<figure id="attachment_473707" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="width: 2500px;" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-473707"><a href="#" data-ident_hash="ef3e98d9"><img src="https://res.cloudinary.com/fridaydigital/image/private/t_article_image/wpmedia/2026/07/a9641a00778aa6e80612171b7c302242.jpg" alt=""></a><figcaption id="caption-attachment-473707" class="wp-caption-text">An Illustration Drawn by Kanda</figcaption></figure>
<h2>The weather at Cape Erimo</h2>
December 31, 2010, around 9:15 p.m. NHK Hall in Tokyo’s Shibuya district was in the middle of the 61st NHK &#8220;Kohaku Uta Gassen&#8221; (Red and White Song Battle). After Yoshimi Tendo’s passionate performance ended, the audience erupted into thunderous applause. Next up was Shinichi Mori, performing as the final act of the first half.
I slowly rose from my seat at the radio commentary booth set up on the front row of the second floor, walked carefully up the stairs, and stepped outside. Then I called the Sapporo Regional Headquarters of the Japan Meteorological Agency.
A staff member answered immediately.
“This is Aika Kanda from the NHK Announcing Department. I called earlier and would like to ask about the current weather conditions at Cape Erimo.”
Before &#8220;Kohaku&#8221; began, I had informed them that I would call at exactly this time. I wrote down their response word for word on a sticky note, then hung up. From the other side of the door, I could hear Mr. Mori’s singing voice. (“It’s already started!”) I panicked and hurried back to the commentary booth.
The senior announcer in charge of the White Team was watching Mori’s expressions and movements carefully as he sang. In front of him was a thick script for the &#8220;Kohaku Uta Gassen,&#8221; illuminated by a small desk light. I reached over to the open page marked “(interlude)” and stuck the note I had just written there. I made eye contact with the announcer to signal, “This is the information,” and he nodded before looking down at the note.
I returned to my seat and put on my headphones. Before long, the interlude arrived. I heard the senior announcer say:
“Tonight at Cape Erimo, temperatures are below freezing. We are told that strong winds are blowing snow across the area.”
Shinichi Mori’s “Erimo Misaki” is one of the defining songs of the Showa era. On New Year’s Eve, many people listen to &#8220;Kohaku&#8221; on the radio—truck drivers working through the holiday, soba restaurant workers, fathers traveling home to their families, students on the move, and many others.
Because radio relies solely on hearing to create a sense of presence, we decided that during “Erimo Misaki,” we would describe the real-time conditions at the actual location. It was only a brief comment lasting a few seconds. But whether that comment was there or not would surely change how the listeners received Mori’s singing.
With the pressure of completing my duty and the relief that came afterward, “Erimo Misaki” became a special song for me.
Sixteen years have passed since that night. Recently, I visited Cape Erimo myself. It was less than a two-hour drive from Obihiro Airport. Along the way, the road became one where the ocean stretched out endlessly on the left, while steep rocky cliffs rose on the right. The sky was cloudy that day, and there was almost no wind. Yet huge white waves were still rising on the sea. Here and there were monuments commemorating victims of maritime accidents, offering a reminder of how harsh this place can be.
What left the strongest impression on me was the thick sea fog. It stretched out from the ocean, covering the road, clinging to the cliffs, and creeping upward along the sheer rock faces. Since Cape Erimo lay ahead, our car continued deeper into the fog. I felt as if I were being drawn into another world, and I found myself saying:
“Am I really going to be able to come back?”
<div data-friday-nextpage-lead="Cape Erimo Itself"></div>
<h2>The harshness that data cannot show</h2>
Then I arrived at the Cape Erimo Observatory. Through the sea fog, I could faintly see the rugged cape jutting sharply out toward the Pacific Ocean. A walking path stretched along the ridge, allowing visitors to walk all the way to the tip. I began walking while listening to “Erimo Misaki” through bone-conduction earphones.
Along the way, there was nothing but a small hut used for drying kelp. There is nothing in the spring of Erimo. The lyrics of “Erimo Misaki” sank deep into my heart.
One wrong step could send you tumbling from the sheer cliffs, where you would be swallowed by the violently crashing waves. How harsh must the winters be in this place, where a record-breaking maximum instantaneous wind speed of 49.1 meters per second was recorded last year?
After actually visiting, I understood. That night when I made the phone call on New Year’s Eve, the senior announcer’s comment—created from numbers gathered through reporting and imagined conditions—saying temperatures are below freezing, with strong winds blowing snow was probably nowhere near severe enough.
The reality was surely something more like:
“In freezing winds and cold that cuts through your skin, raging waves and snow are relentlessly pounding the area.”
But the question remains: during that brief interlude, was it really necessary to convey the “current conditions of Cape Erimo on New Year’s Eve” with that much realism?
When interpreting the lyrics, the song is about Cape Erimo as it approaches spring. After all, our role as live radio announcers is to convey the atmosphere of NHK Hall through words.
I never imagined that, 16 years later, I would stand at the very tip of Cape Erimo and reflect on the accuracy and meaning of those few seconds of commentary.
Listening to the sound of waves crashing against rocks through the sea fog, I thought deeply about the meaning and weight of the words an announcer chooses to speak.
<figure id="attachment_473708" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="width: 3004px;" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-473708"><img loading="lazy" class="wp-image-473708 size-full" src="https://res.cloudinary.com/fridaydigital/image/private/t_article_image/wpmedia/2026/07/83614dfb64f7defb962a677fca6ada4d.jpg" alt="" width="3004" height="3734"><figcaption id="caption-attachment-473708" class="wp-caption-text">© Kazuki Shimomura</figcaption></figure>
Aika Kanda was born in Kanagawa Prefecture in 1980. After graduating from the Department of Mathematics in the Faculty of Science at Gakushuin University, she joined NHK as an announcer in 2003. She left NHK in 2012 and became a freelance announcer. Since then, she has been active mainly in variety programs and currently appears regularly as the main MC of the daytime program &#8220;Pokapoka&#8221; (Fuji TV).
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★ Her first book, a compilation of this series titled <a href="https://www.amazon.co.jp/%E7%8E%8B%E9%81%93%E3%81%A3%E3%81%A6%E3%81%84%E3%81%86%E9%81%93%E3%80%81%E3%81%A9%E3%81%93%E3%81%AB%E9%80%9A%E3%81%A3%E3%81%A6%E3%81%BE%E3%81%99%E3%81%8B-%E7%A5%9E%E7%94%B0-%E6%84%9B%E8%8A%B1/dp/4065361834?&amp;linkCode=sl1&amp;tag=fridaymag-22&amp;linkId=7b143dc06b0a909efda233f6deb7d36a&amp;language=ja_JP&amp;ref_=as_li_ss_tl">“Oudou tte iu Michi, Doko ni Toottemasu ka?” (“Where Does the Road Called the Mainstream Path Actually Go?”)</a>, is now on sale and has been very well received.
From the July 17 &amp; 24, 2026, combined issue of *&#8221;FRIDAY&#8221;
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 Aika Kanda

 Sixteen years ago, during the NHK Kohaku Uta Gassen, I assisted with a production segment where a senior announcer provided live weather updates from Cape Erimo to accompany Shinichi Mori’s performance of “Cape Erimo.”After visiting Cape Erimo in person, I reflected on the meaning and weight of the words I should convey as an announcer.

Freelance Announcer Aika Kanda — “Erimo Cape After 16 Years of Waiting”

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