Women of the Sea

Dawn over Ise Bay. Mist rises above the surface of the water, and from a wooden hut step out women dressed in white—not priestesses, not court ladies, but guardians of the sea. Their hair is tied, their hands are steady, their bodies accustomed to the cold. In a moment they will slip into the water, to search in the darkness of the depths for pearls, seaweed, and abalones. Such was the life of the Ama for thousands of years—from teenage apprentices learning from their mothers to seasoned divers who could work underwater into old age. On the shore stood the huts called amagoya, where fires were lit, hair was dried, fish soups were cooked, and stories about the sea and the gods were told. There too were the men—rarely divers themselves—serving as helpers: steering the boat, tending the fire, carrying the catch to the market. They were “the ones who wait on the shore.”

To be an Ama was not only a job—it was an art of survival, passed down from generation to generation. It was knowledge of the rhythm of the waves, of the breath that decides between life and death, of the signs cut into their headscarves meant to ward off the demons of the deep. Each day was a repeated ritual: a calm crawl toward the fishing ground, a short dive on a single breath, a quick search for the glint of a shell, and then resurfacing with the long whistle of isobue—a sound that rang across the bay like a song. Their profession gave them a freedom rarely experienced by women in old Japan—they could travel between villages, earn their own money, and decide for themselves in a world where most women were confined to the walls of the household and the clan.

And yet Ama are not only a profession and not only a tradition. They are an archetype. A descent into darkness to bring to the surface something precious, a light hidden in the depths. Philosophers and psychologists saw in this an image of the journey into the unconscious, into the heart of nature and womanhood, in search of what is hidden and sacred. That is why Ama appeared in poetry, art, and myth—from the classical Man’yōshū to the modern Hokusai, from Nō theatre to the master Yukio Mishima. In their work, beauty and suffering met, the everyday and the mythical, the body and the spirit. The story of the women of the sea is the story of Japan—of a land breathing with the rhythm of nature and living close to death.

Who are the women of the sea, the Ama?

At dawn…

Dawn over Ise-Shima Bay. The sky is only beginning to blush, and the cool wind carries the scent of salt and wet rocks. On the shore, a group of women gathers. Dressed in white garments—shiro-shōzoku, the color of purity and protection—they adjust the cloths on their heads, meant to shield their hair from sun and wind. Some carry wooden floats with nets attached, others sharpen the knives they will use to pry abalones from the rocks on the seabed.

The moment comes. One of the women steps up to the boat, stands on its edge, and without hesitation plunges into the dark water. A splash, a few seconds of silence, and then a circle of bubbles appears on the surface. In the depths the Ama holds her breath, sinking toward the bottom, her body tensing in the struggle against cold and pressure. She searches—between crevices, among seaweed, by rocks where oysters and turban shells hide. When her lungs begin to cry out for air, she pushes off from the bottom and swims upward. She breaks the surface suddenly, exhaling with the characteristic isobue—the whistle of the sea, a short breathy note that is not only a way of quickly expelling carbon dioxide but also a signal of life: “I made it, I am back.”

For centuries this sight has electrified travelers and artists. They saw in the Ama more than fisherwomen—figures on the border between myth and daily life. Women who in their daily work play with the elements, dive into the unknown, and return with the gifts of the sea. It is no wonder they were called “the last mermaids of Japan.”

What does their name mean?

The very word Ama (海女) carries rich symbolism. The first character, 海 (umi), means sea—boundless, life-giving, yet also threatening. The second, 女 (onna), means woman—giver of life, keeper of the hearth, and in the context of the Ama, one who offers her soul and breath to the element. Together they create the image of the “woman of the sea,” a being who lives on the boundary between worlds: land and ocean.

It is worth adding that in the past other names were also used. In Okinawa we encounter the word uminchu (海人), literally “person of the sea,” which included both male and female divers. In the Ise region, types of diving were distinguished: oyogido—Ama swimming near the shore, and funado—those who ventured farther out, diving from boats and using weights to sink faster to the bottom. These subtle linguistic differences show how diverse this tradition was across different parts of Japan.

