer of open space around them. Life felt simple and peaceful. Hitomi’s mother treated me warmly and with amusement—my presence was novel, but kind.
Together we explored Kyushu, visiting older people living alone and those with disabilities. She often carried small gifts for them. I grew drawn to her kindness, her cheerful spirit, her lilting voice and laugh. She was beautiful inside and out. A local even said she seemed like an angel.
One day we visited Takachiho, a renowned mountain gorge. Snow and ice forced us to spend the night in a local tavern. That night she asked when I would return home. I confessed I was falling in love and wanted to stay longer. She responded, “Me too!” I had no idea she felt the same, and I was overjoyed. We kissed—soft and delicate, just like her.
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Eventually my visa expired, and I had to return to Australia. Hitomi came as far as Narita to see me off; we shared a long kiss, and I nearly missed my flight. We planned for her to come to Australia as soon as she could. I wasn’t thinking about marriage—this was an unexpected connection for both of us—but we were eager to explore where it could lead.
Back home, I realized Hitomi was the one. We spoke occasionally, though long-distance was expensive, so we mostly wrote letters in English. I’m not sure how well she understood my writing, but I did my best to keep things simple; what mattered most were the words “love you” at the end.
She wanted to come to Australia, but her mother opposed it. After a year, I returned to Japan and hitchhiked to a business hotel in Kyushu. Hitomi was working late; I waited in my room, and when she arrived, we embraced as years of longing poured out. I decided then to ask her to marry me—and she said yes.
Her mother disapproved. I understood why: I was an unknown foreigner who might take Hitomi away. If we were to be together, I would need to come to Japan.
I flew back to Australia to start the visa process. Unbeknownst to me, her mother was burning my letters and blocked my calls.
When I finally reached Japan again in 1988, I could not contact Hitomi. She had entered a singing competition, earned a recording contract, and traveled the country as a professional singer. Her manager and mother blocked my attempts to reach her; they argued that Hitomi had commitments and I would only complicate things.
That moment hit hard. Finding Miyazaki off-limits, I stayed in Tokyo, enrolled in language school, and worked in pubs, pachinko parlors, and gyms.
Then a mutual friend called with surprising news: Hitomi was in Tokyo and wanted to see me. We met at Shinagawa Station in a cafe after years apart. She had matured, and her beauty—and her sweet voice—remained. By then my Japanese was stronger than her English, and she was pleasantly surprised. Our relationship rekindled swiftly, and we fell head over heels once again. We were both 30, and according to her mother, no one else would marry a woman of that age!
In 1990, seven years after we first met on that ferry, we formalized our union with a wedding ceremony in a beautiful old church in Thames, New Zealand. Hitomi wore a white wedding dress, later changing into a kimono that drew looks in my small hometown. Hitomi’s mother wore a kimono too, and she had come to accept that we could not be apart. My parents welcomed Hitomi with warmth and quipped, “If you stuff this up, don’t bother coming home!”
We built a wonderful life together in Japan, raising two sons and supporting each other through every challenge.
Hitomi passed away three and a half years ago. I count myself incredibly lucky to have found her again after so many years apart. We always believed it was fate that brought us onto that ferry. If given a choice, we would have married much earlier. For four decades, I could never take my eyes off her; she remained the most radiant woman in every room.
Tell us the moment you knew.
