The Island of Sea Women

Leaving-Home Water-Work

“Did my mother give birth to me only so I would have callused hands?” Mi-ja sang.

“Did my mother give birth to me only to have future prosperity?” we sang back to her.

“Look at how well our boatman goes!” Mi-ja trilled.

“Money, money that doesn’t speak,” we responded, matching her rhythm. “Money, money that I take home. Go, boatman, go.”

I much preferred this type of song to the usual laments the Kang sisters led about mothers missing their children or how difficult it was to live under a mother-in-law. Those two girls had changed since they’d become wives and mothers, and they weren’t nearly as much fun. They seemed to have erased from their minds that once they used to whisper about how they met boys in underground lava tubes or kissed someone atop a volcanic cone. They’d forgotten what joy it was to sing for pleasure. Every one of us could complain, but would that make our situation emotionally easier or physically more comfortable?

It was February, and the morning was still dark. The boat bumped over choppy waves off the coast of Vladivostok. The four of us huddled around a brazier, but its heat wasn’t enough to reach that place at the core of my body that shivered. None of us wanted to waste our earnings on tea, so we sipped hot water. I was hungry, but I was always hungry. The work combined with constant shivering—whether on land, on the boat, or in the sea—ate whatever stores I had in my body faster than I could replenish them.

I wished I could be home on my island, but that wasn’t possible. When I turned sixteen, my youngest brother died from a fever that took him after three nights. Four times my father had been able to tie a golden rope strung with dried red chilies across our doorway to signal that a son had been born, and twice he’d tied pine branches to alert our neighbors that daughters—providers—had been born. If the family had been whole, Mother would have overturned Fourth Brother’s cradle before Halmang Samseung’s shrine to symbolize her release of him. But with Mother gone from us, this ritual was left to me. After Fourth Brother’s death, the faces of my remaining siblings went slack with grief and hopelessness. My sister, just eleven, was still too young to help. Without school to attend, my brothers lazed about the house or ran through the village and got into trouble. My father kept the house, visited men under the village tree, and refrained from bringing in a new wife, which meant only I could do something to change our destinies.

After watching my mother die, I never wanted to see the ocean again, and I certainly didn’t want to dive in it, but I couldn’t avoid it either. Do-saeng had been elected head of the collective. No one could have felt guiltier than I already did for what happened to my mother, but Do-saeng made her views about me and the roles I assume she suspected I’d played in my mother’s death and Yu-ri’s accident known by assigning me to barren areas of a cove or reef. And still I needed to bring home money for us to buy food and other necessities. Fortunately, I had options. By now, a quarter of Jeju’s population had moved to Japan. The men worked in iron and enamel production; the women worked in spinning and sewing factories. Some, of course, were students. The only other legitimate way to leave the island was for women to work as haenyeo, diving from boats in other countries. I wasn’t a student and I didn’t think I could adapt to indoor factory work, so five years ago, when the recruiter came to the village in a flatbed truck looking for haenyeo to hire for a season of “summer earning,” I signed up for leaving-home water-work.

“I’m coming too,” Mi-ja announced.

I begged her not to do it. “The trip will mean hardship for you.”

“But what would I do on Jeju without you?”

We joined the Kang sisters, Gu-ja and Gu-sun, who had sons at home and had labored away from home for two seasons already. The four of us climbed onto the back of a truck—a first for me—and were driven to other villages until the recruiter hired enough haenyeo to fill many boats. Then we went to the Jeju City port, boarded a ferry, and chugged across five hundred kilometers of rolling seas to China. The following year, we traveled three hundred kilometers east over monster waves to reach Japan. The year after that, we bumped and rolled through the Strait of Jeju one hundred kilometers to the Korean mainland, where we boarded another ferry to take us to the Soviet Union. We’d heard it was the best for earnings. The last two years, Mi-ja and I had hired out for “summer earning” and “winter earning” in Vladivostok, which meant that we were gone for nine months and returned to Jeju for the August sweet potato harvest.

So, for a total of five years Mi-ja had signed her name and I’d placed my thumbprint on contracts saying we agreed to be away from home. During that time, the world—and not just our island—was shaken. For decades, Japan had been a stable—if wholly hated—power on Jeju. Korea had been an annexed colony for thirty-four years. Yes, we had tensions. Yes, the Japanese colonists could abuse us without consequence. Yes, they could take advantage of us. Our only recourse had been strikes and marches, but the Japanese always triumphed in the end. Then, three years ago, Japan—not content with Korea as a colony or with invading China—had launched attacks across the Pacific. America entered the war and fighting erupted all around us.

Mi-ja and I picked up news where we could—passing by the village tree when we were in Hado and overhearing the men in their discussions or listening to our dormitory’s radio in Vladivostok. When we were on Jeju, we saw with our own eyes that there were even more Japanese soldiers. They’d always been a danger to young, unaccompanied women, but they began to threaten women of all ages. They gave grandmothers, who’d once gathered on the shore to gossip and have fun, compulsory quotas of seaweed to collect and dry, because it was used as an ingredient in gunpowder. The risks for men and boys were perhaps the greatest as they were rounded up and conscripted into the Japanese army, sometimes without being given a chance to notify their families.

Now here we were—on a boat off the shore of Vladivostok. I’d recently turned twenty-one, and Mi-ja would celebrate her birthday in a few months. I hadn’t once stopped being grateful for her companionship, her beautiful singing voice, or her bravery. There was a time we’d thought we would eventually grow accustomed to Vladivostok’s cold on land and in the sea, because the air temperature on Jeju could go very low. On our home island in winter, snow lay in drifts around the tide pools and our diving clothes froze when we laid them on the rocks to dry. But it turned out conditions on our home island were nothing compared to those in Vladivostok. Mi-ja and I told each other it was worth the discomfort, because we had reached the age when we needed to save enough money to get married and start our own households.

The boatman turned off the engine. Our vessel bobbed in the waves like a piece of driftwood. Mi-ja, the Kangs, and I peeled off our coats, scarves, and hats. We were already dressed in our cotton water clothes with the lightweight cotton jackets to keep us warm. The others wore white, but I had on my black diving costume, because I had my monthly bleeding. Seventeen was a common age for bleeding to start, but it had been delayed for all of us by the daily cold and other hardships we experienced. We tied our kerchiefs over our hair, then stepped outside the cabin and into biting wind. I couldn’t see land in any direction.

I made a personal offering to the Dragon Sea God, as I did every time I left the hard earth for the watery realm, following the custom for any woman who’d lost a relative to the ocean. I quickly grabbed my gear. Then, one by one, we jumped off the side of the boat. No place had colder waters than Vladivostok, where only the salt kept the sea from freezing. The constant shiver that always hid deep in my chest overtook my entire body. I forced my mind away from the physical torment. I’m here to work. I took a breath, pointed my head down, and kicked. I was aware of the boat engine starting and felt the change in the current as the boatman pulled away, leaving the four of us alone in the sea. The old man was not our safety net. He was only our driver. He stopped not too far away—within earshot—but not close enough to help if one of us got into trouble. He usually dropped a fishing line or net just to keep from being bored.

Up and down I went. Mi-ja was always near, but not so close that she could grab something I already had my eye on. We were competitive but respectful of each other. We were also alert. We didn’t mind dolphins, but sharks were another matter, especially when I was bleeding into the sea.

A half hour later, we heard the boat slicing through the water toward us. An octopus I’d spotted in a crevice retreated into the dark hollows from the vibrations. I’d come back for it later. We returned to the surface and swam to the boat, where the old man hauled up our nets. We climbed the ladder—the brutal wind slicing through our wet cotton suits—and hurried into the cabin. The brazier was going, and the boatman had prepared a trough filled with steaming hot water for us to soak our feet. Mi-ja’s thigh rested against mine. Our flesh had goosebumps and our veins looked so thin and sad it was as if the blood within them had shrunk and slowed from the ruthless cold.

“I found five sea urchins.” Gu-sun’s words got lost in the clattering of her teeth.

The cold had an even worse effect on Gu-ja’s voice. “So? I found an abalone.”

“Lucky you, but I got an octopus.” Mi-ja grinned, proud of herself.

And on it went, because it was a haenyeo’s right and duty to brag.

Despite, or because of, the dangers, hardships, and sacrifices, each of us was striving for one thing: to become the best haenyeo. We all knew the risks in prying loose an abalone, but catching an octopus was a bigger triumph—and a bigger risk. However, if one of us could reach the level of best haenyeo on this boat, then the captain would reward her with a new pair of shoes and a pair of underwear.

“There is no impossible place for me in the sea,” Mi-ja crowed. Then she nudged me with her thigh, encouraging me to speak up.

“I’m so good in the sea that I could cook and eat a meal underwater,” I boasted. None of them could deny it or top me, because I could go deeper and stay down longer than anyone else in our group. Back home, people speculated that it was because I’d waited with my mother until her death, expanding my lungs beyond the usual capacity of someone of my age and experience.