The etymology of Ama does not end with a simple translation. In early Japanese texts such as the Man’yōshū and the Kojiki, we find references to women of the sea under various names, proving that the tradition of diving reaches at least as far back as the beginnings of writing in Japan. Over time, the term Ama became the most common, and its visual simplicity—two characters instantly understood by every Japanese person—engraved in collective consciousness the image of a woman bound to the ocean.

For comparison, in Korea there exists an almost identical term, haenyeo (해녀: 海女)—written with the same characters, it means the same: “woman of the sea.” This linguistic echo shows the shared heritage of the maritime cultures of Japan and Korea and the fact that women’s diving is a phenomenon older and broader than national borders.

The history of the Ama women stretches back even 2000 years

When we go back to the oldest layers of Japanese history, the women of the sea, the Ama, appear as figures present almost from the dawn of the islands. Their tradition was not born in feudal times or during the rise of cities but reaches back into prehistory, when the sea was the primary source of nourishment and human life was inextricably bound to the rhythm of the tides.

Traces in Myths and the Earliest Literature

The first written mentions of the Ama appear in two fundamental texts of Japanese culture: the Kojiki (712 CE), the oldest mytho-historical chronicle of Japan, and the Man’yōshū (759 CE), the oldest anthology of Japanese poetry.

In the Kojiki, the Ama are portrayed as women gathering the gifts of the sea—seaweed, shells, fish—whose work was so important that it deserved mention in a chronicle composed to glorify the imperial dynasty. In one passage, it speaks of the people of Shima Province who delivered seafood to the imperial court. However, it is in a text fifty years younger that we find direct reference to the Ama.

That is the Man’yōshū—and it contains extraordinarily vivid images. One poem describes Ama from Ise Bay diving into the water to gather seaweed:

伊勢乃海人之 朝名夕名二 潜久止布 鮑乃貝乃 片思に之弖

“Like the Ama of Ise, who morning and evening are accustomed
to dive—so too do I endure in unrequited love (as for abalones).”

– Man’yōshū, Book XI, verse 2798 (author unknown)

之加乃白水郎之 焼塩煙 風乎疾 立者不上 山尓軽引

“The smoke from the salt fires of the Ama of Shiga—
the wind does not carry it straight upward, but drifts it across the mountains.”

– Man’yōshū, Book VII, verse 1246 (author unknown)

Such poetic testimonies show that already in the 8th century the Ama were not only part of daily life but also an element of artistic imagination—embodiments of beauty and courage, as well as of humanity’s bond with the sea’s elemental force.

Archaeology and Material Traces

It is not only literature but also archaeology that confirms the antiquity of this profession. In coastal regions, especially in Shima, Ise, and on Honshu, stone and iron knives have been found, used to cut abalones from the rocks, along with shells gathered in special pits—kitchen “middens” or kaizuka (貝塚, shell mounds), where archaeologists today discover evidence of ancient harvesting.

In some places, characteristic clay belts and weights have been unearthed, which may have served to fasten tools to the bodies of diving women. This shows that even in prehistoric times, the Ama employed simple yet ingenious techniques to make the most of their abilities in cooperation with the sea.

From Gatherers to Specialists

The earliest Ama were likely ordinary gatherers—women who, with belts of fiber or clay, dived for seaweed and easily accessible shells. Over time, however, their skills grew, and with them their prestige and importance. By the Nara and Heian periods (8th–12th centuries), Ama had already specialized in harvesting abalones (awabi)—highly prized in both court cuisine and rituals—as well as natural pearls, which, before Mikimoto Kōkichi invented a method of cultivation, were extremely rare and precious.

Abalones were offered as gifts to the imperial court and placed on the altars of shrines. This tradition endured through the centuries: even today, the Ama of Ise-Shima present awabi annually as offerings at the Grand Shrine of Ise (Ise Jingū), the most important shintō sanctuary.

Connection with the Cult of the Sea and Water Deities

From the very beginning, the Ama were not only workers of the sea but also its priestesses. In Japan, since time immemorial, it was believed that the sea was inhabited by powerful deities and spirits. It was thought that in order to dive safely and return with its gifts, one needed to secure their favor.

