Monday, November 2, 2009

Dispatches - November 2, 2009

Terrific, you're back! I hope you weren't waiting too long for the conclusion of The Old ETA and the Sea. In the last installment, we left our daring and debonaire protagonist – me – in a harrowing predicament: sitting on a floating shantytown 300 yards from shore, hopelessly bored, with only his cellphone to entertain himself. Will he catch his trophy fish? Will he be forced to eat raw whatever does come out of the ocean? Will his cellphone battery last? Let's find out, shall we?

The bait we had put on the end of the fishing lines was not appetizing to me and apparently the fish agreed. To bide the time, I picked up a knotted mess of discarded line on the deck and began untying it. I quickly became engrossed in my pet project; not only was I occupying myself, but to anyone that happened to observe, this effort had all the trappings of ultimately serving a purpose related to fishing. As a Boy Scout I was adept with rope, earning the nickname 'Knots' after I won the Troop 87 knot board competition. In our adult lives we so often find ourselves immersed in mental tedium – reports or briefs or e-mails – that we rarely rediscover the latent and inherent joy of working with our hands. On the evolutionary scale, this type of work ought to resonate with our brains much more than intellectual pursuits. I won't claim that a well-written blog post doesn't provide me with some measure of satisfaction, but few things feel as complete as a day spent with chores in the backyard or...untying a piece of fishing line.

Perhaps that was a bit of a stretch, but my point remains. Whatever your thoughts on physical pursuits, that fishing line was about the only thing I had between myself and jumping into the water. Forty-five minutes into my project and I had a tightly-wound coil of line for Jin to use. For his own part, Jin was thoroughly enjoying himself and his new-found skill of catching two-inch long fish off the plank with my nicely untangled spool of fishing line.

About a half-hour later, I was approached by my host father who was excitedly gesturing toward the open water. My host mother joined the conversation with her cellphone translation application and I gathered that I was about to be invited to take to the high seas in pursuit of a fish I had never heard of. Doing my best impression of someone woefully ignorant of their surroundings and their present situation, I put on a glazed smile and went back to watching the dead-calm lines in the water. It wasn't until Jin approached with his excellent English skills that I knew the jig was up – I was going.

Outfitted with a fishing rod, a water bottle, and a life vest, I once again boarded what I thought was an open-air water taxi and left the comforts of the floating village. We journeyed out to sea at a brisk clip – the wind in my hair and the scenery of the mountains rising on either side of the bay was actually enjoyable. As I said before, I like boats. Besides, the roar of the motor made any awkward pseudo-English/pseudo-Korean conversation simply impossible. I was left to my own thoughts, which aren't exactly the best companions in my homesick and borderline-depressed state, but even destructive friends are welcome when the only alternative is loneliness.

After thirty minutes spent speeding over the calm water, our fearless captain (identified by the token cigarette in his mouth and the fact that he was the sole member of the crew not wearing a life vest) slowed the throttle near another floating village. He announced something incomprehensible – at least to me – over a speaker from his cockpit and, judging by the reaction of my fellow fishermen, the hunt was on. Lines dropped into the water from all sides of the boat and my host father enthusiastically motioned for me to follow suit. I was positioned at the bow, attempting to send text messages with one hand while balancing against the wake of passing boats. I'll pause here to more properly describe our vessel. Using nautical terms such as 'port' and 'bow' convey a sense that I was on a real seaworthy charge. The reality of the matter was that our twenty-foot craft was about eight feet wide. There was a small cabin large enough to house the controls and perhaps shelter a passenger or two from the elements. A large Yamaha outboard motor provided the propulsion and the deck was covered with odd stains that I would soon come to understand with vivid clarity.

It took mere moments for our quarry to strike. Two spots down, on the port side, an angler was frantically reeling something in. We could not have been at a depth of more than twenty to thirty feet because reeling in your line didn't take more than a few moments. When my neighbor's catch surfaced I had not a clue what it was, but it didn't look like a fish. When he reeled it aboard and into his bucket, I turned back to my own line...and perhaps a text message. Within seconds, however, there was commotion once again around this man. As I turned around, I noticed him hunched over and wiping what can only be described as black ink – it was black ink – from his face. It was at that moment that I came to the horrific realization that fishing in these parts was a contact sport. Whatever it was that this poor man had caught didn't appreciate it and decided to return the favor by spraying him with a cocktail dark as night. It was then that I also noticed the oil slick that had been left on the water where this creature had surfaced.

