The Island of Sea Women(84)
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Six months into the war, Do-saeng turned fifty-five. Everyone in the bulteok knew what that meant, but I took on the responsibility of saying the words.
“My mother-in-law has led us for twelve years,” I said. “We have not had a single death or injury under the sea during her leadership. Now it is time for her to gather algae and seaweed and spend time with her grandchildren.”
“Let us have a vote to elect our new chief,” Kang Gu-sun proposed. “I nominate my older sister, Gu-ja.”
I did my best not to glance in Do-saeng’s direction. We’d earlier agreed that someone other than she should nominate me, and she’d been quietly working on my behalf, so this came as a surprise. A betrayal, even.
“Gu-ja has always lived in Hado,” Gu-sun went on. “My sister did not marry out or move away. Most important, she has not been touched by grief.”
Do-saeng asked for other nominations. None came. She called for a vote, and Gu-ja won unanimously. Every moment was colored by sadness for me in those days, but I think the other haenyeo took my subdued reaction for humility.
“I will always be here to help Gu-ja,” Do-saeng said. “The deep-sea fields are gone from me, and I’ll miss them.”
Later, when we returned home, Do-saeng handed me something wrapped in a piece of faded persimmon cloth. “I had hoped things would go differently today,” she confessed. “While it’s not the custom, I even bought you a present.”
I peeled back the folds of the cloth and found a piece of glass surrounded by black rubber with a strap hanging from the back.
“We’ve all suffered with our small-eyed goggles,” Do-saeng explained. “The metal rims press against our faces, and the sides limit our vision. This is something new. The Japanese call them big eyes. You’ll see better, and they’ll cause no pain. You may not be the chief, but you’re the first haenyeo on Jeju to have big eyes.”
I thought of Mi-ja then with anger and confusion, as I often did. I wondered how long it would be before she got big eyes too.
The next time we went to sea, the other haenyeo in the collective were impressed, crowding around to look at my mask. I put it on, jumped in the water, and headed down. Looking through my big eyes, I began to forget the things I’d seen and the people I’d lost. My mind cleared and steadied as I searched for abalone and sea urchins. In just these few seconds, I understood that this mask would also be a way for me to protect myself from feeling anything about the woman who had once been my friend or from letting my emotions escape, if only by accident.
Day 4: 2008
Young-sook wakes up, folds her sleeping mat and blankets, and stacks them out of the way. Her wet suit and face mask hang from hooks, and her flippers lean against the wall, but she won’t be diving today. She steps outside and pads around the corner of the little house to the bathroom she added on to the exterior eight years ago. (She wasn’t quite the last person in Hado to sell off her pigs and buy a toilet, but she was close.) Once her business is done, she picks flowers from her garden and then heads for the kitchen. Standing at the sink, she trims leaves and thorns. She puts the ends of the stems in a small plastic bag, pours in a little water, and then seals it as best she can with a rubber band. Then she binds the bouquet with wrapping paper and ribbon. One task done.
She takes a sponge bath at her kitchen sink, changes out of her night clothes into black slacks, a flowered blouse, and a pink sweater. Instead of her usual bonnet, she puts on a visor she bought the previous week at the five-day market. She packs her purse with the things she’ll need today, carefully cradles the bouquet, and leaves her house. She wishes Do-saeng were here to be a part of this day, but she died fourteen years ago at the age of ninety-five. There’d been other losses as well: Young-sook’s father back in 1980 from cancer and her third brother just last year from an aneurysm. She wishes they too could accompany her today.
Young-sook’s friends from the collective are already gathered on the main road by the time she arrives. Hado still has more haenyeo than any other village on Jeju, but they’re disappearing every day. Today there are only four thousand haenyeo on the island. More than half of them have passed their seventieth birthdays. Many, like Young-sook and the Kang sisters, are well beyond that. No one is following them into the sea. The daughters of Young-sook and others like her traded their wet suits for business suits and hotel uniforms. Now, as Young-sook looks at the aged faces around her, she thinks, We are but living myths, and soon we will be gone.
Each woman is dressed in her best. The Kang sisters have gotten new permanents and dye jobs. One woman wears a bright green sweater with blue and white pom-poms decorating the collar. Several wear dresses. Some carry bouquets. Others have baskets hanging from the crooks of their arms. The current head of the collective pins a white chrysanthemum to honor the dead on each woman’s lapel or sweater. They’ve waited sixty years for this day to arrive, and each has chipped in to rent a bus. The women should be subdued—somber even—when they climb aboard, but they’re haenyeo. Their voices are loud. They tease each other and make jokes. But some, it’s easy to see, weep through their laughter.
The road that skirts the coast is paved. At every village, Young-sook sees people boarding buses—some public, others private—but plenty of cars, vans, and motorcycles also head in the same direction. When the bus passes Bukchon, Young-sook closes her eyes. It hurts her to see the hotels and inns that rise along the shoreline. Next comes Hamdeok. As always, Young-sook revisits her pain, as she thinks of the olles between the two villages and the person she used to meet there. But it’s not just that. Both villages are ugly now, as are most across Korea, including her own. The New Village Movement caused that—replacing many stone houses with stucco boxes and all thatch roofs with tiles or corrugated tin. It’s supposed to be an improvement, making villages safer from fires and typhoons, but much of the island’s charm has diminished.