Hence the Ama’s ties to shintō—before descending into the water, they prayed to sea deities, and their white garments carried ritual meaning, protecting them from evil spirits. In many regions of Japan, small coastal shrines still stand where Ama once offered reverence to the goddess of the sea, Benzaiten, or to local kami.

Over time, extraordinary legends also emerged, in which the Ama became heroines with superhuman qualities—such as in the story of the woman diver who plunged into the depths to retrieve a divine pearl stolen by a dragon. This was no longer merely a profession—it was myth, in which the woman of the sea became a symbol of courage, sacrifice, and the bond between humanity and the ocean.

The Golden Age of the Ama Women

The Edo period (1603–1868) brought the women of the sea a renown they had never before enjoyed. Japan at that time developed large-scale trade in marine products—and what the Ama could bring up from the seabed became a prestigious and export commodity.

The most precious prize was the abalone (awabi, 鮑). It was offered as tribute and gifts to the elite and placed on the altars of shrines—especially at Ise Jingū, where the custom of presenting seafood offerings from the Ise–Shima region survives to this day. Awabi was considered both a courtly delicacy and a ritual material (in the form of dried slices, hoshi-awabi, 干鮑), which elevated the status of those capable of procuring it.

In the broader Edo economy, dried “sea cucumber,” that is, processed trepang (irinamako, 煎海鼠), and dried awabi belonged to the so-called Tawaramono (俵物), or “goods in bales”—the flagship export products to China through Nagasaki. The shogunate regarded them as a source of hard currency. This is precisely why, in the 17th–18th centuries, specialized groups of divers emerged (including male companies from the south and from Izu), which, under contracts, entered others’ fishing grounds and carried out intensive harvesting for merchants and the authorities. For local Ama communities, this meant both competition and an opportunity for seasonal journeys “for work”—a certain mobility and relative economic independence, rare for women of the era.

Although Japan was a society of strict roles, the Ama broke away from several conventions: they earned their own money, often traveled (seasonal migrations to fishing grounds), and in many places co-managed the fisheries within their communities. At the same time, they were subject to customary regulations: days and hours of fishing were designated, minimum sizes of catch set, and no-take zones established—proto-principles of sustainable management designed to protect resources.

Against the backdrop of Edo’s urban culture—with its etiquette, hierarchy, and corset of custom—the Ama were an image of freedom and raw nature. In high and popular art, two narratives coexisted: the realistic (women at work, providers for their families) and the mythologized (erotic phantasms, “the mermaids of Japan”). This duality of vision—between admiration and objectification—was also a sign of the times: the city looked out at the ocean with a mixture of awe and projection. Meanwhile, the real Ama, submerged up to their necks in cold water, lived in the cycle of breath–wave–fire, which gave them agency and a voice rarely heard in a patriarchal world—a voice that sounded like their isobue: short, sharp, impossible to ignore.

Diving Technique and Ritual

The Rhythm of Work

Tradition distinguishes two basic modes: oyogido—diving from the shore, within reach of coastal rocks and seaweed beds, and funado—working from boats farther from land, where the descents are deeper and quicker thanks to additional weights. Oyogido usually operate in shallows and slopes of about 10–15 meters, while funado go deeper (approx. 18–24 m), working in short, intense bursts. A single dive rarely exceeds one minute; the best divers can effectively “work the seabed” for around 30–40 seconds before the body demands air. In funado, stone or lead weights were traditionally tied around the waist, allowing faster descent to the bottom, but requiring perfect control of buoyancy and timing of return.

The entire “tempo” of Ama work is a repeating cycle: a calm crawl or breaststroke to the fishing ground, a dive after a deep inhalation, a quick “scan” of crevices and rock ledges, prying loose the catch, and resurfacing with the characteristic isobue—a sharp, whistling exhalation that instantly clears carbon dioxide from the lungs while also signaling to companions that all is well. On the seabed, a simple palette of tools is used: an awabi-okoshi (a spatula–chisel for prying abalones), a short knife, sometimes a hook for reaching into cracks. An older, beautiful technical detail is the kirigai—a gleaming shell left on the bottom as a “marker” of the spot to which the Ama intends to return in the next series of dives. The catch is placed into a net suspended beneath a float (a buoy or ring—tanpo), which also serves as a “safe island” for breathing between dives.

