JAPAN’S EXILE ISLANDS : The lush Okis, where royal outcasts were once sent, are gorgeous getaways from the country’s glass-and-concrete cities.

A blast of the horn, a final rev of the engines, and the ferry lurched out of port toward the blue-black clouds on the horizon.

“Just like going to the Vineyard,” I said, thinking aloud.

Cynthia cocked an eyebrow. My chopsticks were poised to tuck into a packed lunch of fish, tofu, rice, pickled cabbage and candied peas. The steam from a pot of salty green tea curled upward. A crash of cymbals over the PA system preceded yet another announcement.

OK, so this was nothing like the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard.

It was late September and we were bound from the tiny mainland port town of Sakaiminato for the Oki Islands in the Sea of Japan--a place on the map as far as imaginable from Japan’s urban sprawl. As was our intention from the start, Cynthia and I had escaped the futuristic nightmare that is Tokyo and Osaka--”Blade Runner” meets “Brazil”--to search for a Japan that so far existed for us only in watercolor paintings on hanging scrolls . . . lush meadows, mist-shrouded mountains, mysterious forests.

We found that Japan in the Okis, four main islands plus hundreds of islets about 45 miles off the west coast of Honshu. Furthest out to sea is the largest, Dogo (Back Island). The other three main islands--Nishino Shima, Nakano Shima and Chiburi Shima--clump together and collectively are called Dozen (Front Island). Like similarly minded Japanese travelers seeking refuge from glass-and-concrete mainland cities, we had heard of the islands’ reputation as rugged alternatives replete with spectacular scenery, a unique culture and rich history. Barely an hour after the ferry deposited us in the postage-stamp-sized fishing port of Urago on Nishino Shima, we were in the wilderness.

In Urago we quickly got ourselves a room at an inn, or minshuku , a family-run bed and breakfast--in this case, Kishimoto, a comfortable but humble abode directly across from where the ferry arrived. Minshukus, which are found all over Japan, are almost always part of an association, and generally are less lavish and less expensive than another traditional Japanese lodging, the ryokan. We negotiated in sign language a fairly standard room rate of about $60, and found directions for Nishino Shima’s reputedly awesome Kuniga Cliffs, a 40-minute hike away.

Never mind that storm clouds threatened the surrounding hills and a light rain had begun to sprinkle Urago. We were so thrilled to be within striking distance of Japan’s great outdoors that we tugged on our hiking boots and charged out of the inn’s sliding doors into the rain toward Kuniga.

Twenty minutes out of town the driver of the first passing vehicle pulled over to the side of the road and waved us over.

“Kuniga?” we asked.

“Kuniga!” he answered with a laugh suggesting that since there was only one road on the island, where else could we be heading?

Together we spluttered uphill in the tiny van--Cynthia and me, the driver, and in his lap, a precious cargo indeed, his cherub-faced daughter--until we got as far as we could go, a rest area beneath the Kuniga Cliffs. The drizzle had by now turned into a full-blown rainstorm. Undeterred, we bade farewell and set off into the storm.

Within minutes we were soaked to the skin. Dressed in light summer clothing, we had completely underestimated how cold it would be. We hiked onward to keep warm.

Some of Japan’s most dramatic landscapes are in the Oki Islands. Jagged cliffs streaked orange, gray and black plunge 1,000 feet into the Sea of Japan, which on this day heaved angrily and hurled huge waves against the cliff face. Given the ferocity of the pounding, it was easy to see why this coastline is so rugged. Pebble beaches rumbled like thunder as the surf dragged millions of millennia-smoothed stones back and forth over one another. Hawks nested on top of natural stone pillars jutting out of the sea while their mates soared overhead, screaming at our intrusion.

With the wind and rain whipping about us, we hiked uphill toward the cliff-top meadows above, stopping occasionally along the way to shelter at lookout points.

*

It took over an hour to reach the highest point, but finally we were upon it. It lay over the cusp of the precipice we were approaching. But as we clambered over the final set of slippery rocks, we discovered we weren’t alone.

A set of huge horns, a black head the size of a Mazda, a pair of smoldering eyes and then the rest of Papa Bull came into view. He looked unamused. Behind him stood a dozen more bulls, as well as several more cows and calves. Scattered among the bovines were their equine companions--shaggy brown horses with bedraggled blond manes.

The islands also are famous for bullfighting festivals, a summer attraction on Dogo Island, the largest of the Okis, and we couldn’t help wondering if these were some cantankerous ex-fighting bulls spoiling for a scrap. We envisioned the headline: “Harmless Oki Hike Turns to Tragedy for Young Couple.”