When our half hour was up, we went back outside, grabbed our tools, and dove into the water. Once again, the boatman pulled away, so as not to disturb the creatures living on the seabed as we hunted for them. A half hour in the water, a half hour to warm up, back and forth. Some days we came to this site because it had a variety of things to catch. Other days we went to a rich abalone plot or to an abundant sea cucumber field. We’d even gone out at night, because it’s a known fact that you can find more sea urchins then.

During our fourth dive, the water began to reverberate with deep pulses. A ship was coming. The sea creatures retreated into caves and crannies. We wouldn’t be able to harvest again until the waters had calmed, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t profit. We’d been told that Japanese soldiers couldn’t get by without a daily ration of sea urchin roe, while the Chinese wanted dried squid, fish, and octopus to carry in their knapsacks. The Soviets were indiscriminate. They’d eat anything.

The boatman picked us up, and we put on our coats to cover our near nakedness from whoever was coming. The Soviets, who weren’t participating in the Pacific War, were considered relatively harmless. If it had been a Japanese ship, then we would have needed to get back in the water and let the old man handle business, because the cloven-footed ones were known to steal young women and take them to special camps to be used by their soldiers as comfort women. This ship, however, had an American flag.

Our small boat pitched as the destroyer neared. It was long but not that tall. Dozens of sailors bunched together against the railings, staring down at us and calling out. We didn’t understand the words, but they were young men away from home with no women on board. We could guess at their loneliness and their excitement. One man, wearing a different hat than the other sailors, gestured for us to come closer. A rope ladder was thrown down, and Gu-ja grabbed it. Five men moved like spiders down the webbing until they reached us. As soon as the first one was aboard our vessel, he drew a weapon. This was not uncommon. Four of us raised our hands; Gu-ja still held on to the ladder.

The man with the special hat barked orders in English to his men and pointed to different spots on our boat that they should search. They found no weapons. Once they understood that we were just an old man and four haenyeo, the man with the special hat shouted up to his ship, and in moments another man came scrambling down the net. He wore a grease-stained apron. The cook yelled at us, as if that would help us comprehend him. When it didn’t work, he bunched his fingers and thumb together and tapped them on his lips. Food. Then he tapped his chest followed by his open palm. I’ll pay.

Gu-sun, Mi-ja, and I opened our nets. We showed him our sea urchins. He shook his head. Mi-ja held up the octopus she’d caught. The cook drew a hand across his throat. No! I motioned him over to another net that had already been sorted and held sea snails. I took one, brought the opening to my lips, and sucked out the meaty morsel. I grinned at the cook, trying to convey how delicious it was. Then I scooped up two handfuls of the snails and offered them to him. Take, take. “Good price,” I said in my dialect. The cook pointed a finger at the snails, then the men, and finally down his throat as if forcing himself to throw up. He didn’t have to be that insulting.

The cook put his palms together and wove his hands from side to side. He looked at me questioningly. Do you have fish?

“I have fish!” the old boatman said, not that the cook could understand the words. “Come. Come.”

The American cook bought four of the old man’s fish. Great. He’d been sitting on his boat idling away his time, while we were in the water. And now we’d wasted a half hour of diving.

After the Americans climbed back up their webbed ladder, our two vessels drifted apart, leaving us heaving and yawing in the ship’s wake as it churned away from us.

It was time for lunch. The boatman gave us kimchee. The hotness from the chilies warmed us from the inside out, but a bit of fermented cabbage was not enough to replace the energy we’d expended or minimize our disappointment.

“My sister and I are still hungry,” Gu-ja complained loudly.

“Too bad,” the boatman said.

“Why not let us cook the fish you didn’t sell?” Gu-ja asked. “My sister and I can make a pot of cutlass fish soup—”

The old man laughed. “I’m not wasting it on the four of you. I’m taking it home to my wife.”

Mi-ja and I exchanged glances. We didn’t hate the old man. He was responsible in many ways. He made sure our day did not last longer than eight hours, which included the travel time back and forth from the harbor. He was vigilant about the weather, probably caring more for his vessel than for our safety. But Mi-ja and I had already decided we wouldn’t sign up for another season with him. There were other boats and other boatmen, and we deserved to be fed properly.

We lived in a boardinghouse for Korean haenyeo tucked in an alley down by the docks. On Sunday, our one day off, the landlady made us porridge for breakfast. The servings were small, but once again, we were warmed by the chilies. As soon as our bowls were empty, the Kang sisters disappeared behind the curtain that gave us privacy in our room. They’d sleep away the rest of the day.

“Can you imagine doing that?” Mi-ja asked. “I’d never waste the hours of light in the darkness of slumber.”

Plenty of times I would have wanted to stay on my sleeping mat all day, especially when I was bleeding and my stomach and back ached, but Mi-ja wouldn’t allow that, just as she never allowed homesickness to overtake me. She always organized our excursions. After five years of traveling to different countries, electric lights (not that our boardinghouse had them), automobiles (not that I’d been in one yet), or trolleys (too expensive!) didn’t impress me any longer. It’s funny how quickly you can get used to new things, though. Mi-ja remembered “sightseeing” with her father, and now we had our own adventures. We liked to walk along the wide boulevards, lined with multistoried buildings—old, ornate, and unlike any we had on Jeju. We hiked up Vladivostok’s hill to reach the fortress, which had been built decades ago to defend the city from Japanese raids. We commemorated each experience not by writing in diaries or sending letters back home—neither of which we could do—but by making rubbings of the things we saw: the solid base of a filigreed candelabra that stood just inside the entrance of a hotel, the raised brand names of automobiles on fenders or trunks, a decorative iron plaque embedded in a wall.

On that morning, we weren’t in a hurry. We dressed in the better sets of the two pairs of clothes we’d brought with us, I stuffed my underwear with cotton rags, we put on our mufflers, coats, and boots, and we went out into the streets. The morning was crisp and the sky clear. Steaming air escaped from our mouths with each breath. We saw a few men staggering back to their ships or rented rooms. A couple of them had women with painted faces hanging on their arms. Ours was not a good part of town. It could be rough, and the smell—from men who relieved themselves on walls or vomited their alcohol in the alleys after the wild release of a Saturday night, combined with the pervasive odors of fish, oil, and kimchee—made for a foul stew. The alleys grew into lanes, then into streets, and finally into boulevards. Families walked past us, the fathers pushing babies in strollers, the mothers holding hands with older children, many of whom wore matching coats, hats, and mittens. Of course, many of them stared at us. We were foreign in our skin coloring, eyes, and clothing.

We didn’t want to waste a page of Mi-ja’s father’s book, so we looked for something unique. We entered a park, strolling the pathways until we came to a statue of a woman who looked like a goddess. Her white marble gown flowed about her, the expression on her face was serene, and she carried a flower in her hand. Her other hand was open, the palm reaching out to us. The lines across her palm were so real that they seemed to match those on my own flesh-and-blood hand.

“She’s too beautiful to be Halmang Juseung,” I whispered to Mi-ja. This was the goddess who, when she touches the flower of demolition upon the forehead of a baby or child, causes its death.

“Perhaps she is Halmang Samseung,” Mi-ja said, also keeping her voice low.

“But if she’s the goddess of fertility, childbirth, and young children, then why is she carrying the flower?” I asked tentatively.

Mi-ja chewed on her bottom lip as she thought about this. Finally, she said, “Either way, when we come here after we’re married, we’ll bring offerings, just to be safe.”

With that settled, I spread a piece of paper over the goddess’s palm, and Mi-ja rubbed coal over the paper. We were both concentrating so hard, watching the lines of the goddess’s palm limn pathways across and over the words, that we didn’t register the sound of footsteps coming near until it was too late.

“Koreans! You!” When the policeman began to yell other things we couldn’t understand, Mi-ja grabbed my arm and we ran as fast as we could out of the park. We dashed through the families that crowded the sidewalks and down a side street. Our legs and lungs were strong. No one could catch us. After three blocks, we stopped, hands on our knees, panting, laughing.

We spent the rest of the day wandering. We didn’t enter any of the cafés that lined the central square. Instead, we sat on a low wall and watched people coming and going. A little boy with a blue balloon in his mittened hand. A woman in high heels clickity-clacking down the street, a fox fur stole draped carelessly over the shoulders of her wool coat. Rich and poor, young and old. Sailors were everywhere too, and they tried to talk to us. They smiled, they cajoled, but we didn’t go with any of them. Some of those boys were awfully handsome, though, and they made us giggle and blush. We may have been stupid Korean country bumpkins in our homemade clothes dyed with persimmon juice, but we were young, and Mi-ja was extremely beautiful.

