Fisherman, Castaway, Lecturer, and Diplomat

Before the name Nakahama Manjirō was inscribed on the pages of Japanese and world history as “John Mung,” before he became the first Japanese in history to set foot on American soil, before he served as an interpreter in the first negotiations with Americans, as an advisor to shoguns, and as a lecturer in Tokyo, he was nothing more than a barefoot boy running along the shore of a fishing village in the province of Tosa. The son of a poor fisherman, who never dreamed of more than a full belly and a calm sea, was suddenly cast into the whirlpool of events that make us exclaim: “It is unbelievable that this truly happened!” In 1841, his small fishing boat, broken apart by a storm, carried him into the unknown—and the waves hurled him not only onto a deserted island but directly into the arms of the American whaling ship John Howland. That was the moment when the fate of a boy from the end of the world collided with the global ocean of history.

The story of Manjirō is the story of the first Japanese in the United States. He learned English, ate bread and beef, discovered Western culture and the rules of democracy, studied mathematics, navigation, and mechanics—all in an era when Japan, locked under the policy of sakoku, punished by death any attempt to cross its borders. From a simple castaway he became a man who saw Boston and San Francisco, sailed across the Pacific, searched for gold in California, and climbed the masts of American ships. Years later, he returned to a country where no one could even pronounce the word “States,” and became one of the most invaluable witnesses to a civilization that was soon to knock on Japan’s doors. It was thanks to his stories and his knowledge that Japan could more quickly understand the world that was already approaching its closed gates.

But was he the master of his fate? It seems that Manjirō was a plaything of chance: a storm, a deserted island, a whaling ship—everything appeared to be the work of blind, half-drunken destiny. And yet it was not chance but his choices that gave this story such grandeur. It was he who decided to learn English, though no one expected more from a poor boy than hard work at sea. It was he who had the courage to look another culture in the eye, casting aside stereotypes and fear. Where others in his place would have chosen withdrawal and despair, he chose openness and discovery. That is why his fate reminds us that the line between destiny and freedom is thin—and that being the “master of one’s fate” does not mean controlling events, but deciding how to respond to them. And in this, Manjirō remains a model: a simple fisherman who, through the strength of spirit and an openness to the unknown, became a bridge between Japan and the world, and one of the living foundations of the new Meiji era. Let us now explore his colorful story in greater detail.

The Life of Manjirō Nakahama, Known as John Mung

A Child of a Fishing Village

Before Manjirō Nakahama—later called John Manjirō or John Mung—found himself on an American whaling ship, crossed the oceans, became an interpreter, an advisor to shoguns, and a lecturer at the university in Tokyo, he was only a skinny, barefoot boy from a forgotten fishing village on the coast of the province of Tosa. To understand the extraordinariness of his fate, we must step back to a time when Japan lived in near-total isolation—the Edo period, ruled by the Tokugawa shogunate, in the age of sakoku (鎖国, “closed country”).

Tosa—a land on the southern island of Shikoku—was poor and harsh. The mountains descended almost directly into the sea, leaving little arable land to its people. Fishing villages, clinging to rocky inlets, lived by the rhythm of tides, wind, and schools of fish. At dawn, when the sun rose over the rippling Pacific Ocean, the boys of the village—including young Manjirō—would spring up from their bamboo mats and run to the shore. They had no toys or books. Their world was nets stretched on poles, boats hewn from hollowed logs, and the shimmer of fish scales in wicker baskets. Daily life was simple—often reduced to a bowl of rice thinned with water and a few dried fish.

From his earliest years, Manjirō knew that his family’s life depended on the sea. He had no father—his had died young, leaving behind a wife and several children. The boy often helped fishermen mend nets, carry wood, and sometimes even joined them at sea, though he did not yet have the strength for such hard labor. The wind off the Pacific taught him humility; the waves, both fear and awe. It was on the shore, gazing at the boundless horizon, that the dreams began to stir within him—dreams that then seemed impossible.

The Japan in which he grew up was tightly closed. Sakoku—the “closed country” policy—had been in place since the 17th century. No one could leave the islands under pain of death, and foreigners were forbidden entry, except for a few Dutch traders in Nagasaki. Travel beyond one’s own province required permits. Farmers were tied to the land and paid heavy rice taxes to their daimyō—feudal lords who in turn were subordinate to the shogun in Edo. In this social hierarchy, the son of a poor widow like Manjirō stood at the very bottom—without any chance of ever escaping the cycle of poverty.