We backed away cautiously, all the while regretting we didn’t know the Japanese for, “There’s a good bull. Nice bull, nice bull . . . “

Rather than backtrack an hour, we opted for a shortcut to a road we could plainly see a short distance away. Like many shortcuts, this one didn’t quite match expectations . . . to put it mildly.

In the pouring rain we slid and stumbled down a steep ravine and groped our way up the other side. With rivers of mud flowing past us, cowpats greeting our every misstep and thorns scratching at our exposed flesh, this was the shortcut from hell: Dante’s Diversion. Soon enough, the hawks’ screaming started to sound remarkably like derisive laughter.

Eventually we staggered onto the narrow mountain road. Covered from top to toe in mud, our arms and legs bloodied by thorns, we cleaned ourselves using the torrents of clear rainwater gushing through the roadside gutter, then stood there shivering and trying to decide whether we were having fun.

Our hitchhiked return journey to Urago was spent bouncing along in the back of a pickup truck, exposed to the worsening weather. The driver chose to drop us off outside of town, presumably worried that anyone might spot him carrying such an ignominious cargo.

Our room at the minshuku was decorated sparely--tatami mats, pull-out futons, a minimum of frills. But thank goodness for Japanese baths, we thought to ourselves 40 minutes later as we sat together soaking in a scalding hot tub. Still pink after lying submerged for the half-hour it took for our bones to finally warm, we returned to our rooms and slipped into our yukata , those cotton happycoats provided at Japanese inns.

While the storm gathered momentum, we took the opportunity to read up on the Oki Islands.

The residents of Oki-No-Kuni, as the islands are properly known (translated it means “Oki Nation”), are a hardy, independent bunch. In previous centuries, the Oki islanders frequently rebelled against central Japanese rule, and because of their relative remoteness, often got away with it.

Ironically, the local folk’s irascibility was exacerbated by the Japanese royal court’s decision in 724 to use the remote Okis as a place to exile troublemaking nobles--2,000 in all, until the policy was abandoned in the mid-19th Century.

But for nine centuries, bluebloods who had gotten too big for their silken boots were the only people allowed to travel to the Oki Islands. Evidence of their former presence can be seen in the dignified shrines and temples they erected, as well as in the island dialect. Imagine somewhere in America where people say “yea verily” and “forsooth” in daily conversation and you get an idea of the uniqueness of the Oki patois.

*

Far from the fast lane in Edo (Japan’s former capital), the exiled aristocrats tried to make life interesting for themselves in the sticks. One, Emperor Gotoba, has the strongest legacy. He was exiled here in 1221 and lived at the Genpuku-ji temple on Nakono Shima island for 19 years until his death at age 60.

To while away his twilight years, Gotoba wrote poetry and several books. He also had his minions devise the sport of bullfighting to keep him amused. Unlike the Spanish variety, Oki-style bullfighting involves two bulls head-butting each other until one is judged to have won. Your local humane society probably wouldn’t approve, but it’s pretty tame stuff, really--perhaps no more painful for the participants than sumo wrestling. Nary a fatality has been recorded since bullfighting started here 600 years ago.

The Oki Jinja Shrine at Ama Cho on Nakano Shima Island was built in 1939 to commemorate the 700th anniversary of Gotoba’s death. A museum containing Imperial artifacts, including some of Gotoba’s belongings, is nearby. It’s maintained by the same fellow who cares for Gotoba’s burial site. By tradition, this person is always the first son in each generation descended from the local headman who cared for the emperor during his exile. Every one of these first sons has borne the name Sukehero.

The exiled nobles didn’t always toe the Edo line. In 1868, they adopted a Shintoist, anti-government credo-- Sonno-joi --and rebelled. For six weeks, they ran amok, destroying most of the Buddhist temples on Dogo and terrorizing priests who wouldn’t recant.

To the rescue came an army of samurai from the mainland town of Matsue. But by the time they arrived, much of the island’s Buddhist cultural heritage had been trashed. Evidence of the uprising remains in the form of rubble scattered in the courtyards of rebuilt temples.

*

Six o’clock, and from downstairs came wafting evidence of our dinner being prepared by the innkeeper’s wife. With a couple of hours to kill before dinner, we headed out into the wind and rain to find somewhere for a beer.

Urago’s narrow but orderly streets were deserted. The only place we could find that was open was a brightly lit bistro. Inside, behind a formica countertop, the proprietor/chef hacked away at a squid while watching sumo highlights on TV. Like many men on the island, his weathered skin and enormous forearms branded him as a fisherman.

We settled in at the counter for a cold Asahi beer. In the corner the chef’s mother sat rolling gioza , those delectable pork-and-cabbage dumplings that go just perfectly with . . . cold beer. Though we had an extravagant dinner in store for us in just a couple of hours, we couldn’t resist.

