The Utsurobune was found in 1803 on the shores of Hitachi Province

The eastern coast of Japan, the 22nd day of the second month of the third year of the Kyōwa era (in Western terms: the year 1803), around the hour of ushi no koku (丑の刻 – “hour of the ox”), that is, between 1 and 3 in the morning. On the shores of Hitachi Province (today’s Ibaraki Prefecture), in the silence and mist of a night nearing its end, fishermen notice something drifting on the sea. At first, they think it is a common wreck, perhaps a lost merchant ship. But as they row closer, they see something that resembles nothing they know. A rounded shape, shimmering red material, transparent panels resembling glass, and metal plates covering the lower part. Through one of the windows, a strange silhouette can be seen moving. What is this discovery? Something between a lantern, a lifeboat, and a censer from a Buddhist temple. Japan of the shogunate era meets science fiction… before the era of science fiction even begins.

When the peculiar object — later named utsurobune (“hollow ship”) — is pulled ashore, the onlookers are met with the sight of a young woman with pinkish skin, intensely red eyebrows, and hair whose tips are powdered white. Her garments are unlike any Japanese clothing, and her speech resembles no known language. She continually holds a square box in her arms and allows no one to approach it. Inside the mysterious vessel are two soft rugs, a bottle of water, meat, something like a pastry — and symbols on the walls, reminiscent of foreign script, perhaps even mathematical formulas. A strange combination of Greek letters, European alchemy, perhaps even Klingon… but certainly not native kanji.

Thus begins one of the most astonishing tales of the Edo period, described in authentic sources: Toen Shōsetsu (1825), Ume no Chiri (1844), Hyōryū Kishu, and also in the Banke Bunsho, a collection rediscovered in the 21st century. Was it a clever literary invention? A retelling of a local legend about marebito – supernatural visitors from beyond the sea? Perhaps a reflection of the growing anxiety toward the approaching West? Maybe the woman was a yōkai? Or an exiled princess from Sakhalin with her lover’s head in the box? Or perhaps, as some modern researchers suggest, an event so unusual that the only comparison we have today is… a close encounter of the third kind? One thing is certain — Japan that night gazed into the unknown. Today, we shall take a closer look at this case — step by step — and try to answer the question: are we dealing with a Japanese Roswell from the time of the shogunate?

The Beach That Saw Too Much
That is, Hitachi, the year 1803 – the alleged site of the “alien” encounter

It was a time when, for many Japanese, the world ended at the line of the stormy sea, and everything that arrived from beyond the horizon smelled of the unknown, the unsettling — and at times, the supernatural. In the third year of the Kyōwa era (1803), on the shores of Harayadori in Hitachi Province, fishermen noticed a peculiar structure drifting in the distance. It resembled neither the merchant ships from Osaka nor the small fishing boats from Edo. When they towed it to shore using a small boat, they saw something they would never forget for the rest of their lives. And something we too — thanks to preserved sources — are unable to forget to this day.

The Vessel

Before anyone even saw the woman, all stood stunned, staring at the strange structure that the waves had thrown onto the shores of Hitachi. The local fishermen, who struggled to pull the mysterious object from the sea, could not decide what they were dealing with. A ship, a boat, a capsule? Its shape resembled overturned censers or the black pots used for cooking rice, as described in the 1844 document Ume no Chiri. The upper part appeared to be made of something like lacquered rosewood, while the lower part was reinforced with iron plates, as if it came from the workshop of an unknown master of shipbuilding — or from another world.

Around the oval structure — measuring about 5.5 meters in diameter and over 3 meters in height — were windows. But not the kind one would expect from Edo-period craftsmen — these were glazed panels with latticework, sealed with something like pine resin, similar to that used in Western ships. Through the transparent panes, one could peer inside — and see even stranger things. The interior was adorned with incomprehensible symbols, reminiscent of alchemical signs: ꟑ, ∆, T (though of course the fishermen would not have made such an association — these are symbols of European alchemy, never before seen on Japanese soil at the time). Only much later did some researchers, such as Hideki Satō, suggest they might be European chemical symbols.

Modern researcher Kazuo Tanaka, who analyzed sources such as Toen Shōsetsu (1825) by Kyokutei Bakin and archival illustrations from Banke Bunsho, notes that no Japanese, Chinese, or European boat model resembled this craft. The vessel had no oars, no sails, and yet it did not appear to be an entirely fictional construction. Thus today — not without reason — the question arises: was this an archaic lifeboat? A mysterious ship from a distant land? Or something even more extraordinary? The trace left by the “Utsurobune” has not disappeared — it remains visible in documents, art, and Japan’s cultural memory to this very day.