Another two sailors approached. They wore heavy wool trousers, thick sweaters, and identical caps. One had a grin that twisted up on the left side of his mouth; the other had a thick and unruly mop of hair that sprouted from under his cap. Of course, we couldn’t understand a word they said, so they gestured, grinned, and bobbed their heads at us. They looked nice enough, but Mi-ja and I were steadfast in our rules about Soviet boys. We knew too many haenyeo who’d gotten pregnant away from home. Those girls were ruined forever. We’d never let that happen to us. That said, we were haenyeo—strong in our own ways—but we were still girls, and a little flirting wouldn’t hurt us. Through much finger pointing and laughter, we determined that one was Vlad and the other was Alexi.

Alexi, the boy with the messy hair, trotted into one of the cafés, leaving Vlad to stand guard over us. A few minutes later, Alexi returned, carefully balancing four ice cream cones interlaced between his fingers. Mi-ja and I had seen people eat them, but we never would have treated ourselves to such an extravagance. Alexi handed out the cones, then he and his friend sat on the wall on either side of us.

Mi-ja’s tongue tentatively darted out, touched the creamy ball, then just as quickly withdrew. Her face was very still, perhaps remembering the desserts of her childhood. I didn’t wait for her commentary. I stuck my tongue out all the way—like I’d seen other people do—and took a big lick. The air was already cold, but this was so cold! It froze the top of my head just as intensely as diving off the boat into icy waters, but while the ocean was salty, this was sweeter than anything I’d ever tasted. And the texture! I ate my ice cream too fast and had the pain of watching the three of them finish theirs. As soon as Mi-ja was done, she jumped off the wall, waved, and set out in the direction of the docks. I would have liked to stay with Alexi longer—maybe he’d buy me another cone or some other treat—but I didn’t want to be separated from my friend. When I slid off the wall, both boys groaned theatrically.

Vlad and Alexi followed us, perhaps thinking they might have a chance, perhaps even thinking we might not be as innocent as we looked. But just as we were about to enter the red-light area, we turned and entered the Korean district. The boys stopped, unwilling to go farther. Soviets were known to be tough, but our men were far better fighters, and they would protect us now that we were in the Korean quarter. When we looked back at Vlad and Alexi—was Mi-ja tempting them to follow us?—they shrugged, clapped each other on the back—we gave it a try—and set off. My feelings were mixed. I wanted to get married, which meant I couldn’t be a girl who got in trouble. At the same time, I was intrigued by boys—even foreign boys. Yes, we should have been more like the Kang sisters—staying inside, not taking risks, and guaranteeing that our reputations remained intact—but where was the adventure in that? Either Mi-ja and I were walking a fine line or we were tempting fate.

“I thought you’d like the one with all that hair,” Mi-ja commented.

I giggled. “You’re right. I don’t like it when a man’s head is too close shaven—”

“Because you think it makes him look like a melon.”

“What about you and the way you ate your ice cream? Those poor boys!”

This is how we were: we affectionately teased each other. We knew these foreign men meant nothing to us. We wanted to marry Koreans. We wanted perfect matches. Last year when we went home for the harvest, Mi-ja and I visited the shrine of Halmang Jacheongbi, the goddess of love. Her name means “wants for oneself,” and we were clear about what we wanted. We made sandals from straw to give to our future husbands as engagement gifts. We also began buying things to take into our new homes: sleeping mats, chopsticks, pots, and bowls. My marriage would be arranged. The wedding itself would take place in the spring, when cherry blossoms swirled through the air, fragrant, pink, and delicate. Some girls knew their future husbands for a long time, having grown up in the same village. If I were lucky, I would get to exchange a few words with my future husband at the engagement meeting. If I were less fortunate, then I wouldn’t see him until the day of our ceremony. Either way, I dreamed of loving my husband at first sight and of a union between two people fated to be together.

When we entered the boardinghouse, Gu-ja and Gu-sun were sitting on the floor, bowls in hand, their stockinged feet tucked to their sides. We took off our coats, mufflers, and boots. The landlady handed us bowls of millet porridge flavored with dried fish. It was the same meal that we’d had the night before and the night before that and almost every night before that.

“Will you show us your rubbing from today?” Gu-sun asked.

“Please tell us what you saw,” Gu-ja added.

“Why don’t you come with us one of these days?” Mi-ja suggested. “Find out for yourselves—”

“It’s dangerous, and you know it,” Gu-ja replied tartly.

“You’re just saying that because you are now an obedient wife,” Mi-ja remarked.

I knew Mi-ja meant it as a joke—in what circumstance could a haenyeo be called obedient, after all?—but Gu-ja must have heard it as an insult because she shot back, “You only say that because no one will ever marry you—”

In just a few sentences, a mild inquiry had turned hostile. We all knew that Mi-ja’s prospects for an arranged marriage were challenging, but why deliberately hurt her when we had to dive tomorrow? The simple explanation was that we spent too much time together, our lives were in each other’s hands six days a week, and we were all homesick. The damage was done, however, and Gu-ja’s comment—so thoughtless—brought added darkness to the already dim room. Trying to shift the mood, Gu-sun repeated her initial question. “Will you show us what you made today?”

Mi-ja silently pulled out her father’s book. “You show them,” she said.

I took the volume from her and stared from it to her questioningly. We both knew the rubbing we’d made today was still in her pocket and not yet tucked into the book for safekeeping. Mi-ja was silently letting me know she didn’t want to show Gu-ja and Gu-sun our new image. Now she shifted her body so that her right shoulder blocked the view of her face from the rest of us. In the crowded room, this was her way of finding a little privacy so she could nurse her hurt feelings.

“Here,” I said, opening the book and leafing through the pages to show the sisters different rubbings from the world just outside this dreary enclave. “This is from the foot of a statue outside a government building. This is from the side of a toy truck we found left in a square. I like this one a lot. It’s the bumpy metal siding of a bus that we rode one day to a mountain park. Oh, and here’s one of some bark. Do you remember that day, Mi-ja?”

She didn’t respond. The two sisters weren’t interested either.

“Do you know the fortress we can see up on the hill when we sail out of the harbor?” I asked. “This shows how coarse the walls are—”

“You’ve shown these to us before,” Gu-ja complained. “Are you going to show us what you saw today or not?”

“Maybe if you were a little nicer,” Mi-ja said, her back still to us. “Maybe if you could be a single drop nicer.”

Her words were sharp, and Gu-ja went quiet, realizing perhaps that she’d gone too far. But what this exchange showed me was how much Gu-ja’s comment about my friend’s marriage prospects had stung. I understood with sudden clarity that Mi-ja might long to be married even more than I did. If she were married, she could create her own family with a mother, father, and children.

Later, we sat together under heavy quilts on our sleeping mats, sharing body warmth and whispering so as not to disturb the Kang sisters, who huddled together on the other side of the curtain on their sleeping mats. Mi-ja and I quietly examined the rubbing we’d made that day, comparing it to our others. We’d been friends since we were seven, and we’d been collecting rubbings for fourteen years. Commemorations. Remembrances. Celebrations. Memorials. We had them all, and they eased our loneliness and homesickness. And our worry too, since we couldn’t know when Jeju might be bombed or invaded.

As usual, the last rubbing we looked at was the first we’d made: the rough surface of a stone in the wall that surrounded my family’s field. My fingers smoothed the paper, and I whispered to Mi-ja a question I’d asked her many times before. “Why didn’t I make a rubbing on one of the days of my mother’s funeral or memorial rite?”

“Stop punishing yourself for that,” Mi-ja answered in a low voice. “It only makes you melancholy.”

“But I miss her.”

Once my tears started, Mi-ja’s came too.

“You knew your mother,” she said. “All I can do is miss the idea of a mother.”

On the other side of the curtain, the oil lamp went out. Mi-ja tucked the papers back in her father’s book, and I turned down our oil lamp. Mi-ja wrapped her body around me, pulling me tighter than usual. She tucked her knees against my knees, her thighs against my thighs, her breasts against my back. Her arm draped over my hip, and she rested her hand on my stomach. The next day we would wake early and be dropped into the bitterly cold sea again, so we needed to sleep, but the unevenness of her breath on my neck and the alertness in her body made me realize she was wide awake and listening hard. Across the room, I sensed the Kang sisters listening to us equally hard. But it wasn’t long before Gu-sun began her light, buzzing snore. Soon her sister was lulled by that familiar sound, and her breathing deepened and lengthened.

Mi-ja’s body relaxed, and she whispered in my ear. “I want my husband to be filled with grit and mettle.” She clearly had not let go of Gu-ja’s comments. “He doesn’t have to be handsome, but I want him to have a strong body to show he’s a good worker.”

“It sounds like you’re talking about a mainland man,” I said. “How are you going to find one of them?”

“Maybe the matchmaker will bring one to me,” she answered.