By the time an hour and half had rolled by and several beers had been quaffed, we had been cajoled by the chef to eat not only his mother’s gioza , but free samplers of everything he sent out to his paying customers. We finally tore ourselves away from the counter to pay the bill, thank the gold-toothed waitresses, compliment mom on the gioza , say good night to the other customers and go back to our minshuku for . . . URP! . . . dinner.

But as we turned to leave, our attention was caught by a worried-looking fellow on the TV screen. It was the local weatherman. He turned to a map of Japan and began jabbing his pointer at an ugly swirl of clouds. We only understood one word he said: typhoon.

So that explained the weather. The storm under way was just a tiny taste of what was to come.

Dinner, made from fresh local ingredients and served in the minshuku’s dining room only to guests, was a traditional kaise-ki dinner encompassing eight courses of soup, fish, squid, rice, pickles, and all manner of delectable-but-unidentifiable delicacies. It was tasty but not ultra-gourmet, more the equivalent of a substantial home-cooked meal made with all the fixings. And since we were the only guests, there was no place to run and no place to hide; we had to eat the whole thing.

We lay awake that night listening to the typhoon rage outside. This particular tai fung (Chinese for “great wind”) seemed intent on ripping the rickety minshuku roof off its foundation and hurling it into the sea. The building clattered like a set of castanets.

Terrified, we nevertheless had to laugh at the irony of our situation. We came here to experience the wilds of Japan, and this was truly wild.

The bad news was that it felt as if we were going to have the minshuku plucked from around us. The good news was that we had eaten so much that night that we wouldn’t be affected; we’d be left lying there like two giant, immovable gioza .

It was no good trying to sleep. We got out of bed to watch the waves pound the shore just 50 yards from our windows. The sheer density of the water from waves, rain and flooded streets created the illusion that the entire town was under water.

The next morning we awoke and it seemed as if the town had been scrubbed clean. The skies were clear and the brilliant sunshine cast the sea, mountain and forest into dramatic relief. The air had a New England autumn crispness to it.

Urago had withstood the typhoon without any discernible damage. Families strolled the streets, chatting about the storm and no doubt thanking their lucky stars this wasn’t the “Big One.” We felt fortunate--even a little exhilarated--to have emerged unscathed.

We left by ferry that morning to explore Dogo. Days later we returned to city life, and the undistinguised Osaka suburb where we based ourselves while Cynthia was teaching English in Japan and I was there visiting her.

From the ferry railing we gazed at the islands receding into distance and remembered the words of the generous chef when we offered to buy him a beer to repay his kindness: “Next time.” That’s when we’d return to the Oki Islands--the next time we were in Japan.

Only next time, we’ll check the weather reports beforehand.

(BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX / INFOGRAPHIC)

GUIDEBOOK: On the Okis

Getting there: Ferries to Urago on Nishino Shima Island leave from Sakaiminato and Shichirui, small towns on Honshu’s west coast, an average of four times daily for about $53 first class, $35 second class. One gets to either small town by taking the train from Tokyo (about $200 one way) or Osaka ($106) to the large coastal town of Matsue, then either a bus or train from Matsue to Sakaiminato and Shichirui.

Planes fly one round trip a day to the Oki Islands from mainland cities of Izumo (about $170 round trip), Yonaga (about $160) and Osaka (about $340).

Bear in mind that few Oki islanders speak English.

Where to stay: On Dogo: New Chikusenkaku (tel. 011-81-8512-2-0591, fax 011-81-8512-2-4336) has 12 Japanese-style rooms and 12 Japanese-Western combos; five-minute car ride from Saigo; about $120-$250 per night.

Hotel Shima (tel. 011-81-8512-2-0396, fax 011-81-8512-2-3914), 10 Japanese-style rooms; four-minute walk from Saigo; about $70-$130.

On Nishino Shima: Ryokan Ryugu (tel. 011-81-8514-6-0224, fax 011-81-8514-6-0588), nine Japanese-style rooms; three-minute walk from Urago; about $100-$150 per night.

Takenami Ryokan (tel. 011-81-8514-7-8128, fax 011-81-8514-7-8180) three Japanese-style rooms, five-minute walk from Beppu; about $65-$100 per night.

Where to eat: Most larger towns have sushi bars ($20 per person and up), noodle shops ($8-$12) and robatas , pub-like establishments that cook food on a griddle behind the bar ($12 and up). Seafood dominates many menus; Japanese food costs about one-third less than on the mainland, but Western food is rarer. Most cafes offer a vaguely Western-style breakfast of eggs, toast, jelly and coffee or tea for about $4.

For more information: Contact the Japan National Tourist Organization, 624 S. Grand Ave., Suite 1611, Los Angeles 90017, (213) 623-1952; fax (213) 623-6301.

--M.J.