Vision underwater is taken for granted today, but “iso-megane” goggles only came into use in the late 19th century (around 1878 in Mie Prefecture). At first, they even provoked local bans—they were too effective for abalones. Over time, forms evolved from two-lens goggles to single-lens masks with an “air cushion.” In the 1960s, wetsuits spread rapidly; to counteract their positive buoyancy, Ama began wearing weight belts of 5–8 kg.

Clothing, Protection, and Talismans

Before wetsuits, simplicity served the body: a fundoshi (linen loincloth), sometimes a short jacket and a headscarf. By the late Edo and Meiji periods, white garments—shiro-shōzoku—became widespread, still visible today in demonstrations and ceremonies. White served both practical (visibility on the waves) and ritual (purity, protection) purposes. Two protective seals were worn on headscarves, undergarments, and tools: seman (a five-pointed star drawn in one continuous stroke, leaving no “gaps” for evil) and doman (a 5×4 grid “blocking” the path of malign forces). Today, they may be embroidered, painted in purple from shells, or simply drawn with a marker—the technology changes, the meaning remains the same.

Ritual and Work Ethos

An Ama’s day often begins with a short prayer: to the local sea kami, to Benzaiten, or, in the Ōsatsu region, to the famous Ishigami-san, where—as they say—every woman may voice one wish. After work, they return to the amagoya or kamado—low, smoky huts where, around the hearth, they dry their clothes, warm themselves, eat, and exchange news about the state of seaweed and shells. These places are not only shelters from the cold—they are “universities” of tradition, where novices learn from experienced mothers and aunts. In many villages, fishing days are strictly regulated: limits on hours spent in the water, mandatory breaks, minimum sizes for abalones, seasonal closures, and zones of temporary no-take—places given time to recover. Today, part of the ethos also includes demonstrations and experiences for visitors—from visits to amagoya to performances on Mikimoto Pearl Island—but even then, the “script” is subject to the sea: wind, visibility, temperature, tides, red tides, and lately also the depletion of seaweed.

Here, everything is the logistics of breath. After a short rest on the float, the Ama takes several quiet, not maximal breaths (hyperventilation is harmful), makes a controlled exhalation, and “closes” for the dive. On the seabed, she works economically: minimal movements, not “swimming for swimming’s sake,” but gliding from one spot to the next—the less motion, the longer the “window.” Hand movements are minute: prying at an edge, patiently “nibbling” at abalones clinging with their muscular foot, deciding “too small—leave it,” “mature—take it.” The ascent must be rhythmic and calm, with care for equalizing ear pressure; on the surface, a quick isobue, a few “resting” breaths, a glance at the current and her partner—and then another descent. This work does not forgive uncoordinated thrashing of limbs—the best Ama are, by nature, minimalists of movement.

Safety and Cooperation

In poor visibility, hearing and touch become as important as sight. The crash of a wave against rock, the murmur of a current rebounding off a headland—these are “local radars.” In funado pairs, the system of “assistant–diver” is common: one person in the boat watches the buoy and surfacing point, while the other works on the bottom; in nearshore oyogido, divers support each other with eye contact and voice. The “end” signal for a diver is simple: chill in the bones, a decline in breath quality, the first cramp—then it is time to return to the fire, because it is the body that dictates the limits, not pride.

Ama technique is a system of interconnected vessels: body–breath–tools–ritual–fishing regimes. Details change—goggles, wetsuits, better knives—but the core remains: short, attentive work “on a single breath,” a protective symbol on the headscarf, a prayer on the shore, and the warmth of charcoal in the amagoya. That is why their world, even when performed “on stage” for tourists, is still a school of mindfulness and humility before the sea—and why so many visitors leave with the feeling that they have learned something about the body, limits, and breath, even though they never once submerged themselves.

Modern Times – Decline and Revival

Indeed, I write of “tourists”—which means, can Ama still be seen at work today? Yes, though it must be said at once: what a contemporary visitor witnesses in Mie Prefecture or on Hegura Island is no longer the everyday, natural scene of a fishing village, but rather a fragment of tradition preserved like a rare treasure.