Inside the Vessel…

The interior of this “boat” – as it was initially called – transparent and enclosed in glass, shimmered with lacquered wood and was covered in strange signs unknown to any scribe. The upper part of the structure resembled the body of an incense vessel (kōbako), while the lower – armored with metal plates – could, it seems, withstand even a collision with rocks. At least, that’s what was recorded by the author of Toen Shōsetsu, the 1825 anthology of strange tales in which Kyokutei Bakin — the famous Edo-period writer — included the story titled Utsuro-bune no banjo (虚舟の蛮女, “The Barbarian Woman from the Hollow Ship”).

The woman who emerged from within was as mysterious as her vessel. She was about 20 years old, spoke in an unknown language, and carried with her a simple square box, which she would not allow anyone to touch. She had red eyebrows, hair the color of copper, and its ends — as suggested by illustrations — were powdered white, reminiscent of Russian bridal hairstyles, as Bakin himself observed, quoting travelers from the Sea of Okhotsk (Rosia Bunken Roku). Her face was “clear and pink,” and her garments woven from fabrics unknown even at the court in Edo.

Inside the boat, the following were found:
– a bottle of water (approximately 3.6 liters),
– two soft rugs,
– something resembling a pastry and meat,
– a porcelain-like bowl of unknown design.

All of this was also recorded by Nagahashi Matajirō (長橋亦次郎) in his work Ume no Chiri from 1844. There, too, we find descriptions of the vessel — lacquered in red and black, with windows sealed with “chan” (waterproof pine resin), built of iron of unknown Western quality. Both sources – though independent – repeat the same narrative: the woman came from an unknown country, perhaps even from the West, maybe as a princess exiled for a romance, perhaps with her beloved sealed in the box in the form of a severed head. Such a theory is offered by an old fisherman in the account.

Banke Bunsho (伴家文書), discovered only in 2014, also identifies the site of the event as Sharihama – now part of the city of Kamisu in Ibaraki Prefecture. This only adds credibility to the legend, whose elements – a round vehicle, incomprehensible script, strange materials and food – have led some to compare it today to an encounter… of the third kind.

Did Edo-period Japan really experience contact with something not of this world? Or was it merely a cleverly woven, colorful tale, as Kunio Yanagita, the father of Japanese ethnology, once suggested? Today, we attempt to unravel this enigma. Let us dig deeper!

The Princess with the Box and the Powder
Who was the mysterious woman, and what was she holding in her hands?

She uttered not a single word, and yet she became the heroine of one of the most enigmatic stories of the Edo period. Though she did not understand the language of the people of Hitachi, and they did not understand hers, she sparked a wave of whispers, hypotheses, and legends. Who was she? What had she brought with her from beyond the horizon — and what was she clutching so tightly in her hands?

In documents such as Toen Shōsetsu (1825) and Ume no Chiri (1844), several recurring — though far from unequivocal — elements appear: the woman was young (around 20 years old), short (about 5 shaku — roughly 1.5 meters), her eyebrows and hair were intensely red, and the ends of her hairstyle were whitened, as if powdered. This last detail — as speculated by Kyokutei Bakin, author of Toen Shōsetsu — might have been related to the Russian custom of hair-powdering during formal ceremonies. Quoting the work Rosia Bunken Roku (「魯西亜聞見録」), which describes the travels of Japanese envoys to Russia, he wrote: “Their hair was turned white using powder” — and perhaps it was precisely such a woman who landed on the Japanese shore. But was it only the hairstyle that was Western?

The mysterious woman in the boat held in her hands a simple, square box, approximately two shaku (60 cm) per side. She never parted with it, not for a moment, and allowed no one to touch it. One of the fishermen reportedly said: “It must be the head of her beloved. If she were a princess, and her love was forbidden, he may have been executed, and she — instead of facing death — was exiled in the boat.” This was not merely a fairytale. Similar stories, as noted by researcher Kazuo Tanaka, had already circulated in the region — in one of them, a woman arrives on the shore with a board to which a severed head is fastened. Was it the same figure? Or an echo of the same narrative, which may have its roots in other, earlier events?