Now I am twenty-six years old and thus feel qualified to refer to myself as a 'man'. There was a time, however, when I was a 'boy'. To be quite honest, I'm not convinced that I am completely beyond that period, but for argument's sake, let's assume. I often call upon the knowledge I garnered in my youth – for better or for worse – in my adult life. All boys are fascinated by animals and thus, as a former boy, I am somewhat well-versed in the kingdom animalia and some of its odder entries. The stranger the appendages or abilities with which these creatures have been endowed by evolution, the better. As I stood there on the deck of the S.S. Kimchi, I channeled countless hours devoted to various Discovery Channel television programs and quickly surmised that I was dealing with none other than some form of cephalopod (think: squid). I would later research and find that the specific species was cuttlefish – the name that would haunt me from my host mother's incredibly prescient cellphone translation application.

But at the time, I assumed that snaring one of these slimy, bulbous, ink-spewing, and wholly-unappetizing denizens of the deep was a complete mistake. Surely we were after fish...real fish...the kind with scales, fins, and maybe – if I was lucky – teeth. I went back to my line and my text messages. Soon enough, however, my host father began excitedly reeling in his own spool. What surfaced this time was not a cuttlefish, but an octopus – a very small, perhaps six-inch long, octopus. The boy in me was again extremely curious. Mr. Choi shook the lure until the octopus plopped into our bucket with a slimy 'splat' and I investigated the eight arms with their tentacles and the color-changing creature that was gliding – or slithering – along the bottom.

More than curiosity, however, I felt pity. Before arriving in Korea, I was a vegetarian of seven years. I began eating meat two weeks prior to departure to get my stomach in shape – I wanted to experience the full breadth of Korean culture. I also assumed that it would be impossible to explain a vegetarian diet to my host family without inadvertently giving the impression that I did not care for their cooking. But my primary consideration remained how so much of a community can be tied to its food – I wasn't about to miss this substantial element of my new home. Now that I'm here, I would gladly miss that element of Korea altogether, but at the time I was game. Returning to the octopus, however, groping the bottom of that bucket and – as I understood it – suffocating, I was reminded once again of my desire to return to vegetarianism immediately upon return to the United States.

It wasn't long before I felt my line grow ever-so-slightly heavier. I reeled it in and found another octopus on the other end. I also found that my host father seemed excited and added this octopus to our bucket. Queue wide camera angle zooming into a closeup of my face. This is the horror film cliché indication that the protagonist has finally realized what the audience knew all along: he/she never had a chance. In this miniseries, I realized then and there and under no uncertain terms that these octopus were not a mistake or a chance occurrence, but rather the end game. This is what we had been fishing for all along! And the sobering corollary to this awakening was the premonition that we were not going to add these poor cephalopods to an aquarium when we got home: the next time I was going to see these guys was at dinner.

I could stomach this idea as part of my Korean adventure had it not been so damn easy to catch these critters. One need only bob his line up and down off the bottom for a few moments before the telltale weight of an octopus became discernible. Our collection was growing, and at an alarming rate! I could no longer see the bottom of our bucket and my host father didn't show any signs of slowing.

I had to take matters into my own hands. While I couldn't easily retard the progress of Mr. Choi, I could sabotage my own efforts. Craftily, I began stopping my line short of the bottom, feigning the up and down bob of my reel as though I was resting my lure on the seabed when, in reality, I was some distance above it. My suspicion that octopus can't jump was confirmed by the marked decrease in my success. Mr. Choi noticed my decreasing rate of octopus murder and pantomimed the proper technique several times. I responded in kind with pantomimed concerted effort. I had a twofold justification for the ruse: 1) the octopus squirming around the bottom of the bucket was indeed a gruesome site and I did not want to kill any more of them than I absolutely had to and 2) I do not find octopus appetizing and I surmised that the less octopus we caught, the less I would have to eat later on.

At that point, our captain spoke something through the speaker and my host father motioned for me to reel in my line. The captain fired up the outboard and we were off … off to another site about four minutes away. Apparently it was not enough to send one octopus population to the brink of endangerment: we had to spread our efforts to neighboring colonies as well. After we arrived at our third location and the haul showed no signs of letting up, I could no longer continue to sandbag my technique without arousing the suspicions of my fellow fishermen (and fisherlady – there was one woman aboard who seemed to be sharing an octopus bucket with the man immediately to my right. I assumed they were a couple. Thinking of a more unromantic outing than fishing for octopus and occasionally getting sprayed with cuttlefish ink I cannot, but to each, his own).