And yet his soul was restless. Though daily life seemed predetermined forever—fishing, work, poverty, hunger—Manjirō looked farther. He looked to the horizon where ocean met sky and whispered questions he never dared voice aloud: what lies beyond? Is there another world across the water?

Thus begins the story of a boy from a forgotten village in Tosa—a story that years later would transform not only his own fate but the fate of all Japan.

Shipwreck and the Miracle of Survival

It was supposed to be an ordinary day, like many others in the life of a fisherman. Nakahama Manjirō, a fifteen-year-old boy from a poor fishing village in the province of Tosa, went out with several older companions to catch fish. It was early 1841, the season of early spring, when the sea promised a rich catch and the air still carried the chill of winter. Their small boat, lightly rocking on the waves, was to return before dusk with nets full of the ocean’s gifts. Nothing foretold the coming catastrophe.

The boat in which young Manjirō and his companions set out was small and fragile against the capricious Pacific. What began as a calm outing turned into a drama—the wind rose, the waves struck harder and harder, and dark clouds announced a storm. The wooden boat, at the mercy of the elements, was at last smashed by the waves and carried the castaways far from their familiar shore. Fate threw them onto the shore of the desolate, uninhabited island of Torishima—a place that for many would have meant a death sentence.

On that scrap of land, surrounded by the boundless ocean, began a struggle for survival. Manjirō, together with four companions, survived the storm at sea, but there was no way, no known path, to return home. They had landed on a deserted island and could either surrender to despair and starvation or fight. Fishing, gathering seabird eggs, searching for water in the rocks—this was the daily reality, teaching humility before nature. Hunger became as constant a companion as the burning sun and the cold nights. Solitude sharpened the senses, and the wild nature of the island appeared both as enemy and sole ally. In those days, Manjirō was forged by a boundary experience—a trial of body and spirit that would mark him for life.

Hope arrived at the most unexpected moment. After five months of living alone and self-sufficient on the island, the boys saw a sail appear on the horizon—an American whaling ship. The encounter was nothing short of a miracle of salvation, but also the beginning of great uncertainty. For fishermen from Japan, a country closed off by the policy of sakoku (鎖国), strangers from the other side of the world inspired fear and mistrust. Their customs, their language, their appearance—all of it seemed incomprehensible, almost supernatural.

And yet fascination mingled with fear. As Manjirō gazed upon the Americans, he saw not only rescuers but also the harbingers of an entirely different world, whose existence he had only ever guessed at. This was his first encounter with the “Other”—the moment when the boundaries of the known reality expanded suddenly and irreversibly. From that moment on, his fate would no longer belong solely to Japan but would become part of a greater, global history.

The Encounter

It was the day that changed Manjirō’s life forever. On the horizon of the barren, desolate island appeared the silhouette of a vast, foreign ship. The boy and his four companions, exhausted after months of isolation, at first could not believe their eyes. Soon, however, they saw the flag and the shapes of sailors—strange men, perhaps demons? As the castaways later learned, they were called “Americans.” The commander of the sailing ship John Howland was Captain William Whitfield, an experienced whaler from Massachusetts. When he came ashore and saw the emaciated young fishermen, he realized they would not survive long if they remained on the island. He took them aboard, though he knew full well that returning Japanese to their homeland was impossible—sakoku, the policy of isolation, made it forbidden and fatally dangerous.

On the ship, Manjirō’s journey into the unknown began. The boy, only fourteen at the time, watched with breathless attention the customs of the American sailors. Their language sounded like music from another world, and their daily life—filled with strict discipline, work on the sails, and whale hunts—seemed utterly alien. They also appeared unusually loud and remarkably direct. At first, he felt fear and confusion, but he quickly revealed himself to be a clever youth eager to learn. Captain Whitfield saw his potential and decided to take him under his care.