Marriage arrangements were made either by matchmakers or when a relative of high regard made inquiries. It was doubtful, at least from my perspective, that Mi-ja’s aunt and uncle would pay for a matchmaker, and Mi-ja had never spoken of a relative of high regard who might bring a proposal. Most important, mainland men saw Jeju women as ugly, loud, and boyish in shape, with our lean bodies and strong muscles. They considered us to be too darkened by the sun. Mainland men also had strict ideas about how women should behave, because they followed Confucian ideals far more than Jeju men did. A woman was supposed to be gentle in her speech. Mi-ja had a lovely voice, but if she kept diving, her hearing would eventually go and she’d shout just as loudly as any other haenyeo. If she married a mainland man, she’d need to maintain a peach complexion. How was that going to happen if she spent her days under the sun, in salt water, buffeted by winds? A mainland husband would want a wife who dressed modestly, but haenyeo were considered to be half naked all the time. A wife should have red lips, shiny eyes, and a quiet disposition… All these ideas about women were set in stone in the minds of mainland men. Jeju husbands might have been indolent, but they would never triumph in a battle about what a woman could or could not do, say or not say. I mentioned none of this, however.

“I don’t care about looks so much,” I offered.

“You do too!” Mi-ja exclaimed.

Across the room, Gu-sun’s snoring snagged, and her sister rolled over.

“All right,” I admitted quietly after the Kang sisters settled once again. “I do. I don’t want someone who’s as thin as chopsticks. I want him to be dark skinned to show he’s not afraid of laboring in the sun.”

Mi-ja gave a throaty laugh. “So we both want men who will work.”

“And he should have a good character.”

“Good character?”

“Mother always said a haenyeo should not be greedy. Shouldn’t that be true for a man too? I don’t want to see greedy eyes or be around greedy hands. And he has to be brave.” When Mi-ja didn’t comment, I went on. “The most important thing is to marry a boy from Hado. That way I can continue to see and help my family. If you marry one too, we’ll both maintain our diving rights. Remember, if you marry out, then you’ll have to be accepted into that village’s collective.”

“More important, if I marry out, we’d no longer be together,” she said, pulling me even closer until nothing could separate us, not even a piece of paper. “We must stay together always.”

“Together always,” I echoed.

We drifted into silence. I was getting sleepy, but I had a few last thoughts I wanted to share with her. I whispered some of the biggest complaints about Jeju men that I’d always heard. “I don’t want a husband with puny thoughts. I won’t tolerate a husband who needs scolding—”

“Or requires constant attention to know I care for him,” she added. “He can’t drink, gamble, or desire a little wife.”

There, in the nighttime shadows, we could dream.

When Thoughts Turn to Weddings

When the season ended in late July, the Kang sisters, Mi-ja, and I boarded a ferry from Vladivostok to the Korean mainland and then took a second ferry down the east coast to Busan. Before catching the boat to Jeju, we went shopping. We were careful to speak Japanese in public as the colonists required. The Kangs quickly made their purchases and headed home. Mi-ja and I didn’t have husbands and babies who missed us, which allowed us to spend an extra day wandering the alleyways and open-air markets.

We patronized a stall that sold grain and came away with burlap sacks stuffed with barley and low-grade rice. One by one, we heaved them onto our shoulders and took them back to our guesthouse. A cloth peddler sold us quilts, which we rolled up tight to reduce their bulk and make them more portable. These we would take into our marriages. I spent a week’s earnings on a transistor radio, thinking this would make a good present for my future husband, while Mi-ja chose a camera for her future husband. I bargained hard for practical gifts for my siblings: a length of cloth, needles and thread, a knife, and the like. Father would receive a pair of shoes, and for Grandmother I bought socks to keep her warm on winter nights. Mi-ja and I chipped in to buy material to make scarves for Yu-ri, which we planned to sew on the trip home. Mi-ja also procured items for her aunt and uncle. Several times I spotted her standing motionless, staring into the distance, trying to remember all the things they’d asked her to bring home. On a few occasions, we went our separate ways, but for the most part we stayed together, haggling for better prices, smiling at merchants if we thought it would help, shouting in our loud haenyeo voices if it looked like they thought we were mere factory girls.

“We’ll buy six bags instead of two for me and three for her,” Mi-ja might say, her near-perfect Japanese conveying the steel in her heart, “but only if you give us a good price.”

When we were done, we still had enough money to pay for our room, buy deck-only tickets on the Jeju-bound ferry, share a simple meal, and have enough left over to help with wedding celebrations that had yet to be arranged. Getting everything to the dock took time. We didn’t want to leave our goods unattended, so one of us carried bags and boxes from the security of our room to the dock, while the other stood guard over our growing pile. Then we took turns moving everything from our pile up the gangplank and into a sheltered corner we’d found on the deck near a group of haenyeo, who were also returning home. One haenyeo wouldn’t steal from another. We didn’t need to worry about strangers trying to get our things off the boat when we were at sea either.

The crossing was rough, but the skies were clear. Mi-ja and I stood at the prow of the ferry, holding on to the railing, bouncing across the waves. Finally, far in the distance, Grandmother Seolmundae—Mount Halla—came into view. I was eager to be on my island. My desire made me impatient, though, and it felt like the crew took an eternity to bring the ferry past the breakwater and into the man-made harbor.

From the deck, we could see that the past nine months had brought many changes. There were far more—yes, absolutely, more—Japanese soldiers than we’d seen on the mainland, and certainly more than we’d seen before in Jeju City’s harbor. Some of them stood at attention at each point of entry, exit, and transaction. Others marched in formation, with their bayonet-tipped rifles propped on their shoulders. A few were apparently off duty, and they lounged against walls or sat on crates with their legs swinging. We’d been on our own in Vladivostok, and we were accustomed to men whistling at us or calling out words we couldn’t understand, but it had all seemed harmless enough. This felt different. The soldiers’ eyes followed us as we took turns unloading our belongings and purchases, with one person staying on the dock and the other doing the carrying. They couldn’t do anything to us when there were still so many passengers greeting families, businessmen striding purposefully through the crowd, and others unloading their trunks and suitcases. Most haenyeo unloaded faster than we did, however, and within minutes, Mi-ja and I were the last women left on the dock.

Three more things struck me. First, our port smelled just as bad as any other I’d visited—fetid with diesel fuel and fish. Second, the local boys, who usually crowded the docks looking for work when ships and ferries landed, were not in evidence. And third, seeing all the Japanese soldiers, sailors, and guards recalled the time the patrol came into our field. But we were older now—twenty-one—and we must have looked attractive to them. Mi-ja seemed to have noticed their interest too, because she asked, “What are we going to do? I’m not about to leave you here by yourself.”

“And I won’t let you walk alone to the recruiter’s stand.”

I caught sight of a soldier eating a piece of fruit a few meters away. The way he leered at us…

“You appear to need help. Is there something I can do for you?” a voice asked in Japanese. Mi-ja and I turned. I expected to see a Japanese man, but he clearly wasn’t. (What a relief.) And I doubted he was a native-born Jeju man, because he wore trousers, a white shirt with a collar, and a jacket that zipped in front. He wasn’t much taller than we were, but he was stocky. It was hard to tell, dressed the way he was, whether his bulk was from hard work or too much food.

Mi-ja dipped her chin as she explained the practicalities of getting our possessions to the pickup spot. The whole time she was speaking, he stared at her attentively, which gave me a chance to get a better look at him without either of them noticing. His hair was black, and his skin wasn’t too tanned. He was handsome in a way that was familiar to me—not like those Soviets, and not at all like a Japanese. I started daydreaming… I wondered who he was. My thoughts turned to weddings. I blushed, and I worried that the expression on my face might give me away, but the two of them weren’t paying attention to me.

When Mi-ja reached the end of her explanation, he leaned in close and whispered to us in the Jeju language. “I am Lee Sang-mun.” His breath was warm and sweet, as though he’d been eating oranges. This was another indication that he was from a good family and not just a farmer’s son, who lived on common foods like garlic, onions, and kimchee. He straightened and announced rather loudly in Japanese, “I will help you.”

The reaction around us surprised me. Many of the Japanese soldiers lowered their eyes or shifted them away from us, which gave me another piece of information. Sang-mun was important in some way.

He snapped his fingers, and three dockworkers trotted to us. “You will carry these things for…”

“I’m Kim Young-sook,” I blurted. “And this is Han Mi-ja.”

“Boys, please follow Miss Kim to the place where the haenyeo get picked up. You know where it is.” His fluency in Japanese and his accent were nearly as perfect as Mi-ja’s. “One of you stay with her there. The other two, return to me so you can carry the rest and escort Miss Han to her friend.”

When I tried to pick up a bag to sling onto my shoulder, he said, “No, no, no. My boys will handle everything.”

I felt like a goddess to have such help. As I set out with the dockworkers jogging behind me, I held my head high and my back straight, sure that Sang-mun’s eyes would follow me until I was out of sight.

