The Island of Sea Women

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  Author’s Note

  Although parts of the story take place when the McCune-Reischauer system of romanization was standard, I have used Revised Romanization of Korean, which was formalized in 2000. All personal names are rendered in common spelling. Wherever possible, I have used Jeju words. On the mainland, halmeoni means “grandmother.” On Jeju, in a fitting example of the respect in which women are held for their strength, independence, and persistence, halmang means both “grandmother” and “goddess.” According to tradition, the title of halmang should follow the name, but to avoid confusion I have put it first: Seolmundae Halmang becomes Halmang Seolmundae or Grandmother Seolmundae.

  Day 1: 2008

  An old woman sits on the beach, a cushion strapped to her bottom, sorting algae that’s washed ashore. She’s used to spending time in the water, but even on land she’s vigilant to the environment around her. Jeju is her home, an island known for Three Abundances: wind, stones, and women. Today the most capricious of these—the wind—is but a gentle breeze. Not a single cloud smudges the sky. The sun warms her head, neck, and back through her bonnet and other clothing. So soothing. Her house perches on the rocky shoreline overlooking the sea. It doesn’t look like much—just two small structures made from native stone, but the location . . . Her children and grandchildren have suggested she allow them to convert the buildings into a restaurant and bar. “Oh, Granny, you’ll be rich. You’ll never have to work again.” One of her neighbors did as the younger generation asked. Now that woman’s home is a guesthouse and an Italian restaurant. On Young-sook’s beach. In her village. She will never let that happen to her house. “There isn’t enough money in all the pockets in all Korea to make me leave,” Young-sook has said many times. How could she? Her house is the nest where she hides the joy, laughter, sorrows, and regrets of her life.

  She is not alone in her work on the beach. Other women around her age—in their eighties and nineties—also pick through the algae that has come to rest on the sand, putting what’s salable in small bags and leaving the rest. Up on the walkway that separates this cove from the road, young couples—honeymooners, probably—walk hand in hand, heads together, sometimes even kissing, in front of everyone, in broad daylight. She sees a tourist family, clearly from the mainland. The children and husband are so obvious in their matching polka-dot T-shirts and lime-green shorts. The wife wears the same polka-dot T-shirt, but otherwise every bit of her skin is protected from the sun by long pants, sleeve guards, gloves, hat, and a cloth mask. Children from the village climb over the rocks that spill across the sand and into the sea. Soon they’re playing in the shallow depths, giggling, and challenging each other to be the first to reach the deepest rock, locate a piece of sea glass, or find a sea urchin, if they’re lucky enough to spot one. She smiles to herself. How differently life will unfurl for these young ones . . .

  She also observes other people—some not even trying to hide their curiosity—who stare at her before shifting their gazes to some of the other old women on the shore today. Which granny looks the nicest? The most accessible? What those people don’t understand is that Young-sook and her friends are appraising them too. Are they scholars, journalists, or documentarians? Will they pay? Will they be knowledgeable about the haenyeo—sea women? They’ll want to take her photo. They’ll shove a microphone in her face and ask the same predictable questions: “Do you consider yourself a granny of the sea? Or do you think of yourself more like a mermaid?” “The government labels the haenyeo a cultural heritage treasure—something dying out that must be preserved, if only in memory. How does it feel to be the last of the last?” If they’re academics, they’ll want to talk about Jeju’s matrifocal culture, explaining, “It’s not a matriarchy. Rather, it’s a society focused on women.” Then they’ll begin to probe: “Were you really in charge in your household? Did you give your husband an allowance?” Often she’ll get a young woman who’ll ask the question Young-sook’s heard discussed her entire life. “Is it better to be a man or a woman?” No matter what the inquiry, she always answers the same way: “I was the best haenyeo!” She prefers to leave it at that. When a visitor persists, Young-sook will say gruffly, “If you want to know about me, go to the Haenyeo Museum. You can see my photo. You can watch the video about me!” If they still won’t go . . . Well, then, she becomes even more direct. “Leave me alone! I have work to do!”