After a long voyage, the ship reached America. Thus, Manjirō became the first Japanese in history to set foot on American soil. It was Boston—a city teeming with life, full of wealth, freedom, and opportunities that the young boy had never been able to imagine. The streets were wider, the buildings taller, and the people walked with self-assurance, their faces sometimes radiant with smiles, at other times burdened with business cares. This was a world of unbounded trade, rapid change, and inventions, while Japan remained enclosed in the rigid hierarchy of the shogunate.

Manjirō began studying in an American school—at first as a completely bewildered pupil, ignorant of the language. Yet he quickly made up for lost ground. He learned mathematics, geometry, and also the secrets of navigation, which later played a great role in his life. In a short time, he became not only an able sailor but also one of the best-educated Japanese of his generation (at least in matters connected with Western progress).

Questions and reflections began to arise in his heart. How was it possible that there existed a world so open, so utterly different from everything he knew in his village and country? How could he reconcile within himself the stern dictates of Japan, where travel and contact with foreigners were forbidden, with what he had seen with his own eyes—a realm of freedom and knowledge? He was torn between the world into which he had been born and the world he was now discovering. And yet he began to realize that it was precisely this unique position—that of a young Japanese who had come to know America—that would become his greatest strength in the future.

The Decision to Return

As we know, the captain of the John Howland, captivated by the boy’s intelligence, took him under his wing and brought him to Fairhaven in the state of Massachusetts. There, Manjirō—whom the Americans christened with the name John Mung—began a life utterly unlike anything he had known in his native village. He studied English, attended school, and learned mathematics and navigation—fields that in Japan were utterly out of reach for the son of a poor fisherman. He also worked aboard whaling ships, hardening himself through toil while acquiring experience that would later prove invaluable.

In time, he also learned blacksmithing, maritime crafts, and technical drawing, and his open mind absorbed Western knowledge and inventions. He was the first Japanese to learn the English language in the United States and the first to see up close democracy, railroads, and new technologies. Yet despite his fascination with America, a longing grew within his heart. Every ocean breeze reminded him of the shores of his native Tosa. He knew that Japan remained closed, and that anyone who returned after contact with the foreign world risked death. Yet the yearning for his mother and brothers ripened within him, like a seed that refused to be forgotten.

At about twenty-five years of age, after years of work and study, Manjirō resolved to attempt a return. He set out from the Philippines, later reaching Okinawa, where the Japanese eyed him with suspicion. He was then taken to Satsuma, where he was subjected to long interrogations. Every step of this journey was a dramatic risk—Manjirō knew that returning to Japan could mean his death.

The decision to return was born of longing and loyalty to his homeland. Though in America there awaited him a life of relative safety and even the chance of social advancement, his heart drew him back to Japan—the land of his birth, which was for him both a stern mother and an unattainable dream.

It was a dramatic return, overshadowed by the law that for two centuries had forbidden contact with the outside world. Death threatened anyone who broke sakoku, the “closed door policy.” Even so, Manjirō took the risk. His successive attempts to return—through the Philippines, Okinawa, and Satsuma—were full of uncertainty and interrogations, like the journey of a man suspended between two worlds: the new one he had come to know and the old one that did not want him back.

The Japan to which he returned was still a closed country, but cracks were already beginning to appear in the wall of isolation. The shadows of Perry’s ships loomed on the horizon, and Manjirō—a simple fisherman transformed by the ocean into a man of the world—was to play the role of witness and bridge between these two realities.

A Man Between Two Worlds

When Manjirō finally reached Japan, his journey was not over—in a sense, it was only beginning. According to the strict laws of isolation (sakoku), any Japanese who dared to leave the country exposed himself to death upon return. Thus, in 1851, when at last, at the age of twenty-four, he set foot on Japanese soil in Tosa, he was not met with open-armed welcome but with the coldness of suspicion. He was arrested and interrogated by officials of the shogunate. They asked him about every detail of his journey: about the ships he had seen, about weapons, about the system of government in America. The authorities in Edo feared that “contamination by foreign ideas” would undermine the fragile balance of the state.

Yet what at first inspired fear gradually came to be seen as an invaluable resource. Manjirō knew the English language—at a time when throughout all Japan only a handful of scholars could read foreign texts. He understood how a compass worked, knew the principles of triangulation, could use modern maps and navigational tools. He knew the construction of great multi-masted ships. He could speak of steam engines, of the gold mines of California. He also knew more dangerous ideas—he told of the principles of democracy and freedom, which in his words sounded to many Japanese like fantastic tales from another world.

