The Island of Sea Women Read online

On the first of September, Mi-ja’s mother-in-law arrived in Hado to speak to my mother-in-law. Madame Lee got straight to the point. “Mi-ja is not yet pregnant. What of your daughter-in-law? Is she with child yet?” When Do-saeng answered matter-of-factly that my monthly bleeding had not yet come since the wedding—and imagine how I felt hearing these things being discussed as though I weren’t in the room serving them tea—Madame Lee said, “Perhaps it is time for the daughters-in-law who’ve married into our families to visit the goddess.”

  “They’ve only been married two weeks,” Do-saeng said.

  “But your daughter-in-law is from village stock. I understand her mother was quite fertile.”

  I didn’t like Madame Lee’s tone, and neither did Do-saeng, who must have also smarted at being reminded of her own infertility.

  “There is only one way to make a baby,” Do-saeng said with a snort. “Perhaps your son hasn’t been able to—”

  “I understand your son will be going back to Japan in two weeks. A baby needs to be planted before he leaves, don’t you think?”

  Since I too wished for this, I was pretty sure that Do-saeng did as well. That was her job as Jun-bu’s mother and my mother-in-law.

  Madame Lee pressed her case. “The local government is sending my son to the mainland to learn how better to oversee warehouses. I’m told he’ll be gone for a year.” She let my mother-in-law consider this information. If Sang-mun didn’t plant a baby in Mi-ja soon, it would be at least a year and nine months before Madame Lee would get a grandson. “My daughter-in-law may be from Jeju City, but your sea-village ways have seeped into her. She believes in your shaman and your goddesses.” The woman jutted her chin. “Since this is so, I will send her to Hado every other day, if your daughter-in-law will take her to visit the proper goddess.”

  “The Japanese punish those who follow traditional island ways,” Do-saeng reminded her.

  “This may be so, yet we hear you sea-village people do it all the time.”

  “It’s dangerous,” Do-saeng insisted, but my whole life I’d seen her make offerings. I hoped she wouldn’t bargain too hard, because I really wanted Mi-ja to come.

  “Which is why I will pay you for your troubles.”

  Do-saeng, now sensing her advantage, waved off the idea as though it were a bad smell. “Mi-ja has an aunt and uncle living in another part of Hado. Let her stay with them.”

  “I think we can both agree that a happy wife is more receptive to baby making.”

  “But I’ll have another mouth to feed. And if your daughter-in-law is here, then how can my daughter-in-law perform her duties?”

  The negotiation went on like this until a deal was struck. Mi-ja would come to Hado every other day until Sang-mun went to the mainland; his mother would pay for her food, with a little extra thrown in for Do-saeng’s trouble.

  The next day my friend arrived, wearing a skirt, a little jacket, and a hat with a veil that came down over her eyes. She looked beautiful. She bowed. I bowed. Then we hugged. The first words out of her mouth were “They will send a car to get me later, but at least they let me come.”

  She borrowed trousers and a tunic made from persimmon cloth. Once she’d changed, she looked like the girl I’d grown up with and loved with my whole heart. I had so much to tell her, but she chattered nonstop as she unpacked the basket she’d brought with her. “Kimchee, fresh mushrooms, white rice. And look! Tangerines! Oranges!” She giggled, but her eyes had the bottomless blackness of those of a dying octopus.

  She wanted to visit my mother’s grave before going to the shrine for Halmang Samseung, the goddess of fertility and childbirth. I was so happy to see her that I didn’t question why. Together, we made a meal for my mother, walked to the burial site, and had lunch with her spirit. After we’d eaten, Mi-ja and I leaned our heads together and began to share our hearts as we always had. I was eager to hear what Mi-ja had to say about her wedding night and all the nights—and maybe days—since.

  “It’s fine,” she said. “It’s what wives and husbands do.”

  I took from this that she didn’t like sharing love. “Have you tried tilting your hips up so he can—”

  But she wasn’t listening. From her pocket she pulled out a piece of silk, which she slowly unfolded. Inside was a simple gold bracelet. Not so long ago I wouldn’t have known what a bracelet was, but I’d seen women in Osaka, Busan, and Vladivostok wear them on the street, on ferries, in buses. “They’re for decoration,” Mi-ja had explained. Only later, after I’d walked past jewelry store windows and understood a bit about the value of gold and silver, did I come to view the idea of “decoration” as a senseless extravagance.