  Her response usually depends on how her body feels. Today, the sun is bright, the water glistens, and she perceives in her bones—even though she’s only sitting on the shore—the weightlessness of the sea, the surge that massages the aches in her muscles, the enveloping chill that cools the heat in her joints, so she allows herself to be photographed, even pushing back the brim of her bonnet so one young man can “see your face better.” She watches as he edges toward the inevitable awkward subject, until he finally arrives at his query: “Did your family suffer during the April Third Incident?”

  Aigo, of course she suffered. Of course. Of course. Of course. “Everyone on Jeju Island suffered,” she answers. But that is all she will say about it. Ever. Better to tell him this is the happiest time of her life. And it is. She still works, but she’s not too busy to visit friends and travel. Now she can look at her great-granddaughters and think, That’s a pretty one That’s the smartest one yet. Or That one better marry well. Her grandchildren and great-grandchildren give her the greatest joy. Why couldn’t she have thought like that when she was younger? But she couldn’t have imagined how her life would turn out back then. She couldn’t have imagined today even in a dream.

  The young man wanders off. He tries to talk to another woman, Kang Gu-ja, who’s working about ten meters to Young-sook’s left. Gu-ja, always crotchety, won’t even look up. He presses on to Gu-ja’s younger sister, Gu-sun, who yells at him. “Go away!” Young-sook snorts appreciatively.

  When her small bag is full, she shakily gets to her feet and shuffles to the collection of larger bags she’s been filling. Once the small bag is emptied, she hobbles to an area of the beach untouched by the others. She settles back down, positioning her cushion beneath her. Her hands, though gnarled from work and deeply creased from years of exposure to the sun, are agile. The sound of the sea . . . The caress of warm air . . . The knowledge that she is protected by the thousands of goddesses who live on this island . . . Even Gu-sun’s colorful epithets can’t sour her mood.

  Then in Young-sook’s peripheral vision she glimpses another family group. They aren’t dressed alike, and they don’t look alike. The husband is white, the wife is Korean, and the children—a small boy and a teenage girl—are mixed. Young-sook can’t help it, but seeing those half-and-half children makes her uncomfortable: the boy in shorts, a superhero T-shirt, and clunky tennis shoes, the girl in shorts that scarcely cover what they’re supposed to cover, earbuds plugged into her ears, and wires trailing down over her barely-there breasts. Young-sook guesses they’re Americans, and she watches warily as they approach.

  “Are you Kim Young-sook?” the woman, pale and pretty, asks. When Young-sook gives a slight nod, the woman continues. “My name is Ji-young, but everyone calls me Janet.”

  Young-sook tries out the name on her tongue. “Janet.”

  “And
this is my husband, Jim, and my children, Clara and Scott. We’re wondering if you remember my grandmother?” Janet speaks . . . What does she speak exactly? It’s not Korean, but it’s not the Jeju dialect either. “Her name was Mi-ja. Her family name was Han—”

  “I don’t know that person.”

  The softest frown crinkles the space above the bridge of the woman’s nose. “But didn’t you both live in this village?”

  “I live here, but I don’t know who you’re talking about.” Young-sook’s voice comes out even sharper and louder than Gu-sun’s, causing both Kang sisters to look her way. Are you all right?

  But the American woman is undeterred. “Let me show you her photograph.”

  She scrounges through her satchel, pulls out a manila envelope, and paws through it until she finds what she’s been looking for. She stretches out her hand and shows Young-sook a black-and-white photograph of a girl dressed in the white bathing costume of the past. Her nipples are like a pair of octopus eyes peering out from the protection of a cave. Her hair is hidden under a matching white scarf. Her face is round, her slim arms show the definition of muscles, her legs are sturdy, and her smile is wide and unabashed.