Similar stories of women “arriving from across the sea” have recurred in Japanese folklore for centuries. As early as the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki, we encounter the motif of foreign women who bring something new — either unrest or a gift. The tale of Wake-hime is well-known, a girl washed ashore in Iyo Province (now Ehime) in the 7th century, who claimed to be from China and the daughter of an emperor. In the folklore of Kyūshū, there is a song (its origin uncertain) about a girl who arrived in a strange boat and also carried a precious box.

In ethnologist Kunio Yanagita’s studies of the figure of the marebito — the visitor from across the sea — the woman from the Utsurobune fits perfectly into an ancient Japanese archetype: she comes from an unknown place, evokes fascination and fear, speaks no comprehensible language, and brings a mysterious object. Marebito were often regarded as gods, spirits, or omens of change.

It has been proposed that the story from Hitachi may have been an attempt to “update” this archetype during the Edo period — especially at a time when Japan was increasingly fearful of Western influence, and foreign arrivals were met with both suspicion and secret admiration.

Was she a princess from Tsarist Russia? A Cossack woman from Sakhalin? A lost lover whose fate was sealed by the empty sea? Or perhaps, as later researchers suggested, a reflection of the deeply rooted fears and desires of the Japanese people during a time of national isolation? The mystery of the woman from the Utsurobune remains unsolved — and her presence on a Japanese beach continues to provoke questions…

Utsurobune – A UFO?
Tanaka, Yanagita, and the skeptics vs. the ufologists

Modern enthusiasts of the supernatural often compare the Utsurobune case to Roswell or Rendlesham, suggesting that Japan might have witnessed contact with something far more alien than a Russian woman. But before we begin speaking of extraterrestrials, it is worth listening to those who delve into historical sources and cultural mechanisms.

Professor Kazuo Tanaka of Gifu University spent many years analyzing all known sources describing the 1803 incident: Toen Shōsetsu (1825), Ume no Chiri (1844), Hyōryūki-shū, Banke Bunsho, and other collections of Edo-period tabloid-style novellas (kawaraban). Tanaka, though admitting the story is “detailed, intriguing, and evocative,” came to a clear conclusion: it is not a report of a UFO sighting, but a piece of literary fiction inspired by local folklore and growing fear of the outside world. He points to the lack of any confirmation in Tokugawa’s official records — something unthinkable in the case of such an extraordinary event, given that the shogunate always kept watch — always.

Kunio Yanagita, considered the father of Japanese ethnology, did not see the Utsurobune as a testimony to a concrete event, but rather as an example of an age-old cultural pattern: the tale of the beautiful and mysterious woman from across the sea who brings a new order, a gift — or trouble. According to Yanagita, such stories — also found in Kyūshū, Shikoku, and the Nansei archipelago — served to justify the ancient lineages of aristocratic families. They often began with a “foreign woman from afar” whose son became the ancestor of a noble house. The Utsurobune fits this pattern almost perfectly: not a UFO — but a myth of immigration, retold in the new realities of the era.

It is worth remembering that the Utsurobune entered the pages of literature at a very specific moment in Japanese history. Although the country remained closed to the world (sakoku), reports of black ships from the West — kurofune — appearing near the shores were becoming increasingly frequent. It was from this tension, the clash of fear and fascination, that the story of the woman in the rudderless boat may have been born — a vessel that resembled everything and nothing all at once.

And after all, the Edo period loved such wonders. In newspapers, books, and ukiyo-e prints, there was an abundance of ghosts, demons, monsters, fish-people, levitating monks, and samurai vanquishing twelve-eyed creatures. Stories of mysterious beings from another world not only entertained, but also provided an outlet for collective anxieties and desires — often in a form that today’s audience might recognize as “science fiction before the age of science fiction.”

The Utsurobune did not have to come from the stars. It was enough that it arrived from the ocean of human imagination — stirred by the shadow of the West and the Japanese hunger for mystery.

Illustration Analysis: Why Does the Vessel Resemble a UFO?
Is it truly so futuristic?

When we look today at the illustrations of the Utsurobune preserved in Japanese sources from the early 19th century — for example in Toen Shōsetsu (1825), Ume no Chiri (1844), or the sketches from Hyōryū Kishu — it’s hard not to smile. At first glance: here is a classic UFO, a “flying saucer” straight out of 1950s pop culture. Round, convex, with a transparent dome, strange symbols on the walls, and a humanoid figure inside. But is this truly a cosmic resemblance — or merely our own projection?