When we reached the assigned corner, two of the dockworkers went back to the wharf as Sang-mun had ordered, while the other sat on his haunches to wait with me. Did that ever get a rise out of the haenyeo!

“Look! A haenyeo has her own servant!” a woman teased me.

“Are you looking for a bride?” one of them asked the dockworker.

“You’d better watch her. She might run away!”

The man wrapped his arms around his knees, hung his head, and tried to ignore their comments.

Thirty minutes later—an eternity—a new procession came into view. This time, the two helpers pushed wheelbarrows heaped with goods. Mi-ja and Lee Sang-mun walked side by side. I could hear him laughing even from a distance. That’s when I realized he’d sent me away so he could be alone with Mi-ja. I was sure of it. Now, as they approached, I saw that Mi-ja was as pale as a jellyfish. No wonder he was attracted to her. Not in many years had I felt jealous of Mi-ja, but I did now, and it was unsettling. I smoothed my hair and tried to freeze the same type of reserved mask that Mi-ja wore on my own face. I could do nothing to make myself into her perfection, but I could be clever in my own way.

Trucks with different destinations came and went, but none was going in the direction we needed. While we waited, I asked Sang-mun questions, which he easily answered. He’d been born in Jeju City and educated in Japan. “You know,” he said, “so many of us have gone to Japan to study that Jeju now has more educated people than anywhere else in Korea!”

Maybe this was so, but it didn’t reflect my experience.

“My father manages a cannery here in the port,” Sang-mun went on. This had to mean his father was a collaborator, since all canneries were owned by the Japanese. I should have immediately lost interest. Or not. My closest friend was the daughter of a collaborator. Maybe my husband could be the son of a collaborator too. Besides, his expression was so charming and his smile so infectious that all I could think about was how handsome he was.

I asked more questions. Every answer showed him to be unlike anyone I’d ever met. Through it all, Mi-ja stared down the road, ignoring the conversation. Her disinterest gave me even more confidence.

“I grew up following the comings and goings in and out of the harbor,” he explained. “I anticipate I’ll take over for my father one day, but for now I work for the Jeju City government. I oversee their food warehouses and other stockpiles.” This was another confirmation of his status: he was not just a collaborator but a high-ranking one. Working for “the Jeju City government” meant that he was employed by the Japanese military. “I’ll admit it,” he said. “I have big dreams. My job may not seem very important, but you have to start somewhere.”

A flatbed truck pulled up. The driver leaned out the window and shouted that he’d be heading east on the coastal road, passing through many seaside villages, including Hado, before reaching his final destination of Seongsan, where the remaining haenyeo could take a last ferry home to the small island of Udo just offshore. About a dozen women peeled away from the crowd and began throwing their bags on the truck.

“Come on,” Mi-ja mumbled. “This is us.” She promptly got to work, wordlessly tossing our belongings up onto the flatbed. Sang-mun and I helped too, but we were still trying to exchange as much information as possible.

“In which part of Hado do you live?” he asked.

“I live in Gul-dong,” I answered. I tried to look modest, but it was hard. He wouldn’t make an inquiry about where I lived if he wasn’t interested in me. Then, because Mi-ja was standing there and I didn’t want to appear overeager, I added, “My friend lives close by in Sut-dong.” She responded by closing her eyes and bringing a closed fist to her heart. If she thought that made her look dainty, she was right. I fought another wave of jealousy.

I thanked Sang-mun for helping us. Mi-ja climbed onto the truck, reached down a hand, and helped pull me up. The driver ground the gears, the truck lurched, and we started rolling. I waved goodbye to Sang-mun, but Mi-ja had already turned her back and joined the circle of haenyeo seated on the flatbed. She unfolded a kerchief in which she’d packed some fruit. I opened a basket and pulled out rice balls. The other women added dried cuttlefish, jars filled with homemade pickled turnip and kimchee, and a bunch of green onions. One woman passed around an earthenware jug filled with drinking water. Another opened a jug of fermented rice wine. Mi-ja took a swig and squinted in response to the taste. When the liquor poured down my throat, my chest burned with the taste of my birthplace.

Ordinarily, Mi-ja and I would have picked apart every detail of the encounter with Sang-mun, just as we had with Vlad, Alexi, or any of the other boys we’d met in this or that port. Not this time. When I commented that it was lucky that Sang-mun had come along when he did, she replied defensively, “I never would have let you stay alone on the dock.”

“Did he ask about me?”

“He said nothing about you,” she answered tersely. “Now let’s not talk about it anymore.”

After that, she wouldn’t answer a single question I asked, so we gossiped with the other women. The food, wine, and knowledge that we were home buoyed everyone’s spirits.

Each kilometer of the bumpy ride revealed another familiar or beloved vista. We passed through Samyang, Jocheon, Hamdeok, Bukchon, and Sehwa, stopping at each to let off a woman or two. The low stone walls of the olles snaked along the hillsides. They also surrounded fields, creating a patchwork of colors and patterns. Flocks of crows lumbered across the sky. In the sea, we spotted pods of haenyeo, their tewaks bobbing. And always in sight at the center of the island loomed Grandmother Seolmundae. As beautiful and welcoming as it all was, I couldn’t stop creating images in my head: Maybe Shaman Kim could conduct the rituals for my marriage celebration. Maybe I could wear my mother’s wedding clothes. Or maybe Sang-mun would give me fine cloth to make my own. Or maybe he’d prefer for me to wear a Japanese kimono and have a Japanese ritual, as was required by the colonists. Yes, that was probably it. No shaman, but yes to a Japanese kimono. Maybe Father would pay for banquets in Hado and Jeju City, although I didn’t see how.

“We’re almost there,” Mi-ja said and began to gather the bags. The few people who were working in the fields lifted their heads when the truck stopped. We jumped off. The loud island voices of our neighbors greeted us.

“Mi-ja!”

“Young-sook!”

A mother sent one of her children to run to my house to announce my arrival. Women on the truck threw our belongings down to us. We were about half done unloading when whoops and calls began to reach my ears. There, running up the olle, were Third Brother and Little Sister. They looped their arms around my waist, burying their faces into each of my shoulders. Then Little Sister pulled away, hopping about in excitement. She was sixteen now and already working as a haenyeo in Do-saeng’s collective. Our lives would be easier now if the Jeju saying held true: A family with two daughters of diving age will have no problems borrowing money or paying their debts. I was so happy to see her! But not everyone had come, and I looked down the olle for the rest of the family.

“Where’s Father? Where are First and Second Brothers?”

Before they could answer, the truck driver yelled out the window. “Hurry up! I can’t wait here all day!”

With my siblings’ help, Mi-ja and I caught the rest of our things as they were tossed to us. Third Brother picked up what he could and started down the olle toward home just as Mi-ja’s Aunt Lee-ok and Uncle Him-chan appeared. Mi-ja bowed deeply to them, but they barely noticed, so focused were they on what we’d brought home.

“Young-sook has arrived with more than you,” Mi-ja’s aunt nitpicked. “She’s thinner too. Did you eat your earnings?”

I tried to intervene. “I bought different sizes of things. My pile only looks like more—”

But Mi-ja’s aunt ignored me. “Did you buy white rice?” she asked Mi-ja.

“Of course not!” I objected, trying again to protect my friend. “Mi-ja is always practical—”

“Yes, Auntie Lee-ok, I have brought white rice.”

I was stunned. Mi-ja must have purchased it when I wasn’t with her. She worked so hard and gave so much of herself. She shouldn’t have been buying them something so frivolous. This wasn’t the time to ask her about it, though, and I couldn’t have inquired anyway, because Third Brother came running back to help Little Sister and me. In minutes, I was trailing after my siblings, leaving Mi-ja alone with her aunt and uncle.

The sounds of my sandals echoing in the olle and the waves rhythmically crashing to shore felt reassuring and welcoming. I was home! But as soon as we stepped through our gate, I sensed something was wrong. The space between the main house and the little house, where Grandmother lived, looked untidy. The side slats to Grandmother’s front wall were raised and sitting on bamboo poles. She slowly struggled from the floor to stand. She ducked under the slats and joined us. Even when I was a small child, she had looked old to me, but these last nine months had diminished her vitality. As I glanced questioningly to my brother and sister, a feeling of dread shuddered through me. Their greeting just minutes ago, I realized, had been less about happiness than about relief, for my sister especially. It had been her job to shoulder responsibilities for the family while I was away.

Once again, I asked, “Where is Father? Where are our brothers?”

“The Japanese took our brothers,” Little Sister answered. “They were conscripted.”

“But they’re only boys!” Or were they? First Brother was nineteen and Second Brother was seventeen. Many soldiers in the Japanese army were far younger than that. “When were they taken?” I asked, thinking that if it had happened recently I might have a chance to get them back.

“The Japanese grabbed our brothers just after you left,” Little Sister answered.

So nine months ago.