  “Did Sang-mun give it to you?” I could imagine that he’d want his wife to be ornamented.

  “It belonged to my mother,” Mi-ja said, her voice tinged with awe. “I didn’t know it existed. Auntie Lee-ok gave it to me on my wedding day.”

  “Your aunt?” I asked in disbelief. “I can’t believe she didn’t sell it.”

  “I know. All the work she made me do . . .”

  “Will you wear it?”

  “Never. It’s all I have of my mother. What if I lost it?”

  “I wish I had something that belonged to my mother.”

  “Oh, but you do. Her tools. Her . . .” She took my hand. “You have her spirit, while I know nothing about my mother. Am I like her in any way? Do I have her smile? Did she feel the same way about my father as I feel about my husband? I don’t even know where she’s buried. Never have I been able to do the things for her that you do for your mother—like this.” She gestured around the field, then looked at me earnestly. “If my husband plants a baby, what if . . .”

  “You aren’t your mother. You won’t die in childbirth.”

  “But if I do, will you visit my grave? Will you make sure Shaman Kim performs the rites?”

  I promised I would, but I couldn’t begin to contemplate what she was suggesting.

  We packed up our baskets and walked to Halmang Samseung’s shrine. As we neared, Mi-ja held me back. “Wait. I’m not sure I want to go.”

  When she wasn’t more forthcoming, I asked, “Is it still because of what happened to your mother?”

  “It’s not that. I mean, it is, but it’s also . . . I’m not sure I want to have a baby.” This from the girl who’d saved worn-out persimmon cloth to make into baby clothes and blankets long before I’d thought about becoming a mother myself? My surprise must have shown on my face, because she said, “Things are not good with my husband.” She hesitated, chewing tentatively on the side of her forefinger. Finally, she admitted, “He’s rough when we’re on our sleeping mat.”

  “But you’re a haenyeo! You’re strong!”

  “Look at him the next time you see him. He’s stronger than I am. He’s spoiled. And he likes to be in control. We don’t share love. He takes it.”

  “But you’re a haenyeo,” I repeated. Then, “You have every right to leave him. You’re barely married. Get a divorce.”

  “I’m a city wife now. I can’t.”

  “But, Mi-ja—”

  “Never mind,” she said in frustration. “You don’t understand. Forget what I said. Let’s just do this. Maybe if I have a baby planted in me, things will change.”

  This was the moment I might have said something that could have made a difference, but I was young, and I still didn’t understand very much. Oh, I understood life and death, but I didn’t yet have a true comprehension of all that could happen between your first and last breaths. This was a mistake I would live with for the rest of my life.

  We made our offerings and prayed that we’d get pregnant quickly.

  “Not just pregnant,” I begged, “but pregnant with sons.”

  When Mi-ja added, “Who will be born healthy and have loving mothers to nurse them,” I convinced myself she’d turned a corner in her mind.

  * * *

  Over the following week, Mi-ja and I visited the goddess every other day.
She always arrived in her city clothes, changed into a persimmon-dyed outfit, and then back into her city clothes to return to Jeju City. As soon as she was gone, my mother-in-law would push Jun-bu and me out of the big house “to be alone.” Whether during the day or at night, we found plenty of ways to sleep together without ever closing our eyes on our sleeping mats.

  In the middle of the second week, I asked Mi-ja to invite her husband to pick her up so we might have dinner together. She agreed, and the next time she came, we quickly made our offerings and hurried home to prepare the meal. The kitchens to the big and small houses opened to the courtyard, so we kept our voices low, aware that my mother-in-law—even with ears damaged from years under the sea—would try to listen to all we said.

  Mi-ja had seemed happier since that first visit, and I asked her if she enjoyed being back in Jeju City. Her response told me that I’d read her wrong.

