No.14 The Journey That Changed Everything: My First Trip Abroad at 29

The Day I Was Reborn

Two years into retirement, I sit on my Okinawan balcony gazing at the azure sea, and memories from over three decades ago come flooding back with startling clarity. I was 29 years old that winter when I left Japan for the first time. My destination: the Gold Coast, Australia. That one-month stay would reshape the entire trajectory of my life in ways I could never have imagined.

When "Abroad" Was Just a Dream

I didn't grow up with means. Throughout my university years, I'd sit silently as friends excitedly shared stories of their summer trips overseas. When they talked about Paris, London, or New York, I could only listen and imagine. I once applied for a study abroad program, full of hope. But my language skills weren't up to par, and I was rejected. That dream of seeing the world had to be tucked away as I began my career as an instructor of management at a private university.

But I couldn't let it go. In my second year, I made a decision that would change everything. I emptied my savings account and signed up for a month-long condominium stay on the Gold Coast. "Life is short," I told myself. "If I don't do this now, I'll regret it forever."

A Different World Awaits

Nine hours from Narita Airport. I took deep breath after deep breath on that flight, my heart pounding with equal parts anticipation and anxiety.

The moment I stepped off the plane at Brisbane International Airport, summer's unforgiving sun welcomed me. The seasons are reversed in the Southern Hemisphere. I boarded a bus for the hour-and-a-half journey to Surfers Paradise, watching the landscape gradually exceed every expectation I'd held.

When I arrived at my accommodation—a condominium called Aquarius—I was speechless. The living space was almost too generous for one person. And the view from that window... a pristine white beach stretching endlessly into the distance, nearly 40 kilometers of it. The horizon drew a blue line dividing sea from sky. "So this is Surfers Paradise," I whispered.

The juxtaposition of high-rise buildings against that magnificent beach created a scene from another world. I felt as though I was about to meet a different version of myself—one that couldn't exist in the Japan I'd known.

From Fear to Joy

I'll be honest—those first few days terrified me. Even buying groceries at a nearby shop had me trembling. What if I didn't understand what they said in English? What if I made a mistake? Anxiety consumed me.

But something magical happened after about a week. I began to feel as though I'd lived there all my life. The climate helped—blessed with 300 days of sunshine a year and pleasantly warm weather. Every day felt comfortable, welcoming.

What struck me most profoundly was people's smiles. The cashier at the supermarket, strangers passing by—everyone smiled so naturally. Having known only Japan, it seemed to me that these people were genuinely enjoying life. I'd been so caught up in work, my face perpetually tense. They were nothing like me.

What Morning and Evening Walks Taught Me

Every morning and evening, I walked along the beach. Just walking—nothing more—yet I felt happy. I watched an elderly man meticulously creating an enormous sculpture in the sand, and something about his focused expression moved me deeply.

I'd spend hours watching surfers. I can't swim well, so I could only observe, but that was enough. All they were doing was riding waves, yet they were completely absorbed. Their joy was radiant.

"Life can be this simple," I thought.

Back in Japan, I was always chasing something—the next deadline, the next goal, the next achievement. But here, just listening to the waves, feeling the breeze, being under the sun—that was enough. I felt full.

People I Met on Tours

One weekend, I joined a tour to Springbrook National Park, a World Heritage site. Most of my fellow travelers were retired Westerners. Perhaps because young Asians were rare, they peppered me with questions.

"Where in Japan are you from?" "What do you do?" "Why did you choose Gold Coast?"

I answered in broken English, doing my best. They were patient, listening kindly to my halting words. One elderly couple said something that struck deep: "Life is long but also short. See the world while you're young."

Those words pierced my heart.

What the Stars Told Me

At night, I'd lie on the beach and look up at the sky. Stars rose from the horizon. Orion shone upside down from how I knew it. "I'm in the Southern Hemisphere," I realized with wonder.

I could watch for hours without growing bored. Among those stars, I felt both my own smallness and infinite possibility. "The world is vast. I know so little. I want to learn more, experience more."

When I return home, I decided, I'll seriously study English.

Wrestling with English, Then Returning

After that month-long stay, I came home and threw myself into studying. My poor English had limited what I could enjoy, and that frustrated me. If I'd been able to speak better, I could have understood so much more, connected so much deeper.

The following year, I returned to Australia. This time to Perth, where I spent two months at a language school. The one-hour time difference was a blessing—I've always struggled with jet lag.

From then on, I returned to Australia again and again. With each visit, my English improved, my conversations with locals deepened, and I made new discoveries.