“Maybe I can trade some of the food and other provisions I bought in exchange for their release,” I suggested, trying to be positive.

They looked at me sadly. Despair washed over me.

“Have you heard any word of them?” I asked, still trying to find something auspicious in my homecoming, but the three of them stared at me woefully. “Are they here on Jeju?” That would mean only hard labor.

“We haven’t heard anything,” Grandmother said.

My family had been reduced yet again, and I hadn’t known. Whatever happiness I’d had coming back to Jeju—meeting Sang-mun, anticipating the joys of reaching home, and seeing my siblings’ faces—melted away, leaving my insides blackened by sadness. But I was the eldest in our family. I was a haenyeo. It was my purpose to be a provider of goods and stability. I formed what was surely a thin smile and tried to reassure my siblings.

“They’ll come home. You’ll see,” I said. “In the meantime, let’s sell some of the things I brought home. We can use that money to send Third Brother to school for a while.”

My sister shook her head. “It’s not safe. He’s barely fourteen. The Japanese will take him to help build one of their barricades or send him to battle. I’ve told him he needs to stay hidden at home during the day.”

I was pleased to see that my sister had good judgment. This trait would serve her well as a haenyeo. Still, all this sorrow was hard to take in. But the news about my brothers wasn’t the worst shock. That came when my father staggered home very drunk long after midnight.

On my first morning home, the weather was miserable. Thick clouds blanketed the island. The hot and humid air felt oppressive. A downpour would begin soon, but it wouldn’t refresh. It would just be more warm liquid to mix with my sweat. I spent the day bent over, digging up sweet potatoes without damaging the skins, then dividing the tubers into three bins: what we would eat soon, what we would sell to the refinery to be made into alcohol, and what we would slice, dry, and store—another tedious chore—for winter eating. I would have much preferred to be under the sea.

I felt unsettled. It wasn’t that I missed honking cars, buses, and trucks, or the roar of factories, canneries, and refineries. Rather, I missed hearing Jeju’s whistling wind, which was drowned out by the rumble of Japanese planes as they took off without stop from the three air bases they’d built on the island. The roar of the engines of those birds of death was an endless reminder of Japan’s intentions for the Pacific.

So, above me, images of death. Beneath me, the soil. Beside me, Mi-ja, as always. Next to her, Little Sister, who wouldn’t stop talking about boys. She was more interested in them than we were, and she kept asking about when she would get married.

“Custom says I should wed first,” I said. “Whining won’t change that. You’re too young anyway!” I tried to soften my tone. “You’re a pretty girl, and if you turn out to be a hard worker, Grandmother will easily find a match for you.”

“Easily?” Little Sister echoed as she dug deep into the earth with her spade, lifted out a sweet potato, and gently shook away the loose dirt. “There aren’t many Jeju men left. Haven’t you noticed?”

I recited the usual excuses: “Our men have died at sea in typhoons and other storms. They were killed or exiled by the Mongols, and now—”

“Now they’re being conscripted by the Japanese,” my sister finished for me. In her concern for her own nuptials, she didn’t seem to care that she was talking about something that had happened to our own brothers. “I’ve seen lots of girls my age already go into arranged marriages, but no proposals have come for me.”

“I haven’t received one either,” Mi-ja said. “Maybe it’s because we don’t have mothers to make the connections.”

My sister’s eyes gleamed. “Or maybe it’s because we haven’t been willing to share love—”

“Be quiet and do your work!” I had to stop this chatter, because I remembered how the Kang sisters used to brag about sneaking off to be with boys. Those girls were lucky they didn’t get pregnant. Come to think of it, hadn’t the younger sister’s marriage come a little too soon after her older sister’s wedding? Gu-sun’s first son was born…

“You know what they say,” my sister continued dreamily. “Having sex is ‘sharing love.’ ”

Sharing love. Now the Kang sisters liked to talk about sharing love with their husbands and how wonderful it was and how much they missed it and their men when we were away.

“I’m not so sure about marriage,” Mi-ja said. “When a woman gets married, she has the best food for three days. That must last her a lifetime. If that’s not so, why would our elders say that?”

“Why are you so gloomy today?” I asked. “You’ve always said you want to get married. We’ve talked about what we desire in our husbands—”

She cut me off. “Maybe being with a man is what we’re supposed to wish for, but maybe it just brings misery.”

“I don’t understand your change of heart,” I said.

Before Mi-ja could respond, Little Sister rang out, “Sharing love! That’s what I yearn to do.”

I smacked her hand. “Let’s hear no more talk about sharing love! Just do your work. We still have three more rows to finish before we go home.”

Mi-ja and Little Sister fell silent, leaving me to my own thoughts. Mi-ja and I both needed to get married. This was the normal path. We were clearly thinking about it all the time, even if we didn’t always discuss it. I already had my heart set on an impossible choice—Sang-mun. I hadn’t yet told my friend about my feelings for him, because I was waiting until she set her heart on someone. But her new attitude confused me. How could she suddenly not want to get married when we’d spent the last months saving money so we could buy wedding necessities?

Three mornings later, after we’d reestablished our household routines, I sent Little Sister to haul water and collect firewood. Father was still asleep, while Third Brother had tucked himself against the back wall of the house, hidden from prying Japanese eyes. I’d just gathered my tools and burlap sacks when Mi-ja surprised me by coming to pick me up. We were about to set out for the field when Grandmother beckoned to us from the little house. “Come sit for a minute. I have things to discuss with you.”

We slipped off our sandals and entered.

“The groom builds the house, and the bride fills it,” she recited.

I smiled. Here I was, on only my fourth full day home, and I was hearing the traditional words for a wedding and happy years of marriage. Mi-ja, though, kept better control of her emotions.

“Your lives have always been entwined,” Grandmother continued. “Therefore, it would be best that you marry at the same time.”

“You will easily find a husband for Young-sook,” Mi-ja said. “But who will marry me after…” She hesitated, searching her mind for what she wanted to say. “I mean, with my troubled background?”

“Ah, girl, this you have wrong. Your aunt told me that she has received interest in an arrangement for you. She asked me to speak for your family, since you were like another daughter to Sun-sil. Didn’t your aunt tell you?”

I couldn’t have been more surprised or happier, but Mi-ja’s brow darkened.

“Auntie Lee-ok will finally be rid of me.”

“In some ways your circumstances will be much improved,” Grandmother said.

I wasn’t sure what that meant, and Mi-ja didn’t ask. She looked far from joyous. I was about to start asking questions when Grandmother went on: “And you, my dear Young-sook, will be married in the same week as your sister in heart. Your mother would have been pleased to know that.”

With those words, all concern for Mi-ja evaporated. “Who will be my husband?” I asked, excited.

“And who will be mine?” Mi-ja’s voice sounded as heavy as lead.

“I didn’t see my husband until the day of my wedding,” Grandmother said gruffly, “and I was afraid to look at him for many weeks after that.”

Was she warning us that we wouldn’t be happy with our husbands? Mi-ja gripped my hand. I squeezed back. No matter what happened, we’d always have each other.

The next day, again, dawned heavy with heat and humidity. I was used to working in the water, so I was accustomed to having my body washed clean every day. Now, for the sweet potato harvest, I had to be grateful that my clothes didn’t show as much dirt as was already on them or would be added today and that the persimmon-juice dye kept them from smelling as bad as they could, but my face twisted at the unpleasantness of it all as I stepped into my trousers and pulled a tunic over my head. After my father, grandmother, and brother were fed and settled, my sister and I started toward our dry field. We met Mi-ja at her usual spot in the olle.

“Auntie Lee-ok and Uncle Him-chan told me I have to do chores for them today,” she said. “But can we meet at the seaside for a talk and swim tonight?”

Already sweat trickled down the back of my neck, so I readily agreed to her plan. After a few more words, Mi-ja walked away, and my sister and I continued to our field. We pulled up sweet potatoes, sweated, drank water, and repeated the whole routine again and again. Every time I straightened my back, I saw the ocean in the distance, shimmering and inviting. I looked forward to tonight’s swim with Mi-ja. Or maybe we’d just sit in the shallows and let the waters swirl around us. Healing. Soothing. Reviving. Without a drop of energy spent.

At the end of the day, my sister and I, feeling tired and filthy, were walking along the road toward home when we heard the sound of an automobile. So rare! It slowed and pulled up next to us. The car had a driver. In the backseat were two men. Sitting on the far side was Sang-mun, wearing a Western-style suit. My stomach practically swallowed my heart.

The man closest to me—he had to be Sang-mun’s father—was dressed similarly. He rolled down the window and leaned his elbow on it as he peered out at me. I bowed deeply and repeatedly. I prayed that through my humility and respect my future father-in-law would see that I was more than just a girl with a dirty face and hands. He would see a hard worker, who would care for his son, help with family finances, and make a good home. At least I hoped so. I peeked at my sister. Now that she’d finished bowing, she stared slack-jawed at the two men with their foreign clothes, their car, and their driver. She’d never been out of Hado, so she was just as unsophisticated as I once had been. Still, I felt a wave of shame. I noticed, though, that Sang-mun stared straight ahead and had not acknowledged me, as was proper for a young man on an engagement mission.