Let’s start with the facts. In Toen Shōsetsu, written by the famous Edo-period author Kyokutei Bakin (1767–1848), the object is described as round, with a diameter of about 5.4 meters and a height of 3.3 meters. The upper part was made of akanuri — red-lacquered wood (probably rosewood or sandalwood) — into which glass panels were fitted in the form of latticed shōji-style windows. These panels were sealed on the outside with pine resin (chan), serving as insulation — a technology also used in Western ships. The lower part of the vessel, on the other hand, was reinforced with iron plates, arranged like scales or segments of armor. They were intended to protect the craft from shattering on underwater rocks. There were no visible mechanisms of propulsion: no mast, no oars, no sail — thus, according to the account, the vessel drifted freely, like a lifeboat.

So much for the text. But it was the illustrations from the period that contributed to later comparisons with UFOs. Drawings from Ume no Chiri (by Nagahashi Matajirō), as well as from Banke Bunsho and sketches from Ōshuku Zakki (considered an earlier draft of Toen Shōsetsu), depict the object as spherical or ellipsoidal, with a distinctly marked dome, sometimes featuring an openable panel. On the side walls are visible indecipherable symbols — resembling, to the modern eye, alchemical signs, Greek letters, or even Klingon. Their layout — horizontal, orderly, aesthetically balanced — suggested a writing system, yet matched no known alphabet. Kazuo Tanaka, who analyzed them comparatively in his article for Skeptical Inquirer: “Did a Close Encounter of the Third Kind Occur on a Japanese Beach in 1803?” (2000), noted that similar signs appeared on 18th-century European astronomical maps and in chemistry textbooks.

Equally important is the visual structure of the object itself: the horizontal line dividing the hull (a black lower part, red upper dome), the absence of propulsion elements, and the presence of transparent windows all evoke modern space capsules. And here lies the trap: it is we — the modern observers — who see a flying saucer. An Edo-period reader saw something else: perhaps an incense container (kōbako), a rice pot (okama), or a ceremonial vessel from Buddhist liturgy. To them, this object was exotic, but not from another planet. More likely “from the West” than from another world (though in Edo-period Japan, the two might have felt indistinguishable).

It is also worth noting the use of glass windows in the vessel’s construction — something not found in Japanese boats of that time. Such an element suggests the influence of European design. In the 18th and 19th centuries, British, Portuguese, or Russian ships often featured enclosed cabins with glazed windows — something that might have seemed magical to the Japanese. During the sakoku era, when contact with the outside world was strictly limited, such influences remained mysterious and inspiring. This may have birthed the narrative of a craft “not of this world.”

So, are we dealing with a UFO in the modern sense? Likely not. As Tanaka writes, “the boat was constructed from materials accessible to the technology of the time — wood, glass, iron — and nothing indicates that it possessed features unexplained by physics or known only from 20th-century reports of flying saucers.” And yet — the shape, the narrative, and the aura of mystery turned the Utsurobune into the archetype of a Japanese UFO before the concept even existed.

What Does This Story Tell Us About the Edo Period?

There is a reason why Utsurobune continues to ignite the imagination of generations of researchers and enthusiasts of the paranormal. In truth, however, it is much more than a potential “Japanese Roswell.” It is a story that reveals something deeper: the state of mind of the Edo period — its unease in the face of the unknown, its growing curiosity about the outside world, and its unique way of interpreting inexplicable phenomena.

Japan in 1803 was a country formally closed off — the sakoku policy prevented nearly all contact with foreign nations. And yet information about foreigners, Western ships, and distant cultures seeped into society through ports, through sailors’ tales, and above all — through imagination. It was precisely this imagination that conjured the image of a foreign woman in a lacquered boat, holding a box full of secrets. In a context where scientific investigation was impossible, stories emerged from the borders of folklore, fairytale, drama, and... political caution. For instead of reporting the strange find to the authorities, the fishermen simply decided to send it back into the sea.

And it is precisely here that the true value of the Utsurobune legend lies. Not as a relic of some ancient rocket, but as a literary and folkloric artifact that today allows us to peer into the minds of people two centuries ago. Utsurobune is not merely a mystery — it is a mirror reflecting the Japan of the Edo period: closed off, yet full of imagination, speculation, fears, and dreams. And in that sense — even if it never flew into space — this story truly does take us on a journey to another world.

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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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