A Year-Long Sabbatical—The Best Time of My Life

In 1993, I was granted a one-year sabbatical and became a visiting professor at Bond University on the Gold Coast.

Actually, I'd initially received acceptance from Monash University in Melbourne. But when they asked what I needed, I mentioned I'd like a research office and a computer. They withdrew their offer. Panicking, I scrambled to find an alternative and discovered Bond University, receiving their acceptance just before my departure. Looking back, perhaps that was fate.

Blessed with a beautiful, open campus and excellent facilities, I immersed myself in research. The yen was strong then, and Australia's cost of living was low, so I could live without financial worry.

But more valuable than anything was the quality of time itself. The internet hadn't yet become widespread. We communicated by phone or fax. It should have been inconvenient, yet looking back, time flowed more gently then. Without that constant sense of being rushed, I could fully devote myself to both my research and to truly enjoying life.

The internet is undeniably convenient. But perhaps it's also become a thief, stealing our time away.

The Decision That Changed Course—And Saved My Life

My Gold Coast experience transformed my life. But I didn't know just how much until years later, when it literally kept me alive.

Not long after returning from my sabbatical at Bond University, I was diagnosed with a thyroid condition. What followed were nearly two years of grueling treatment and recovery. The illness drained me—physically, mentally, emotionally. There were dark days when I thought ending it all might be easier than continuing to fight.

On my worst nights, lying awake in intense anxiety and exhaustion, my mind would drift back to those Gold Coast mornings. The warmth of the sun on my skin. The sound of waves. The way people smiled as if life itself was a gift to be savored, not endured. That memory became a lifeline.

"If I can just get through this," I'd tell myself, "I'll move somewhere I can truly live—not just exist. Somewhere with that same warmth, that same light." The tropics. Paradise. A place where I could finally live the way I'd learned to live on that beach at 29.

And there was something else that kept me going: the faces of people who would grieve if I gave up. My family. My colleagues. Students who still wrote to me. I couldn't do that to them. I couldn't let the darkness win.

When I finally recovered, fate intervened. A friend reached out, asking if I'd consider joining the faculty at University of the Ryukyus in Okinawa. It was as if the universe had heard my promise to myself.

I didn't hesitate. Not for a moment. I accepted immediately and made the decision to relocate to Okinawa—without a single doubt, without looking back. That 29-year-old who had nervously stepped onto Surfers Paradise for the first time was still inside me, now whispering with certainty: "Take the leap. Choose life. Choose joy."

Later, I was fortunate enough to spend another sabbatical year in Hawaii. I wasn't specifically targeting resort destinations. Yet somehow, from midlife onward, I ended up living in places that others envied—resort paradises.

But these weren't just beautiful locations. They were sanctuaries. They were the life I'd promised myself I would live if I survived. They were proof that taking that first scary step at 29 had been worth it—that choosing to truly live, even when it's terrifying, is always worth it.

And it all began with that one month when I was 29.

What I Think Now

Today, I'm retired and still living in Okinawa. I'll probably spend the rest of my days here. Every morning, I drink coffee on my balcony, gazing at the ocean. That moment brings me more happiness than anything.

Looking back, I realize that my first international trip being to the world-renowned Gold Coast somehow led to the life I live now. Life is mysterious. One choice can change everything that follows.

If you're reading this—whether you're young with dreams ahead, or further along with regrets behind—I want to tell you something:

"When in doubt, take the leap."

I know what some of you might be thinking. "It's too late for me." "I've already missed my chance." "My best years are behind me." I used to think that way too, believing at 29 that I'd already let too many opportunities slip away.

But here's what I've learned: regret weighs far heavier than fear. The pain of "what if" lingers longer than the discomfort of trying and stumbling. And contrary to what we tell ourselves, life doesn't end at 30, 40, 50, or even 60. Every sunrise offers a new beginning, if we're brave enough to see it.

To those haunted by roads not taken: your story isn't finished. The chapters you've lived don't dictate the ones yet unwritten. I was nearly 30 when I took my first step abroad, and that supposedly "late" start led to a life beyond my wildest imaginings.

To those who fear the closing chapters: the final act of life can be its most beautiful. What you call "the end approaching" might actually be the moment when you're finally free—free from others' expectations, free to be audaciously yourself, free to chase.

You can change your life at any age. It's never too late to become who you might have been.

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Author Bio: Retired university professor currently residing in Okinawa. Specialized in business management. His first overseas trip at age 29 sparked a deep connection with Australia, leading to international collaborations alongside his research career. Now enjoying his second act in Okinawa while occasionally writing.