  “When you’re a child,” she said, “everything looks big and impressive. Coming to Hado as a little girl was like stepping back in time, making life with my father seem even grander than perhaps it was. But you and I have seen so much more than this island. I love the beauty of Grandmother Seolmundae and that the sea stretches forever, but Jeju City seems small and ugly to me now. I miss Hado. I miss diving. I miss visiting other countries. Most of all I miss you.”

  “I miss you too, but maybe this is what it means to be married.”

  Air hissed through Mi-ja’s clenched teeth. “I’m a haenyeo, not some Confucian wife. My husband and his parents are unfamiliar with our ways. They believe, When a daughter, obey your father; when a wife, obey your husband; when a widow, obey your son.”

  I tried to laugh away the idea. “What haenyeo would ever do that? Besides, I always thought following Confucius meant that men needed to think big thoughts all day under the village tree.”

  Mi-ja didn’t giggle or even smile at the ridiculousness of the sentiment. Rather, a troubled expression passed over her features. Before I could say anything, my husband entered the courtyard. Mi-ja put a pretty smile on her face and whispered, once again between clenched teeth, “We must remember that our marriages are steps up for both of us. Each of us has a husband who can read and do sums.”

  While Jun-bu washed up, Mi-ja and I walked to the road to wait for her husband to arrive. Finally, a pair of headlights appeared, coming through the darkness. Once they reached us, Sang-mun parked and exited his father’s car. He was dressed in the same casual style as the day we first met. Mi-ja and I bowed to show our respect.

  “Where are your clothes?” he asked gruffly.

  “I didn’t want them to get dirty,” Mi-ja answered, her voice a bare whisper.

  I could have taken this as an insult, but I was more concerned with the humbling change in Mi-ja.

  I stepped forward and bowed again. “My husband is looking forward to meeting you.”

  Sang-mun regarded Mi-ja out of the corner of his eye. She was frozen in place. She was, I realized, afraid of him.

  “I’m looking forward to this too,” he said at last. “Shall we go then?”

  When we got to the house and Sang-mun slipped off his shoes and entered, he seemed to relax. Dinner was another matter. Men! What is it about their natures that they feel compelled to gain ground and debate points over which they have no power or control?

  “The Japanese will always be in power,” Sang-mun maintained. “What need do we have to resist them?”

  “The Korean people, especially here on Jeju, have fought against every invader,” Jun-bu reasoned. “Eventually we’ll rise up and expel the Japanese.”

  “When? How? They’re too powerful.”

  “Maybe. But maybe they’re fighting too many battles in too many places,” Jun-bu countered. “Now that the Americans are in the war, the Japanese are sure to lose territory. When they begin to retreat, we’ll be ready.”

  “Ready? Ready for what?” Sang-mun shot back “They’ll conscript any and every man, no matter his age, education, marital status, or loyalty!”

  This wasn’t an idle threat. My own brothers had been taken. We still didn’t know where they were or if we’d ever see them again.

  “And consider this, my friend,” Sang-mun went on. “What will happen to people like you when the Japanese triumph, as they surely will?”

  “Like me? What does that mean?”

  “You’re studying abroad. You’ve picked up foreign ideas. It sounds like you’re an instigator, but are you a communist too?”

  My husband laughed long and hard.

  “You laugh now,” Sang-mun said, “but when the Japanese win—”

  “If they win—”

  “They’ll kill traitors and people who speak traitorous words. You need to be careful, brother,” Sang-mun warned. “You never know who might be listening.”

  Mi-ja squeezed my hand to reassure me, but her husband had sown seeds of uncertainty in me.

  * * *

  September 14 arrived, and it was time for my husband to return to Japan for his final year of study. Our last night together was filled with kisses and words of love. The next morning, when he boarded a small motorboat to take him to the main port, I surprised myself by weeping. This girl, who’d been so disappointed in her match, had grown to love her husband after barely four weeks of marriage. In this I was lucky—as Grandmother and Mi-ja had pointed out even before the wedding—for not all brides had amicable feelings toward the men with whom they shared their sleeping mats. I would miss Jun-bu, and already I worried about him being far from me when war raged all around us.