The shogunate at first kept him in Edo and treated him with reserve, but in time put his knowledge to use. Manjirō was employed as a teacher and translator. He translated navigation manuals into Japanese, taught the basics of mathematics and cartography. Thanks to him, English maritime terms were for the first time rendered into Japanese. He took part in training the first officers who later formed the core of Japan’s modern navy. His experience became especially precious when in 1853 the “Black Ships” of Commodore Matthew Perry appeared off the coast of Edo—a symbolic moment marking Japan’s opening and the end of two and a half centuries of isolation.

Manjirō became something like a herald of an age yet to come. He stood between two worlds—a simple fisherman from Tosa, and at the same time a man who had eaten bread in America, studied geometry in New England, joined the Gold Rush in California, and tasted democracy. For many Japanese, he was like living proof that the world beyond the walls of sakoku truly existed and could be understood.

Mid-19th century Japan was a country on the brink—beneath the surface of isolation, social tensions seethed, the economy stagnated, and Western pressure grew with every passing year. In this context, the figure of Manjirō takes on particular significance: he was the bridge that connected two shores—closed, traditional Japan and the modern world, which was knocking ever more insistently at her gates.

In an Era of Great Change

In 1853, off the coast of Edo, appeared the Black Ships of Commodore Matthew Perry, and the thunder of their cannons and the smoke rising above the bay became the herald of the end of more than two centuries of isolation. It was the moment when the entire structure of Japan, built upon the policy of sakoku (1639–1854), began to crumble. The gulf between the world of samurai traditions and the modernity of the West was suddenly and brutally exposed. In this dramatic hour, Manjirō found himself at the center of events, as if his entire life—from being seized by the ocean in 1841, through the years spent in America, to his return to Japan—had been preparation for this role.

When Perry arrived in Japan, Manjirō already had behind him several years of work as a translator and teacher in Nagasaki. In 1851, the shogunate officially employed him to translate English-language materials and to teach a language which, at that time, no one else in Japan commanded. In 1854, during the negotiations of the Treaty of Kanagawa, Manjirō served as interpreter and advisor—not among the principal diplomats conducting the talks with the Americans, but in the background, preparing reports, assisting in the understanding of documents, and explaining what was concealed behind words such as “free trade,” “consular privileges,” and “treaty ports.” Though he was a simple fisherman from Tosa, in practice he became one of the very first Japanese specialists in the English language, able to give his country real support in confronting a new era.

After the signing of the Treaty of Kanagawa, Manjirō was invited to Edo, where he was entrusted with teaching English to the sons of daimyō and to young samurai. Among his pupils was Fukuzawa Yukichi—the future great thinker and reformer of Meiji—who always emphasized how important his first lessons with Manjirō had been. He taught not only the language but also the basics of navigation, seamanship, mathematics, and world geography. In a country where until recently simple contact with a foreigner had meant the threat of death, Manjirō displayed a globe, maps of America and Europe, and spoke of steamships, railroads, and democracy.

This, however, was no easy task. In society, there was immense fear of the West—its religion, its technology, its customs. Perry was depicted as a “black demon,” his ships as “floating monsters.” Many samurai demanded that the barbarians be expelled by force, while others recognized the need for compromise. Manjirō, who knew both worlds, understood these tensions. He knew that Japan could not hold back the West by isolation alone, and that the road to the future required opening up—even against habits and fears.

The symbolism of his fate became ever clearer. He was a simple boy from a fishing village who, in defiance of the laws of the age, had crossed the boundary of the world and returned as a man at once foreign and indispensable. To the authorities of the shogunate he was a treasury of knowledge that even the most learned Confucian scholars did not possess. To the common people he was a living tale of unknown lands. To the coming era he was a herald of the changes that would irreversibly transform Japan.

Even before the Meiji era was born, Manjirō embodied its spirit: the blending of tradition with modernity, loyalty to the homeland with openness to the world. He was a bridge between America and Japan, between sakoku and globalization, between the old vision of the world and the new modernity that was rapidly approaching.