  “I’m sorry,” Young-sook says. “I don’t know her.”

  “I have more photos,” the woman goes on.

  As Janet once again peers into her envelope, rifling through what must be more photographs, Young-sook smiles up at the white man. “You have phone?” she asks in English, which she realizes must sound far worse than his wife’s Korean, and then holds an imaginary phone to her ear. She’s used this tactic many times to save herself from bothersome intruders. If it’s a young woman, she might say, “Before I answer your questions, I need to talk to my grandson.” If it’s a man—of any age—she’ll ask, “Are you married yet? My great-niece is lovely, and she’s in college too. I’ll have her come so the two of you can meet.” It’s amazing how many people fall for her tricks. Sure enough, the foreign man pats his pockets as he searches for his phone. He smiles. Bright white, very straight teeth, like a shark’s. But the teenage girl gets her phone out first. It’s one of those new iPhones, exactly like the ones Young-sook bought for her great-grandchildren for their birthdays this year.

  Without bothering to remove her earbuds, Clara says, “Tell me the number.” The sound of her voice further ruffles Young-sook. The girl has spoken in the Jeju dialect. It’s not perfect, but it’s passable, and her inflection causes goosebumps to rise along Young-sook’s arms.

  She recites the number, while Clara taps the buttons on the phone. Once she’s done, she unplugs the phone and extends it to Young-sook, who feels strangely paralyzed. On impulse—it has to be impulse, right?—the girl leans over and puts the phone to Young-sook’s ear. Her touch . . . Like lava . . . A small cross on a gold chain slips out from under the girl’s T-shirt and swings in front of Young-sook’s eyes. Now she notices that the mother, Janet, wears a cross too.

  The four foreigners stare at her expectantly. They think she’s going to help them. She speaks rapidly into the phone. Janet’s brow furrows once again as she tries to understand the words, but Young-sook has spoken pure Jeju, which is as different from standard Korean as French is from Japanese, or so she’s been told. Once the call is done, Clara tucks the phone in her back pocket and watches, embarrassed, as her mother starts pulling out more photographs.

  “Here is my father when he was young,” Janet says, thrusting a blurry image before Young-sook’s eyes. “Do you remember him? Here’s another photo of my grandmother. It was taken on her wedding day. I was told the girl beside her is you. Won’t you please take a few minutes to talk to us?”

  But Young-sook has gone back to sorting, only occasionally glancing at the photos to be polite but registering nothing on her face that would reveal the feelings of her heart.

  A few minutes later, a motorcycle with a cart attached to the back comes bumping along the beach. When it reaches her, she struggles to stand. The foreign man takes her elbow to steady her. It’s been a long time since she’s been touched by someone so white, and she instinctively pulls away.

  “He only wants to help,” Clara says in her childish Jeju dialect.

  Young-sook watches the strangers try to assist her grandson as he loads the bags of algae onto the flatbed. Once everything is secured, she climbs behind her grandson and wraps her arms around his waist. She nudges him with the back of her hand. “Go!” Once they’ve cleared the beach and have bounced up onto the road, she says in a softer tone, “Drive me around for a while. I don’t want them to see where I live.”

  PART I

  Friendship

  1938

  Swallowing Water Breath

  April 1938

  My first day of sea work started hours before sunrise when even the crows were still asleep. I dressed and made my way through the dark to our latrine. I climbed the ladder to the stone structure and positioned myself over the hole in the floor. Below, our pigs gathered, snuffling eagerly. A big stick leaned against the wall in the corner in case one of them became too enthusiastic and tried to leap up. Yesterday I’d had to hit one pretty hard. They must have remembered, because this morning they waited for my private business to drop to the ground to fight among themselves for it. I returned to the house, tied my baby brother to my back, and went outside to draw water from the village well. Three round trips, carrying earthenware jugs in my hands, were required to get enough water to satisfy our morning needs. Next, I gathered dung to burn for heating and cooking. This also had to be done early, because I had a lot of competition from other women and girls in the village. My chores done, my baby brother and I headed home.