  The next day, still following our routine, Mi-ja arrived. I took her to visit the goddess, but what good would it do me when my husband was away? We made our offerings and then on the way home sat together on a hill overlooking the sea.

  “This will be my last visit for a while,” she confided. “My husband leaves in two days. He will travel the length of Korea to make sure the Japanese military convoys get where they need to go. Supervising loading and unloading, as you’ve heard. The Japanese trust him, and he says this is a big promotion. My mother-in-law has decided I don’t need to visit the goddess if he isn’t here to plant a baby.”

  These few weeks had been a gift, but now we were to be separated again. I felt lonely and alone already.

  A Golden Rope

  October 1944–August 1945

  “I come to you as leader of the collective,” Kim In-ha, a woman from the Seomun-dong neighborhood of Hado, said to my mother-in-law. “I’m looking to fill a big boat with twenty haenyeo for leaving-home water-work. We’ll be going to Vladivostok for nine months and returning, as usual, in time for the August sweet potato harvest.”

  It was the end of October, and my husband had been gone for six weeks. Do-saeng and I had arrived early at the bulteok and found Kim In-ha waiting for us. Now the two of them sat across from each other on opposite sides of the fire pit. A young apprentice had already gotten the flames going, and a pot of water sat on a grill. I’d been sorting through my gear, but I stopped when I heard the word Vladivostok. I’d earned good wages there the last couple of years.

  “Twenty haenyeo. Impressive,” Do-saeng said. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for young married women, who don’t yet have children,” In-ha answered. “Yes, they get homesick sometimes, but they’re still too inexperienced to suspect their husbands might start sharing love with a village woman or look for a little wife. They aren’t worrying if their children are sick or getting into trouble. I believe it’s important to have haenyeo whose emotions are calm and not troubled by thoughts of menfolk.”

  It was a long-winded way of saying she’d come for me. I felt pleased and excited. It would be fun to go again. Doing chores for my mother-in-law and obeying her orders in the bulteok—as good and wise as they were—grated against me. Taking care of Yu-ri in the afternoons, when she was fussy and fitful, was always hard. And not having my husband to love me or Mi-ja to comfort me had left me
in a restive and ill-humored mood. But when my mother-in-law said exactly what I wished her to say—“May I suggest my daughter-in-law?”—a black rock crushed the pit of my stomach. Do-saeng was too willing to let me go.

  “In terms of age, she’s a baby-diver,” she went on. “But her skills are good enough to qualify her as a small-diver.” This was the first time I’d been officially called a small-diver, and a part of me was honored, but the black stone didn’t melt away. “She’s a hard worker, but the best thing I can say about her is that her husband is away, so she won’t miss him any more than she already does. And it seems she and my son were not together long enough for baby making to occur.”

  That’s when I wondered just how deeply Do-saeng didn’t want me around. Grandmother had been wrong, and I was right. Do-saeng would always blame me for the roles she suspected I’d played in Yu-ri’s accident and my mother’s death. If I could help pay for my husband’s education, so be it, as long as I was gone from her sight. All right, then. I didn’t want to live with her either.

  * * *

  Five days later, when it was still dark, I packed a bag, picked up my sea-woman tools, and walked by myself to my family home, where I gave advice to Little Sister: “Stay close to others when you’re diving. Learn with your ears. Learn with your eyes. Most of all, stay safe.” I warned Third Brother: “Obey your sister. Stay in the house. Don’t let yourself be seen by the Japanese.” I said goodbye to my father, but I wasn’t sure if he’d remember by the time the sun rose. Then I walked out along the jetty and boarded the boat to take me and a couple of other young brides from other parts of Hado to the port. I felt my spirits rise.

  I found In-ha and the rest of the divers she’d hired waiting by the gangplank to the ferry. I spotted one or two girls I knew from other visits abroad, but the rest were strangers to me. I was surreptitiously looking from girl to girl, trying through subtle signals to figure out who I’d want to partner with—who had strong legs and arms hidden under her clothes, who looked responsible or like a risk taker, who seemed like she might talk too much or keep too quiet—when I spotted Mi-ja, gazing straight at me, patiently waiting for me to find her, a bemused smile on her face.