As much as I didn't want to, I began employing the proper method and subsequently began catching more helpless octopus. The occasional cuttlefish would find one of our hooks and someone would sound the alarm. I became vigilant for the sign of any commotion, keeping my head on a swivel to avoid a bath with black ink. I'm happy to report that I escaped unscathed thanks in part to some quick footwork, but probably more to chance.

I won't belabor the post with each subsequent change of venue our captain took, suffice to say that, as our bucket filled with octopus, I became resigned to their fate – and my own at a later dinner. To be fair, the afternoon could have been far worse. Mr. Choi was his usual gracious and considerate self, the weather was terrific, and perhaps most importantly, it didn't run too long. Back at the shantytown, as soon as I discerned this trip was going to take place, I immediately began fearing that I would not see my beloved floating wreck (notice how quickly standards change in Korea) until nightfall. At one of the later changes of location, I motioned to my watch to ask my host dad what time we would be heading back. My spirits soared when I learned that it would in fact be within the quarter hour, at three o'clock. We picked up the pace, reaching a new rate of mass murder, before the clock ran out.

The speed boat ride on the return was enjoyable like the trip out. Enjoyable unless I peeked into our bucket and a truly pitiful sight of slain sea creatures. Much like the deck of our cruiser spotted with ink, my conscience was spotted with guilt. And much like the tell-tale spots of fishing excursions past, out my damn spots were not. When I was a vegetarian, I never proselytized. A person's diet is their own choice and I never attempted to change that of fellow diners. Most casual acquaintances didn't know my dietary habits until they noticed my tip-toeing around a menu or inquiring about ingredients. Even then, I never cast a disapproving eye toward my carnivorous friends at the dinner table.

That being said, two avenues of conversation always pushed my buttons. One button was others who righteously lay claim to the title 'vegetarian' while eating all the seafood and poultry in sight. Simply not enjoying the taste of hamburgers does not make one a saint nor, in my opinion, a vegetarian. The other button was the general indifference many have to our friends in the sea. I've had countless conversations run short when the other party simply could not wrap their mind around the notion that fish were sentient beings who should qualify for protection under a 'vegetarian' diet. Never mind the alarming statistics with respect to declining fish populations worldwide, but why tuna are fair game when cows aren't is beyond me.

Down off your stump Cornelius. A PETA blog this is not, nor is it a venue for political commentary. Mr. Choi and I returned to our launching site – the shantytown on floats – and rejoined Jin and Mrs. Choi. I learned that the latter was herself quite a fisherwoman (lady?). Apparently there exists a species of fish that is attracted to the slop that was at the end of the hooks because she caught a couple decently-sized specimens. For his part, Jin had quite a collection of very tiny fish to show for his efforts. I thought I detected a hint of boredom on his face, though it simply could have been me projecting my hope onto the scene. Looking back, I probably wouldn't have passed off the fruits of my knot-untying project to Jin had I know they would be put to such unsavory pursuits.

To complete the sea life genocide trifecta, I realized that I had inadvertently contributed to a live fish being fed to a cat. Earlier in the day, I saw a cat observing the activities on our flotilla. Clearly he/she was the charge of this village's owners – if indeed such a place was or could be owned – and I mused to Jin that this cat must be the recipient of particularly-prime feline circumstances and frequent fish suppers. Jin is a bright and inquisitive fellow. I should have known that he would take at least one of his ample catch and test my observation. Surprise – cats do in fact like fish and will eat them when given the opportunity. Even so, this cat wasn't very sporting – the fish was served up on the dock right in front of the cat's nose and didn't have much of a chance to flop five feet back into the ocean. By this point, however, I was numb to the guilt.

What better way to assuage my conscience by slipping into my unconscious? Taking a chair and donning my sunglasses, I parked myself at the end of a plank and studied the setting sun. The color in the sky darkened everything below, leaving little hint from the calm of the bay that the gentle ebb and flow was more than cascading velvet. I was reminded of many a time at home. I know some that can lose themselves and their thoughts in such peaceful scenes, but I'm not so lucky. My mind tends to seize the opportunity by filling the void with anxious thoughts about past, present, and future. This was no different, but for a brief moment, a mind that was simultaneously racing and standing still was able to forget that I was in Korea.