Feeling that no introductions were necessary, my future father-in-law addressed me. “Girl—”

Nervous and still embarrassed by my appearance, I blurted, “Let me take you to my grandmother and father.”

Sang-mun started, looking at me in curiosity. His father was more discreet, hiding his surprise. He didn’t laugh at me or sneer, but his expression left me deeply humiliated. “I have come to meet the family of Han Mi-ja,” he said smoothly. “Can you guide us to their home?”

Mi-ja? Of course. My lips tightened, and my heart dropped down to my bowels. She was more beautiful. She’d grown up in Jeju City. Her father was a collaborator, so this was to be a like-to-like marriage. It all made sense, but how stung I was by Mi-ja’s secrecy and my grandmother’s treachery. I hadn’t told Grandmother of my feelings for Sang-mun, but surely through her arranging she’d learned that he and I had met. It was all I could do to keep from bursting into tears, but I couldn’t lose any more face than I already had.

“You’ll need to leave your automobile here,” I said, “and walk the rest of the way.”

The driver parked by the side of the road, and then came around to open the father’s door and then the son’s. Sang-mun still didn’t acknowledge me. It was a hot day, and each house we passed had one wall propped up and open on bamboo poles in hopes of catching a breeze, so everyone on our route witnessed our procession. When we reached Mi-ja’s home, her aunt and uncle also had their wall open and were sitting cross-legged in the main room. On one side of them sat my grandmother, wearing her cleanest and best-kept trousers and tunic. On their other side, Mi-ja sat Japanese-style with her bottom resting on her heels and her hands placed delicately on her knees. She wore a cotton kimono printed in a peony pattern. Her hair had been teased and pinned in the Japanese fashion. Her face was nearly white, not from Japanese makeup but from something else. Sadness? Guilt? Perhaps only I could see that her eyes were rimmed pink, as though she’d been crying. The four of them rose and bowed deeply to the strangers. Sang-mun and his father bowed in return but not as low.

“I am Lee Han-bong, Sang-mun’s father.”

“Please join us,” Mi-ja’s uncle said. “My niece will serve tea.”

Father and son slipped off their shoes, then ducked their heads as they stepped under the overhang and into the house. I was not invited inside, but I wasn’t asked to leave either. I edged away, sat on my knees in the sun, and hung my head.

We didn’t have a bride price on Jeju like they did on the mainland, but there were other formalities that needed to be negotiated, which Grandmother arbitrated with little dissent or argument from either side. The geomancer had already been hired to examine the years, months, days, and times of Sang-mun’s and Mi-ja’s births, and he’d announced a date five days from now for the wedding to take place. Although the groom’s family was clearly well off, they preferred that the ceremonies be kept to one day instead of the traditional three.

“It is not typical for someone from the mid-mountain area to marry someone from the seaside,” Sang-mun’s father explained. “Their ways are too different. Nor does someone from the western side of the island wish to marry someone from the eastern side of the island.”

What he meant was that mid-mountain men were more sophisticated compared to haenyeo brides, while men from the western side of the island didn’t like the snake-worshipping women from many eastern villages. Clearly, he was building to something with his double meanings. I lifted my head to see how the others were taking his comments. The eyes of Mi-ja’s aunt and uncle had fallen to half-mast, shielding their reactions, while my friend stared straight ahead. Her body was there, but it was as if her mind had flown out of the house and was soaring high above the sea. But I knew Mi-ja too well. She wasn’t feigning being a delicate and modest bride in the Japanese model, nor was she hiding her feelings of sadness or worry that she’d be marrying Sang-mun. She was trying to ignore me. Grandmother, meanwhile, had a most disagreeable look on her face. She’d been given a position of privilege and respect, but I worried what she would say.

“It is good for a city boy to be matched with a city girl,” Grandmother remarked, when what she could have said was that the sons and daughters of collaborators deserved each other.

“Exactly,” Sang-mun’s father agreed. “We don’t need to have families traveling back and forth between Jeju City and here.”

At last, I understood. Lee Han-bong didn’t want to have anything to do with Mi-ja’s family or the village she’d called home for the last fourteen years. What a disgusting man. And what a terrible loss of face for Mi-ja’s aunt and uncle. But they didn’t say anything. They may have spent years being cruel to Mi-ja, but now they could benefit from the Lee family’s influence. They were showing their usual hypocrisy.

“You will find that Mi-ja has not lost her city ways,” Grandmother went on smoothly. “In fact, she has lived and worked abroad. She has much experience—”

“I knew the girl’s father and even her mother,” Lee Han-bong interrupted. “I’m guessing the girl doesn’t remember me, but I remember her very well.” Even at these words, Mi-ja didn’t glance in his direction. “She always wore a big white bow in her hair.” He smiled. “She looked pretty in her little boots and petticoats. Most people prefer to bring in a daughter-in-law who has grown up in a large family, because it shows that she has the skills to get along with everyone.”

“And work hard—”

“But my son is an only child as well. Sang-mun and Mi-ja have this in common.” He went on to discuss other benefits of the match, which had less to do with the idea of sharing provisions than it did with Mi-ja’s and Sang-mun’s physical characteristics. “Neither of these children has skin too dark,” he commented. “I’m sure you’re aware how surprising this is for a sea woman. But once Mi-ja is married to my son, her days of working in the sun will be over. Her face will return to that of the girl I once knew.”

I listened to all this with a breaking heart. I watched the formal exchange of gifts. I knew Mi-ja had bought her future husband a camera, but I couldn’t tell from the shape of Sang-mun’s family’s gift what it might be, except that it wasn’t a traditional roll of cloth for her to make wedding clothes. (But why would Japanese collaborators give her such a Korean gift?) As soon as the negotiation ended and small glasses of rice wine had been poured for the men to cement the deal, I slowly rose, backed out of the yard, and ran through the olle toward home. Tears poured down my cheeks until I couldn’t see. I stopped, covered my face, and wept into the rock wall. How could I have had such ridiculous dreams? Sang-mun never could have been interested in me, and I shouldn’t for one instant have wanted to marry the son of a collaborator.

“Young-sook.”

I cringed at the sound of Mi-ja’s voice.

“I understand why you’re sad,” she said. “I couldn’t even look at you back there for fear I would begin to weep. We wanted to marry boys in Hado, so we would always be together. And now this…”

In my jealousy and hurt, I hadn’t absorbed that Mi-ja would be leaving Hado for good. How could I have let one short encounter with a man with a handsome face and an enchanting laugh so sway me away from my friend that I hadn’t thought about what the consequences of a marriage to him—whether hers or mine—would mean to our friendship? Mi-ja and I would be separated. I might see her if I was going through the port for leaving-home water-work, but otherwise no responsible wife would spend money frivolously on a boat ride around the island or a truck carrying produce to a five-day market just to see a friend. I had been disconsolate before, but now I was devastated.

“I don’t want this marriage,” she confessed. “Auntie and Uncle would sell the hairs off my head to profit from me, but what about your grandmother? I begged her not to do this.”

I found my emotions shifting yet again. “You had to know how I felt about him,” I said reproachfully.

“I’d guessed,” she conceded. “But even though I knew your feelings doesn’t mean I had a say in what happened. I told your grandmother everything. I begged her…” She faltered. Finally, she resumed. “You’re lucky you don’t have to marry him. Anyone can see he is not a good man. You can tell by the strength of his arms and the curve of his jaw.”

Her observations shocked me. Just as I felt heat creeping up my spine, Mi-ja burst into tears.

“What am I going to do? I don’t want to marry him, and I don’t want to be away from you.”

And then we were both crying and making promises neither of us could possibly keep.

Later, back home, I sobbed into Grandmother’s lap. With her, I could speak more freely about my confused emotions. I’d hoped to marry Sang-mun, I told her. I was disappointed, but I was also angry at Mi-ja. Maybe she hadn’t stolen him, but she’d won him nevertheless, and it stung. She would be a city wife—enjoying paved roads, electricity, and indoor plumbing. “Sang-mun might even hire a tutor for her!” I wept, outraged, jealous, and still so very hurt.

But Grandmother wasn’t interested in comforting me. Instead, she poured out her disgust with Lee Han-bong, Sang-mun’s father. “That man! He comes here with his oily words, talking about a one-day marriage, and acting like he’s trying to save Mi-ja’s aunt and uncle from having to travel. He was saying they’re too poor to hold a proper wedding, and he didn’t want his friends to see it. He pretended he wants a pretty wife for his son—a girl that he and his friends remember from better circumstances—but he was trying to save face among his friends. He didn’t care at all for what this might do to Mi-ja’s aunt and uncle.”

