Becoming a certified freediver was a huge personal milestone, as my time in the sea only really started back in 2017. Every moment of my training was a stretch, with every breath hold feeling like a small victory. My journey began on Gili Trawangan, an Indonesian island famed for its water sports and vibrant nightlife. Over an intense 72 hours, I was submerged in a test of physical endurance and mental adaptation, hardwiring my brain to understand I can, in fact, hold my breath for longer than 30 seconds.
Freediving is a revelation, a journey into the depths of both the ocean and oneself. It dismantles your preconceived limits, offering a gateway into a world where your body’s capabilities can astound you. The initial fear and hesitation dissipate, making way for a yearning to explore further and dive deeper.
Witnessing the extraordinary feats of freedivers such as Alexey Molchanov, who plunged to the staggering depth of 133m on a single breath at Vertical Blue 2023, is a testament to the seemingly boundless potential that lies within all of us.
Long before the world knew freediving as a competitive sport, it was a lifeline and a survival skill, deeply ingrained in the ways of life for some communities. Our intrigue with this intimate, almost primal connection between human and sea was further amplified by James Nestor's book, Deep. Nestor’s story of venturing to the remote stretches of Japan unveiled the Ama, a community for whom freediving isn’t a sport but a legacy.
This was our first time in Japan. Though one might initially associate the country with its foothold in technology and its gigantic cities like Tokyo, Kyoto and Osaka, there’s so much more to the country than meets the eye. We found ourselves thrown into a world profoundly distinct yet captivating in every single way. From the rich flavors of the cuisine and the warmth of the people to the pulsating energy of the culture, we were obsessed with this place.
However, our journey here began not at the edges of earth, but rather deep in the guts of the country. You could even say we made our way slowly from the busiest to the more remote parts of Japan over the course of a few weeks.
We started in Tokyo, navigating the insane streets of Shibuya and Harajuku. Then, we ventured to Kyoto to experience Geisha culture and eat everything in sight. From there, we went to Koyosan to live among the monks and immerse ourselves in their practices. We spent time in the remote Gifu area where we searched for giant salamanders and ventured to the outskirts of the Japanese Alps looking for black bears and snow monkeys in the wild. And finally, after all that trekking, we found ourselves in the regional city of Toba to be among the Ama.
Ama—which translates to “women of the sea”—predominantly reside in coastal areas of Japan, particularly around the Ise Bay in Mie Prefecture. Here, the Ama skillfully navigate the ocean’s depths, harvesting shellfish, seaweed and other marine creatures with an expertise that’s been honed and mastered across ages.
The Ama have been historically portrayed as enigmatic figures, sometimes more myth than reality. Accounts of their lives have veered into the realm of sexualized tales and mermaid-like fables, distancing them from their true human essence. Others depict a profound sisterhood found off the shores of Japan. Yet, amidst varying portrayals, one constant remains:
In the prime of this tradition, nearly 10,000 Ama divers were scattered across Japan. However, changing tides with time, interest and environmental challenges have seen their numbers dwindle to approximately 2,000. Today, 514 of this remaining population is concentrated around the Ise Bay, the remote Shima area near Ago Bay as well as the historic Toba city.
The Ama have fascinated people both domestically and internationally for decades, but they notably gained international attention during the mid-20th century. During the 1950s and 1960s, the Ama became the subject of photographic essays, articles and documentaries. At one point, they even were the main story of a National Geographic issue.
The interest during this time was partly due to the perceived exotic and unconventional nature of the Ama’s diving practices compared to those of the western world. These women, adept at single-breath diving, would plunge into the ocean depths to gather pearls and seafood, clad in traditional white garments that offered minimal coverage or protection. The combination of their unique profession, impressive skills, and to some, fashionable attire, drew considerable attention.
The Ama's story more recently gained global attention once more, highlighting their ancient, sustainable diving practices. Outlets like the BBC, The Guardian and the Smithsonian each crafted unique portrayals of the Ama, amplifying their cultural story worldwide.
In the Ama's heartland, our focus narrowed to unveiling the authentic narrative surrounding these women. We were particularly drawn to exploring their bonds of sisterhood and the impending fate of their age-old traditions. The remaining Ama, predominantly in their 60s and 70s, are at a crossroads, prompting us to ask the unanswered question, “what happens next?”
Upon our arrival in Toba, we were equipped with a few leads and the invaluable assistance of our guide and translator, Gildas Hardel. He played a pivotal role, orchestrating a plan to meet active Ama divers that were willing to spend time with us. Our objective was to engage with women across different age groups to learn about their individual journeys of becoming Ama and what they think the future holds.
Heading to the Toba Seafolk Museum, we were ready to get our learn on. Established in 1971, this institution stands as a custodian of the region’s fishing culture, traditions, religions, along with past and present practices. There was no better place to start.
The museum brought us back in time, painting a highly detailed picture of what life was like on the edges of earth for the Ama. But the story we were unearthing wasn’t what we expected. It wasn’t a tale of glamor, fame, sisterhood or independence. It was a story of enduring hardship, and the fight for freedom and survival.
For the older generations of Ama, this profession was done out of necessity, not out of desire. It was a means for them to earn money and provide for their families, as one of the few professions available to women at the time. However, that money would go back to their parents prior to their marriages and then to their husbands and children upon formal union. Being an Ama diver was the only way to get married, as these women had value that was useful to men.