In the mid-20th century, there were around 17,000 Ama throughout Japan. Today, the number of active divers is estimated at barely 2,000, and even then, most are women aged 65–70. The few youngest apprentices rarely dive regularly—more often they treat diving as family heritage or a weekend attraction. Yet the largest clusters still operate in the Ise-Shima region (Toba, Shima, Osatsu), in Chiba along the Kujūkuri beaches, and in the cold waters around Hegura-jima in Ishikawa Prefecture.

The reasons for this dramatic decline are many—some obvious, others less so. On the one hand, there is the change in lifestyle and expectations of women: young Japanese women prefer work in offices or services to the risky plunges into icy seas. On the other, the ocean is no longer as generous as in the past. The phenomenon of isoyake, or “barren seas,” caused by warming waters and the decline of seaweed forests, has dramatically reduced abalone and turban shell populations. Added to this is the pressure of industrial fishing and the shifting laws of environmental protection.

Paradoxically, it is tourism that grants the Ama a second life. In Osatsu or Toba, one can visit amagoya—the huts where divers traditionally warmed themselves at the hearth after their expeditions. Today these places have become a kind of “living museum”: Ama in authentic white attire greet visitors, tell stories, sing old songs, and serve freshly grilled seafood. On Mikimoto Pearl Island, diving demonstrations are held, where tourists can see how pearls and abalones were traditionally gathered. Local governments and museums, such as the Toba Sea-Folk Museum, strive to document their knowledge and weave the Ama into an ecotourism narrative—so that encounters with them are not only attractions but also lessons in the delicate balance between humanity and the sea.

The Daily Life of the Ama

But let us leave modern times for a moment and return to the Sengoku and Edo periods, for we have not yet asked—how did the Ama live? They did not only dive into the cool blue of the bays, but also had their places on shore, their daily rhythm, and their own culture, distinct from the rest of the community.

At the heart of their world stood the amagoya—low wooden huts with thatched roofs, often crouched right on the shoreline, sometimes near fishing ports. Inside, on hard-packed earth, a fire burned. On glowing coals they warmed their chilled bodies, dried their wet fundoshi and white shiro-shōzoku shirts, cooked simple meals—rice, miso soup, turban shells roasted on a grill, or freshly caught fish. These were not ordinary huts—they were more like women’s enclaves, rarely entered by men. The amagoya were places of rest, but also of storytelling: here legends of sea spirits were spun, older generations remembered, songs sung to the rhythm of kagura-suizu—bamboo sticks tapped in time.

The profession of Ama was almost always inherited. Daughters accompanied their mothers from childhood—first playing on the beach, later learning to swim in the bays, until at last they began short, few-second dives. In their teenage years they joined the community as full-fledged divers. This line of female transmission was extraordinarily strong—what in other parts of Japan fathers passed on to sons (roles, craft, family name), here unfolded within the circle of women. A mother taught her daughter not only the technique of breathing or recognizing the best rocks for awabi, but also mental resilience: how to master fear, solitude, and the silence that envelops one underwater.

Men had their roles, but they were decidedly auxiliary. They often manned the boats to which Ama returned after their dives. They were responsible for transport, for selling the harvested seafood at markets, for maintaining equipment, and for the final division of profits. Sometimes they tended the fire in the amagoya, but in the memory culture of the Ama they were remembered rather as “those who waited on the shore.” It happened that in times of famine or war they too went underwater, but they were regarded as exceptions that proved the rule—the sea belonged to the women.

Ama life had two faces: solitude beneath the water and community on the shore. A dive is always an individual experience—tens of seconds in which the world becomes a greenish silence, and everything reduces to the rhythm of heart and lungs. On the seabed waits the reward—an awabi, a sea urchin, a turban shell, or sometimes only emptiness. But when they surfaced, exhaling the characteristic whistle of isobue, they knew that just beside the village, in the smoke of the amagoya, their sisters were waiting—to warm themselves together, to laugh, to sing, and to share what the sea had offered.

A certain question arises almost naturally—how was it possible that in such a patriarchal Japan it was women who played the leading role, while men were pushed into supporting functions?

