A Yellow Sea Winter's Day

A Sunday and snowing in Jeonju. Woke up with a longing for the sea. So I walked to the bus station and, not knowing anything about so-called "good places to go" I chose a name from the map on the wall. Gyeok-po. The name of a tiny red dot straight west of here and on the edge of the peninsula.

On the drive out, from the bus window I could see the blue and green layered tiles of the ancient building rooftops. The farther from town I went the more space opened up--into ginseng and rice fields, mountains in the distance, ginkgo biloba and pine trees--and with less city came more blue sky and cleaner air. For the first time since coming to Korea I could see into the distance and it made my soul open up and unfold. I could breathe again.

Korea has an ancient past. To know this one only needs look into the country hillsides where the open spaces that cannot be tilled for farming are covered with mounds the size of a Volkswagen Beetle cab. The mounds are covered in grass and usually accompanied by a marker-flag with Chinese script. They prevent people from walking over the coffins underneath. The hills are covered with these graves like a case of the hives.

An hour and a half later the bus drove along the cliffs at the western edge of the country, where Korea meets the Yellow Sea. The shoreline there is calm, the sea is a sliver between China and Korea, but the waves still lick the rocks and cliffs and carve away the earth. The sea is the northern part of the China Sea, but the Koreans refuse to call it that--instead choosing to name it after the yellow sand that colors the water.

The bus stopped in town and let me off. After negotiations with the bus driver for a ticket home at the end of the afternoon, it was off to find a beach to drink the bottle of wine I carried with me. I walked past seafood restaurants with caught creatures swimming in tanks, a carnival with a shutdown Ferris Wheel and everything else stopped, everything around empty and dead and stopped. Live in Korea long enough and you'll know how rare it is to walk a city block and not see another person.

Once through the town, a bay with a long pier extended into a white lighthouse. Ships anchored in the bay--none coming, none going. It was starting to snow harder now, the flakes big and wet sticking in my beard. Walking out on the pier, toward the lighthouse, I passed tents lining the walkway on my right. At least a dozen, and they all had orange, plastic traps for roofs. Inside, arranged in pairs, one tarp covered bucks of sea creatures: octopus (live), squid, sea slugs, clams, oysters, mussels, sea cucumbers, shrimp, lobster, crabs, and other creatures I cannot name. They floated in the bucket water. The next tent covered a long, short table with a grill in the center and cushions to sit on cross-legged on the floor. The way it worked, you would point into the buckets, tell the man what and how many, and he would slice the sea animal into chunks and take it to your table, where you waited with chopsticks at the ready to cook, then eat, the creature.

I wasn't hungry. So I kept walking to the end of the pier, to the towering white lighthouse. Once there, I could look out to an island that loomed gray and fog-covered in the distance. The gray sky and snow-laden clouds prevented me from seeing beyond it, farther, to China.

Wet snow drove me back, for shelter. I found it in a cliff the Koreans call "The Library." The rock formation looked similar to books stacked upon one another, with the striations, the lined markings, creating a sense of thousands of pages. Legend told of a Chinese prince who drowned in the waters there, drunk, leaving his boat to swim after the moon's shadow reflected in the water. The overhang of the cliff blocked the snow. I sat on a stack of the collected works of Vladimir Nabokov and watched the waves crash and spray over the rocks at my feet. Out on the horizon, the clouds and fog were gradually lifting and, behind the first island, another began to reveal itself. It was as though I was moving to them--or they were coming for me. I took out my pocketknife and the wine and drank from the bottle. I watched as more islands came closer.

The snow stopped. The sky colored as the sun went west to light the rest of Asia. Then it was far too cold to stay on the cliff and I found my way to a restaurant for coffee and bibimbap. After dinner, the bus ride home was quiet and dark. The moon followed, smiling.