The Last Years of His Life

After the turbulent decades that had made him both a witness and a participant in the greatest turning point in Japan’s history in centuries, Manjirō—by then known as Nakahama Manjirō, also called John Manjirō—settled in Tokyo. His life had none of the comfort of the great men of his age. He did not receive high titles or vast wealth, though his knowledge was invaluable. In the 1860s, as Japan underwent the Meiji Revolution, Manjirō taught English at Kaisei Gakkō—a school that later became part of the University of Tokyo. He was a remarkable lecturer: instead of dry grammatical rules, he spoke of America, of how the courts functioned, how commerce developed, what daily life looked like in Boston or aboard an American whaling ship. His lessons opened the eyes of students to a world that for many remained still an abstraction.

Over time, he was also asked for diplomatic consultations. He participated in meetings with American officers and advised in the first attempts to translate treaty documents. Though he did not hold formal political office, his knowledge of language and of Western realities was priceless for the Japan that was just beginning to modernize. For instance, in 1860, he supported the Japanese mission to the United States, when for the first time in history the land of the samurai sent a delegation across the Pacific—aboard the frigate Kanrin Maru. His students and collaborators later played important roles in the Meiji government, the navy, and diplomacy, which attests to his indirect yet lasting influence on the process of modernization.

Despite these merits, Manjirō was never fully appreciated. He lived modestly, far from the great courts. He was repeatedly attacked by conservatives who claimed that he was bringing “foreign heresies” into Japan. He himself would repeat that knowledge has no boundaries—and that the man who rejects learning remains in darkness. He also suffered personal tragedies: his wife died relatively early, and one of his sons went to the United States, where he settled permanently—something that for the father was both a source of pride and of longing.

Manjirō’s family life after his return to Japan unfolded alongside all the turbulent events in which he was involved. In 1852, shortly after settling in his native village of Nakanohama on Shikoku, he married Ryō, a woman from a neighboring locality. The marriage was not only an act of personal happiness but also a return to Japanese normality after years of wandering the world. He had five children—four sons and one daughter. His eldest son, Tetsuzō, followed in his father’s footsteps, taking an interest in the sea, helping him with fishing and navigation, and later also assisting in his translation and teaching work. Yet family life was not without difficulties—though in his home village he was treated with respect, as a man of extraordinary experience, his children grew up in the shadow of a father whose fate was marked both by admiration and suspicion. During the Meiji Restoration, his descendants took part in the continued opening of Japan to the world—some went abroad, others studied in modern schools. Thus, the family of Manjirō became a kind of living bridge between old Japan and the new era, in which a traditional fishing village and the English alphabet could coexist under one roof.

Manjirō died in 1898 at the age of 71, at a time when Japan was already a completely different country from the one to which he had returned as a youth. He saw the nation under Emperor Meiji, he saw the birth of the railway, the first factories, the victory over China, and the beginning of a new, imperial age. He witnessed how Japan—the same Japan that had once treated the return of a castaway from across the ocean as a crime—now sent its own young men to study in Europe and America.

How is he remembered today? In his native village of Nakanohama (in Kōchi Prefecture), there is a museum dedicated to his extraordinary fate, and at nearby Cape Ashizuri stands a monument gazing toward the ocean on which he had embarked upon his longest journey. In the United States, his story is recalled in educational programs as an example of courage, openness, and the breaking of cultural barriers. In 1987, a monument was erected to him in Fairhaven, Massachusetts, where he had once arrived as a boy rescued by Americans. In both countries, children learn of him in school as a man who united rather than divided.

The story of Manjirō is not merely a tale of chance—of a boy whom fate cast upon the other side of the world. It is also the story of how an individual, seemingly insignificant, can become a keystone of an era. He was a simple fisherman who, through his own courage and thirst for knowledge, became a bridge between East and West. At a time when Japan faced a dramatic choice—whether to close itself within tradition or to open to the world—Manjirō’s life showed that the path need not be a choice between one or the other.

His fate reminds us that man does not always choose his destiny, but he can always give it meaning. He died humbly, almost without renown, but in the memory of posterity he remained as a symbol—not so much a scholar, not so much a diplomat, but rather a living bridge who journeyed from poverty and despair to a place where his life became testimony to an epochal change. And the ocean, which had once nearly taken his life, in the end made him immortal in the history of two nations.

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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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