We met Chizuko Nakamura at the Ama hut restaurant, "Osatsu-Kamado Mae-no-hama," where we were introduced to the flavors of the sea and the intricate dynamics of the Ama community. Caught by the seasoned Ama divers, we savored the array of seafood, including scallops, sazae turban shell, squid, Japanese giant clam and the specialty, spiny lobster. Only until Chizuko and her colleagues acknowledged that we fully completed our meals, did they move into flowing conversation with us, unraveling the realities of the assumed sisterhood.
Contrary to our initial beliefs, Chizuko revealed that the journey to becoming an Ama was solitary. Women, some as young as 12, embarked on their training alone. Chizuko herself started in her 20s, facing these formidable depths without guidance. Ama divers, though sharing similar skills and challenges, were all vying for their own seafood bounties and their independence. And so, the narrative of camaraderie in the water, as we discovered, was a bit more nuanced.
While bonds existed, the prevailing dynamic was competition—a race against elements and peers alike, for catches, marriage and autonomy. It painted a stark contrast to modern groups supporting women in freediving and scuba diving, for example. The sense of collective support and shared experiences that's prevalent today was not a legacy inherited from the older generations of Ama.
With such a competitive spirit and energy in the water, the Ama hut served as a safe haven on land where these women could relax, talk and share experiences from in and out of the sea. That was the exact vibe that was felt at “Osatsu Kamado-mae no Hama,” the hut where we met Chizuko.
She went further to explain that Ama divers choose between two methods: solo diving, known as "kachido," and paired diving with their husbands, called "funado." Solo divers are equipped with basic gear, including fins, a mask, weights, a knife and a basket or net for collecting seafood. They dive alone, relying on their individual skills and expertise.
Conversely, "funado" divers are tethered to a boat with a rope, diving alongside their husbands. A pull on the rope signals the need to ascend for air, facilitating deeper and longer dives. This method necessitates significant trust and cooperation between the couple. Chizuko, who practiced the "funado" method, had been diving with her husband in this manner for over 30 years.
When asking Chizuko about the future of Ama, she showed visible concern. There are so many reasons that this ancient tradition is dying out with this last remaining group of women. But the two most obvious are the challenges of sea diving itself and, of course, climate change.
Younger generations are being lured away by alternative careers and the appeal of urban living. The rigors of sea diving, the physical demands and the dangers associated with plunging to depth on a single breath are deterrents for many. Not to mention, a lot of young people aren’t connected to the sea in the way in which people once were, with many being actively scared of it and not having basic swimming capabilities or ocean knowledge. The allure of having a more comfortable, less hazardous and higher paying profession is undeniable.
Kiku Ezaki and Aiko Ohno, two of the younger divers in the region in their 40’s, echoed Chizuko’s concerns about the Ama’s future. Recruitment challenges are profound. It’s hard to inspire interest domestically, which has led them to explore international waters, including South Korea, where similar diving traditions exist with the Haenyeo women.
Despite these efforts, there’s a looming realization that the current Ama we were meeting could very well be the last. We were struck by the gravity that we might be witnessing the final chapters of an ancient story coming to its end in real-time.
The climate crisis adds another layer of complexity to their predicament. This reality was magnified during our dive with Kiku and Aiko. They explained that the water has become significantly warmer, and that the catch is not nearly as abundant as it once was. The shifts in their marine environment are tangible, alarming and staring them straight in the face. Rising sea levels and warming waters are directly impacting their harvest.
Aiko and Kiku pointed out the influx of tropical fish in waters that were once cold—another visible testament to a changing climate. These warmer-water species are consuming seaweed, a primary food source of the Ama, exemplifying the direct and immediate impact of environmental changes on their livelihood and tradition. The convergence of these challenges—recruitment woes and environmental shifts—casts an ominous shadow over the future of the Ama.
Amidst these undertones, there was still hope found here. When we met with the 92 year old, Michiko Kaneko, she had only stopped freediving LAST YEAR, making her one of the oldest divers in her community. She invited us to sit and talk with her two friends, both nonagenarians as well. A common thread among all three women’s stories in spite of harrowing narratives from life as freedivers, was an unwavering sense of optimism.
They recounted stories of scary seas, where the conditions were so rough, they were afraid to get in the water. However, with perseverance and determination, they kept going. Just as we must do in the face of climate change. We can say it’s all too hard, giving up on restoring the planet back to its original glory. Or we can keep fighting through some of the harder times.
After talking, eating and diving with Ama of all ages and experiences, we felt an even deeper connection to Japan. From Karuizawa to Koysan to Kyoto, every moment counted for us while we consciously explored a country that looks so different from what we call home. We appreciated every single second of it. However, the memories etched in our minds will always sit firmly with the Ama.
Before we said our goodbyes, Kiku reminded us to be kind to ourselves, to stay positive in the face of adversity and to keep working on diving. We were visibly sad to leave, and she kept reiterating that maybe one day our paths would cross again.
She even went so far to suggest we too could become the next Ama recruits! Hearts bursting at the proposition, wishing that it was a possibility, we knew that one day at the very least, we’d be back to dive these waters again.
We’re at a critical point where the survival of the Ama’s traditions and the health of the ocean hinges on our shared actions. There’s countless opportunities to make impactful, sustainable choices in every aspect of our lives. The responsibility to protect and preserve the planet is now in our hands. And to help rising generations realize that a connection with our natural world is paramount for our collective survival.
Every effort, no matter the size, is a step towards a future where the ocean is respected and protected. Inspired by the Ama, we left Japan wanting to commit to this journey of stewardship that much more. And, meet even more inspiring women living on the fringe, whose stories are similar, yet have gone largely untold.
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