Amid Sendai's Devastation, a Father Seeks His Daughter

Bowlegged and rheumy-eyed, 76-year-old farmer Masahira Kasamatsu barreled down the sodden path. His pants were rolled above his knees and his shoeless feet were covered with inky mud deposited by the tsunami that had swept across northeastern Japan three days earlier, killing thousands upon thousands of people. "I'm looking for my daughter," he said, barely breaking his stride as we negotiated fallen electricity poles and mangled cars. "Her name is Yoko Oosato. Have you seen her?"

Kasamatsu's daughter had worked for 30 years at the airport in Sendai, the largest city in the devastated region. After an 8.9-magnitude earthquake, the worst in Japan's history, struck on March 11, the coastal airport was deluged by a 10-m-high wave of water that churned up debris and mud several kilometers inland. Hundreds of upturned cars, airplanes and trucks littered the waterlogged landscape. (See photos of rescuers scrambling to search for survivors.)

For three days, Kasamatsu, whose coastal home had been flooded by the tsunami, called his daughter's cell phone to no avail. He listened to the death rolls on the radio. He did not hear her name. Finally, Kasamatsu and his wife, Emiko, climbed into their car and drove toward the airport. The roads were barely passable; petrol ran out. The couple spent the night in their unheated car before he abandoned the vehicle and began desperately wading through water and mud to get to the airport.

"I know there are so many people that are dead," he said, as we entered the terminal building, passing 6-m-high piles of cars and uprooted pines. A pair of discarded sandals sat neatly in front of the domestic terminal. "I know that my daughter may be just one more person among so many dead. But my deepest hope is that she is alive. That is my only prayer at this moment." (See the heartbreak in a town that's missing more than half its residents.)

Across northern Japan, invocations were being uttered by family members who still had no idea whether their loved ones were alive or dead. Tens of thousands of people were still unaccounted for, and radio stations laboriously relayed information about centenarians looking for their relatives or dead children identified by their birthmarks. Cell-phone networks were down in much of the region, and vast lakes formed by the tsunami rendered roads impassable. (Comment on this story.)

With food, water and gas running low, lines of people snaked through towns in stretches of several kilometers, waiting patiently for whatever sustenance could be found, even as temperatures dipped toward freezing. Adding to the distress, nuclear reactors in Fukushima prefecture were in danger of suffering meltdowns as a result of the quake and tsunami, sending radioactive material into air already bursting with tragedy. On Sunday, Japan's Prime Minister Naoto Kan called the triple whammy of earthquake, tsunami and possible nuclear fallout the country's "worst crisis" since World War II.

In Miyagi prefecture, a group of students from the Civil Aviation College floated in an inflatable yellow raft across what was dry land just three days before. Some 170 students and airplane-maintenance employees had watched the tsunami roll in from the roof of a school building, where they had decamped after the earthquake triggered a tsunami alert that was broadcast on loudspeakers, radios and TVs. "The tsunami came toward us so slowly that it was hard to understand what was approaching," recalled Satoshi Tsuchira, 24. "But then it came and kept on coming and I wondered if it would ever end."
A 10-m-high wave of water marooned their building and sent a churning mass of vehicles, planes and houses swirling past them. The students kept their eyes on a solitary man who clung to the top of a bobbing truck for a night and gasped as the receding waters pulled dozens of cars out to sea. Those stranded on the roof had only one box of energy cookies for every four individuals. Rationing began, and a cold rain continued. On a nearby road, a forlorn piano lay on its side, along with an office stripped of its wall. After more than 24 hours, the fire department arrived to rescue the trapped students. As they ferried some of their belongings from their dorm to high ground, the prospect of a radioactive cloud possibly making its way toward them was too much to comprehend. "We have suffered through an earthquake and a tsunami," said Koutaro Nousou. "Our college is underwater. I can't deal with another disaster. It's just too much." (See the difficulty in getting around Japan after the quake.)
As the students gathered up their things to take to an unheated evacuation center where they would sleep two to one blanket, Masahira Kasamatsu was making his way to the Sendai airport. Entering the terminal, he climbed up a suspended escalator that wobbled under his weight and quietly approached a man in a gray jacket who looked like he was in charge. His name was Kenichi Numata. After suffering through the earthquake, Numata immediately headed to the designated high ground — in his case the airport — as he had been taught in the tsunami drills conducted up and down coastal Japan. Numata had watched from the airport as dozens of people succumbed in the surrounding water. He now knew that his house had washed away. "Everything is gone," he said, with a sweep of his hand. "It's all gone."
But there was little time to process this loss. Numata had been designated as one of the section leaders organizing the 1,600 people initially stranded at the Sendai airport. They had been completely cut off, with no cell-phone access or information about what had befallen the rest of the region. "What is your daughter's name, again?" he asked Kasamatsu. The farmer slowly repeated her name and stared into the middle distance. Numata and others conferred. "Yoko Oosato, is it," Numata said. "Why, she went home just a little while ago." It took a moment for Kasamatsu to process the news. He nodded slowly. "She's O.K.," he repeated, as if to convince himself. "She's O.K."
We drove Kasamatsu through the floodwaters back to his wife, who was waiting beside their car, mangled vehicles and twisted buildings all around. As we approached, she dove into her car to offer me an armful of oranges and apples in gratitude for having driven her husband back from the airport. Only as she gathered up the fruit did their eyes meet. "And Yoko?" she asked her husband. "She's O.K.," Kasamatsu replied. "She's O.K." There were no hugs or overwhelming expressions of elation. Their daughter had been spared. But devastation was still all around.