Walking on thus, worn down in the heat, one begins in time to feel out of sorts. It's not as though one is ill. It's as though one's soul were suddenly cast into an unfamiliar body. I conversed with K as always, but it seemed somehow different. The intimacy and enmity I felt toward him took on a special constitution, a flavor of the road as it were. In short, the heat, the salt, the waves, and the walking established a connection between us heretofore unknown. We were like a pair of traveling merchants fallen together on the road. We talked at length, but touched not once on our usual weighty topics.
We continued on in this manner to Chōshi, with just one exception that left on me a lasting impression. Before leaving Bōshū, we stopped at a place called Kominato and toured Tai no Ura. It's been many years now, and I didn't take much interest in it at the time, but they say that Nichiren was born there. Legend has it that on the day of his birth, two tai were tossed up onto the shore. Since that day, the local fishermen have refrained from taking tai, and they've thrived in the bay there. We hired a small boat and set out to view them.
I was intent the whole while on watching the waves. My eyes were transfixed by the site of the tai, tinged in purple, darting through the surf. K, however, failed to share my interest. His mind, it seemed, was less on the tai and more on Nichiren. There was a temple nearby called Tanjōji. It was no doubt named so in honor of Nichiren's birth, and its buildings were grand. K proposed that we stop there and call on the priest.