My pseudo-slumber was interrupted with the announcement that we were to depart. We gathered our haul, hopped onto the taxi, and pointed our way back to solid ground. Although daylight was fading, a light was beginning to shine at the end of my tunnel; the end of my journey was near. I knew better than to let my guard down however. Case in point: before we departed the docks, Mr. Choi suspiciously disappeared into one of the restaurants with the two big fish my host mother had caught. My fear was materializing before my eyes – the bountiful bounty was about to become dinner! Whilst we awaited the fillets of fish, Mrs. Choi bought a box of Choco-Pies (think: marshmallow sandwiches coated in chocolate). Divining that I very well may be faced with a tantalizing dinner featuring nondescript fish and a yet-untold number of octopus later that night, I immediately downed two Choco-Pies and rationed another for the road.

Jin and I were pretty tuckered out after our long day; as Mr. Choi dropped the accelerator to the floor, we promptly passed out in the backseat. Nearing home, though, we encountered the traditional Korean Sunday afternoon traffic and our pace ground to a halt, leaving ample time for smalltalk. My dietary preferences somehow became a topic of conversation and, while I could not be sure, I specifically heard 'chicken burger'. Once again not wanting to allow my hopes to play tricks on me, I avoided the distinct impression that Mrs. Choi's sister was going to somehow make sure that there was a chicken burger waiting for me when we arrived at home.

But I should stop underestimating my host parents. Sure enough, there was a delicious fast-food dinner awaiting my return home. Apparently the extended family had heard about the octopus that was returning with us and, rather than avoiding our house for weeks (as my family would do – sensibly I might add), they decided to descend upon the Choi residence and prepare for a feast. I devoured my chicken burger and hung out with the little kids of the family upstairs. Despite being much closer to the adults in age, I somehow tend to find myself at the 'kids table'. To be honest, the 'somehow' is almost certainly the fact that I can have a more complete conversation with five-year old Koreans using their elementary English skills than I can with their parents while employing my atrocious Korean skills.

But just when I thought I had narrowly escaped revisiting my dastardly deeds of earlier that day, I heard the bell toll. It was Jin calling from downstairs. I reluctantly poked my head from around the corner, knowing full-well what was in store, and was enthusiastically asked by my host parents to join them around the coffee table. A half-dozen aunts and uncles had gathered around a portable stove, apparently enjoying the fruits of our labor. I looked into the large pot on the stove and spotted the evidence from the crimes I had committed. No need to assemble a jury or seek a plea bargain; I knew what I had done. I reluctantly sat down at a place prepared for me, resigned to pay my debt. Within moments I was face to face once again with an eight-legged cephalopod – no doubt one whose death was on my hands (or fishing rod).

While my writing thus far may have portrayed my eating habits in an unfavorable light – picky and unadventurous at best – I will actually try anything once. This wasn't the first time I had octopus prepared this way and I was a bit of an old hat at surviving such a meal. I immediately reached for the wasabi. While I may have to cry through a meal thanks to the overwhelming power of wasabi, I definitely wasn't going to taste anything else. And for good measure, I garnished each bite with a bath of soy sauce. That night I had my requisite dose of octopus for quite some time to come, and probably enough sodium to satisfy my recommended daily serving well into 2011.

And thus my two-part miniseries The Old ETA and the Sea concludes. I lived to tell – and blog – the tale. Sadly many octopus did not. Despite my not enjoying the eventual quarry of the day, I did enjoy the opportunity to commune with nature. While the moments that permitted reflection were all-too-brief and all-too-few, I welcomed them. A place at the bow of a boat speeding through the sound or a solitary chair in a quiet corner of a floating fishing village were unexpected, but enjoyable. What's more, it's just this type of adventure that I signed up for. And thus I'll sign off...for now. Be sure to check back soon for spooky tales of a Halloween spent in place named 'Gwangju', previously-promised commentary on the power of tradition, and more antics from my ample supply of stories from an all-boys middle school.

3 comments:

  1. Wow, Jacques Cousteau would find this very interesting. Next time you should suggest Moby Dick hunting (ha,ha).
    Mom

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  2. Better you then me. Meat and spuds for me. Again in few travels around the globe, my hosts never would tell me what I was eating.
    Dad

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  3. Hey CW! Interesting adventures!!! Your stories are great! Can't wait to see the pictures.
    Coleen

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