The answer lies partly in biology, and partly in culture and daily practice. The female body, due to a naturally higher percentage of body fat, better endured prolonged immersion in the cold waters of the bays. The Ama were therefore more resistant to hypothermia, which gave them an advantage in fishing without any protective equipment.

But equally important was the social aspect: diving was considered impure, dangerous work, involving contact with the forces of the sea and the risk of death—men of rural families more often undertook the roles of farmers, line fishermen, or traders, leaving the “unclean” space to women. Over time, this practice became an institution: the Ama were the specialists, while men naturally assumed the accompanying tasks—handling the boats, the fire, transport, and trade.

As a result, in small coastal communities where nearly every other sphere of life was dominated by men, the sea and the depths became the domain of women, a kind of inversion of the common hierarchies. This makes the Ama such an extraordinary phenomenon in the history of Japan—a reversed mirror of the patriarchal order.

Philosophy and Culture of the Ama

Ama diving has for centuries carried a dimension far deeper than the mere practice of gathering food. In the eyes of scholars of symbolism—from Carl Gustav Jung to the Japanese psychologist Hayao Kawai—the descent of a woman into the sea’s depths appears as an archetypal journey into the unconscious, into the realm of shadow and hidden treasures. Though this may seem like overinterpretation, certain elements of their work resonate with this vision. And so does the fact that diving was considered “unclean”—in other words, men feared it. They feared plunging alone into the dark depths, where the world looks and behaves entirely differently from what we know on land. Silence underwater, the suspension of breath, the solitary struggle with darkness—this is almost an initiatory ritual, in which the Ama becomes a mediator between two worlds: the surface of life and the depths of mystery.

This resonates particularly strongly in the legend of the diving mother from the Nara period, wife of the aristocrat Fujiwara no Fuhito, who gave her life to retrieve from the seabed a sacred pearl—the “Buddha’s jewel.” According to the tale, she pierced it into her breast to protect it from dragons and emerged with it only in her final breath. This image—of a woman’s body becoming a vessel of sanctity, of maternal sacrifice, and at the same time of attaining the state of butsujō—remains one of the most moving examples of religious symbolism in Japan. The water in which this act unfolds is a double element: it bestows life and transformation, yet also threatens with death and annihilation. The Ama teach that descent into the depths is always bound with risk, and that true treasures are brought up at the cost of one’s own fear and suffering.

This spiritual and psychological depth also permeated literature and art. Already in the Man’yōshū appeared images of white arms diving in Shima Bay, and the Nō drama Matsukaze portrayed two Ama sisters whose fates became entangled in a tragic story of love and longing. In the Edo period, the Ama became heroines of ukiyo-e—both in scenes of daily life, honoring their work, and in fantastical erotic visions. One of the most popular was Hokusai’s shunga “The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife” (so it is translated into English, though the original title is far less misleading: 蛸と海女, “The Octopus and the Ama Woman”—isn’t that better?), depicting an Ama in an erotic embrace with an octopus—a work poised between grotesque and symbolic allegory of desire and of the sea as a devouring force.

In the 20th century, the Ama entered literature—Yukio Mishima in his novel The Sound of Waves imbued them with an aura of romance and youthful love set against tradition. They also appeared in cinema and pop culture—for instance, in the James Bond film You Only Live Twice, where exoticized “Japanese mermaids” become part of a Western fantasy (see: Kissy Suzuki). The image of the Ama thus stretches between three poles: romanticization, eroticization, and folklorization. On one side, they were seen as heroines of everyday life, symbols of endurance and connection with the sea; on another, as objects of male fantasies; and finally, as “living open-air museums” for tourists. Their myth endures because it has always oscillated between reality and imagination, between real toil and the world of poetry and dream.

One thing is certain—gaining insight into their true view of the world, of life, and of the sea would surely be a more fascinating and incomparably richer experience than perceiving them through the simplified images of male culture.

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"Strong Japanese Women"

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    未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

  Mike Soray

   (aka Michał Sobieraj)

未開    ソビエライ

 An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)

Personal motto:

"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)

Mike Soray

(aka Michał Sobieraj)

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