A fisherman, carrying a cool box and a fishing rod, walks dejectedly along the shoreline

The tourist brochures, I am told, suggest taking a bus from Kamakura Station. A tedious prospect, to say the least. I have no desire to follow instructions or be jostled about in a crowded vehicle at the whim of some municipal planner. Instead, I make a point of threading my way through the labyrinthine backstreets of the residential districts. There is a certain quiet satisfaction in wandering aimlessly through shaded alleys, stealing glances at well-kept hedges, and drifting wherever the path leads. It is a deliberate waste of time—the best kind of leisure—until the horizon finally yields to the open expanse of Zaimokuza Beach.

On this particular day, Zaimokuza was magnificently desolate. The shoreline was devoid of life, save for the waves repeating their monotonous rhythm under a heavy, leaden sky. I stood on the sand for a while, adrift in the dullness of the scenery, when a solitary figure emerged from the haze. A man was trudging along the water’s edge, clutching a few fishing rods in one hand, a square cooler box slung over his shoulder. He had the unmistakable air of one returning from a hunt, yet his pace was sluggish and his head hung low. It required little imagination to guess that his cooler was as empty as his morning had been. There is something inherently comical, rather than pitiable, about a man who has gone to such lengths at the crack of dawn only to return with nothing but the weight of his own gear.

As I watched the retreating back of this absurd fisherman, a linguistic curiosity drifted into my mind. English offers two distinct titles for those who pursue the inhabitants of the deep: "Fisherman" and "Angler." The former is straightforward—one who catches fish. But "Angler" has always felt a bit more elusive. Etymologically, the word traces back to the Proto-Indo-European root ank, meaning "bent" or "hooked." It shares its DNA with the word "ankle," the bend in our leg. Strictly speaking, an angler is simply "one who uses a hook." It says nothing of the result. Whether the fish bite or not is irrelevant; the title merely confirms the act of dangling a curved piece of metal into the void. In that sense, for a man whose only catch was a morning of wasted effort, "Angler" is perhaps the far more fitting title.