  Three generations of my family lived within the same fence—with Mother, Father, and us children in the big house and Grandmother in the little house across the courtyard. Both structures were built from stone and had thatch roofs weighed down with additional stones to keep the island wind from blowing them away. The big house had three rooms: a kitchen, the main room, and a special room for women to use on their wedding nights and after they’d given birth. In the main room, oil lamps flickered and sputtered. Our sleeping mats had already been folded and stacked against the wall.

  Grandmother was awake, dressed, and drinking hot water. Her hair was covered by a scarf. Her face and hands were bony and the color of chestnuts. My first and second brothers, twelve and ten years old, sat cross-legged on the floor, knees touching. Across from them, Third Brother squirmed as only a seven-year-old boy can. My little sister, six years younger than I was, helped our mother pack three baskets. Mother’s face was set in concentration as she checked and double-checked that she had everything, while Little Sister tried to show she was already training to be a good haenyeo.

  Father ladled the thin millet soup that he’d prepared into bowls. I loved him. He had Grandmother’s narrow face. His long, tapered hands were soft. His eyes were deep and warm. His callused feet were almost always bare. He wore his favorite dog-fur hat pulled down over his ears and many layers of clothes, which helped to disguise how he sacrificed food, so his children could eat more. Mother, never wasting a moment, joined us on the floor and nursed my baby brother as she ate. As soon as she was done with her soup and the feeding, she handed the baby to my father. Like all haenyeo husbands, he would spend the rest of the day under the village tree in Hado’s central square with other fathers. Together, they’d look after infants and young children. Satisfied that Fourth Brother was content in Father’s arms, Mother motioned for me to hurry. Anxiety rattled through me. I so hoped to prove myself today.

  The sky was just beginning to turn pink when Mother, Grandmother, and I stepped outside. Now that it was light, I could see my steamy breath billowing then dissipating in the cold air. Grandmother moved slowly, but Mother had efficiency in every step and gesture. Her legs and arms were strong. Her basket was on her back, and she helped me with mine, securing the straps. Here I was, going to work, helping to feed and care for my family
, and becoming a part of the long tradition of haenyeo. Suddenly I felt like a woman.

  Mother hoisted the third basket, holding it before her, and together we stepped through the opening in the stone wall that protected our small piece of property from prying eyes and the relentless wind. We wended our way through the olle—one of thousands of stone-walled pathways that ran between houses and also gave us routes to crisscross the island. We stayed alert for Japanese soldiers. Korea had now been a Japanese colony for twenty-eight years. We hated the Japanese, and they hated us. They were cruel. They stole food. Inland, they rustled livestock. They took and took and took. They’d killed Grandmother’s parents, and she called them chokpari—cloven-footed ones. Mother always said that if I was ever alone and saw colonists, whether soldiers or civilians, I should run and hide, because they’d ruined many girls on Jeju.

  We came around a corner and into a long straightaway. Ahead in the distance, my friend Mi-ja danced from foot to foot, to keep warm, from excitement. Her skin was perfect, and the morning light glowed on her cheeks. I’d grown up in the Gul-dong section of Hado, while Mi-ja lived in the Sut-dong section, and the two of us always met in this spot. Even before we reached her, she bowed deeply to show her gratitude and humility to my mother, who bent at her waist just enough to acknowledge Mi-ja’s deference. Then Mother wordlessly strapped the third basket to Mi-ja’s back.

  “You girls learned to swim together,” Mother said. “You’ve watched and learned as apprentices. You, Mi-ja, have worked especially hard.”

  I didn’t mind that Mother singled out Mi-ja. She’d earned it.

  “I can never thank you enough.” Mi-ja’s voice was as delicate as flower petals. “You have been a mother to me, and I will always be grateful.”