“But you’ve never liked them—”

“Liked them? What does that have to do with anything? When he insults them, he insults everyone in Hado! He’s a collaborator, and he has too much Japanese thinking in him.”

This was about the worst thing she could say about anyone, since she so hated the Japanese and those who helped them. I rubbed my eyes with my palms. I was thinking too much about myself.

Next to me, Grandmother still stewed. “Mi-ja said his hands are smooth.”

“Lee Han-bong’s?”

“Of course not.” She snorted. “The son’s hands.”

I asked the obvious questions. “How do you know? Who told you?”

“Mi-ja said he grabbed her when they were walking from the port.”

“He grabbed her? She would have told me—”

“That poor girl was doomed to tragedy from the moment she sucked in her first breath,” Grandmother went on. “You must pity her when you have such good fortune. Don’t forget I’ve been working on an arrangement for you too.”

I was such a girl—swept up in a swirl of feelings I was too young to understand—and I struggled to make my heart and mind change course. I had wanted Sang-mun. Mi-ja had told me she didn’t want to marry him, and maybe the reason Grandmother gave was true. But if it were true, Mi-ja would have told me. I was sure of it. Maybe everything Grandmother said was to make me feel better that I wasn’t as pretty, as pale, or as precious—with white bows in my hair—as Mi-ja. Every twist made me doubt my friend when we’d always been so close.

“I can’t tell you who he is, but I know you’ll be happy,” Grandmother declared. “I would never arrange a marriage for you with someone you wouldn’t like. Mi-ja is a different story. Her choices were always limited, and she deserves what she gets.” Then a mischievous look passed over her face. “Your husband is arriving by ferry tomorrow.”

“Is he a mainland man?” I asked, knowing that this was what Mi-ja had wanted for herself.

Grandmother smoothed the hair from my face. She stared into my eyes. Could she see the pettiness in them? Or maybe she saw deeper, to my feelings of sorrow and betrayal. I blinked and shifted my gaze. Grandmother sighed. “If you are on the dock tomorrow…” She slipped a few coins in my hand. “Here’s enough to pay a fisherman to take you by boat to the city. I’m giving you this gift—a modern gift of a glimpse of the man you will marry before the engagement meeting. I caution you, though, to stay out of sight. You don’t want him to see you! There’s modern, and then there’s tradition.”

My insides swirled with emotions. Again, I sensed Grandmother assessing me.

“When you’re a wife,” she went on, “you’ll learn how to deprive your husband of a little of his allowance—‘My harvest wasn’t plentiful this week,’ or ‘I had to pay extra dues to the collective for more firewood’—so that you’ll have money to spend on yourself. You and Mi-ja will be separated, but a free day and a little cash will always bring the two of you together.”

On the Sleeping Mat

The next morning, Mi-ja and I rode on a wind-driven raft to the harbor. We sat on the seawall and waited. We’d always been so close, but there was tension between us now. I didn’t ask what Sang-mun did or didn’t do to her, and she didn’t volunteer the story. We were looking for my husband now. Grandmother hadn’t told me which ferry he’d be coming in on or given any clues about what he looked like. He could be tall or short, with thick or thinning hair, with a prominent nose or one that was wide and flat. If he were from the mainland, he might be a farmer, fisherman, or businessman. But really, how did Grandmother expect me to pick him out of a crowd?

Mi-ja peered through the eddies of Japanese soldiers looking for her husband-to-be. I tried to reconcile this in my mind. Did she want to see him or was she afraid to see him? If she saw him, would she speak to him? Would she let him hold her hand? Or would he grab her, as Grandmother said had happened? If Sang-mun and Mi-ja were found talking now that their wedding had been settled, it would soil her reputation, not his.

The ferry from Busan arrived. As crewmen secured the vessel, Mi-ja and I scanned the deck. Was my future husband the one with the bushy eyebrows? He was handsome! We watched another young man come down the gangplank. He was so bowlegged, I looked away for fear of laughing. I had to hope Grandmother wouldn’t match me with a man who would stir even more mockery than the typical lazy husband. (Besides, she’d told me I’d be happy.) In the end, there were few passengers, and none of them looked like a potential husband. Maybe he wasn’t a mainland man, after all. A disappointment. But Grandmother had also told me my match was better than the one she’d made for Mi-ja. I vowed to stay optimistic.

Mi-ja and I ate a simple lunch of cooked sweet potatoes that I’d brought from home. We ignored the looks and comments from the soldiers and dockworkers. After a couple of hours, the ferry from Osaka arrived. Important male passengers disembarked first. We saw Japanese soldiers, of course, and a few Japanese businessmen in fine suits, with bowler hats and walking sticks. These men were followed by women wearing kimonos, taking tiny steps as they balanced on their wooden platform sandals. Those women could never trot over prickly rocks to the sea or haul in a catch. They were put on earth, it seemed, to look beautiful, as were the other Japanese women, who were dressed in the Western style, their hems brushing their calves, and small hats pinned to their heads. Then the men from Jeju, who’d been working in Osaka, began to trail down the gangplank, carrying bags and boxes of things they’d purchased for their families—or maybe their brides—in the same way Mi-ja and I had done when we returned from Vladivostok. Most of them looked thin and dirty.

I spotted a familiar face. It was Jun-bu, Yu-ri’s brother. He hesitated at the top of the gangplank. His gaze arced across the wharf. He wore a Western-style suit. His eyes were as dark as charcoal. His hair, cropped short, was the color of chestnut bark. Wire-rimmed glasses rested on his nose, a reflection of all the reading and studying he’d been doing since we were kids. I lifted my arm to wave, but Mi-ja grabbed it and pulled it down by her side.

“You can’t meet your future husband like this!”

I laughed. “He’s not my future husband! His mother would never allow it!”

She dragged me into the shadows anyway. “You know what your grandmother said. Under no circumstances should the two of you see each other before the engagement meeting.”

We watched until every person had disembarked. I saw no one else who might be a potential husband.

“How lucky you are to marry someone you’ve known your entire life.” On the surface Mi-ja sounded happy for me, but underneath I heard the black dread of her coming circumstances, which I still didn’t understand.

“But we already know each other,” I said. “What difference will it make if he sees me?”

Nevertheless, Mi-ja kept me out of sight as Jun-bu threaded his way to the fishing boats to catch a ride home. “He’s a scholar and so smart. Lucky, lucky, lucky!”

I was thinking that he still had one more year of college, which meant that at least I wouldn’t have to live with him for very long before he went back to Japan, but I had other concerns too.

Hours later, after we returned to Hado, Mi-ja and I walked together to our customary spot in the olle and said our goodbyes. I watched her disappear around the corner, and then I ran home. The lantern light burning in the little house told me Grandmother was still awake. When I peeked in the door, she motioned me inside. I asked if she’d matched me to Jun-bu; she answered yes.

“But how could his mother ever want me?” I asked. “I’m a reminder of what Do-saeng lost. Yu-ri—”

“It’s true. Your mother-in-law will look at you and see tragedy, but now you can help care for Yu-ri.”

“I suppose you’re right.” This wasn’t what I was hoping for.

Grandmother ignored my despair. “On the good side, your mother was Do-saeng’s closest friend. Your presence will bring your mother closer to Do-saeng.”

“But doesn’t she blame me for—”

Again, Grandmother didn’t let me finish. “What other complaints do you have?”

“Jun-bu’s educated.”

Grandmother nodded somberly. “I discussed this with Do-saeng. You can now help pay for his schooling.”

“When I haven’t been able to help my own brothers?”

“Jun-bu is going to be a teacher—”

“Aigo!” I moaned. “I’ll always seem a fool to him.”

Grandmother slapped me. “You are a haenyeo! Never for one moment believe you are unworthy.”

I gave up trying to persuade her, and I hadn’t even mentioned that marrying someone I’d known my entire life felt more like marrying a brother than like gaining a husband to lie with and share love.

Do-saeng and her son came to the house the next day for the engagement meeting. I wore clean clothes and sat on the floor, staring straight ahead much as Mi-ja had done. Curiosity snuck up on me, though, and I peered over at Jun-bu a couple of times. He’d changed from his Western-style suit into homemade trousers and tunic. His glasses caught the light from where the side slats of the house were propped open, so I couldn’t see his eyes. Nevertheless, I could tell from his stillness that he was doing as good a job as I was at keeping his emotions hidden.

“Young-sook is a hard worker,” Grandmother began. “And she has bought or made the items needed to establish a home.”

“Her hips are like those of Sun-sil,” Do-saeng observed. The meaning was clear. She had only been able to bring two living babies into the world, while I might birth as many children as my mother had. “The little house in which the husband and wife will reside will give them the privacy needed to make their own meals and get to know each other.”

“Then let us proceed quickly to have the geomancer select a propitious date.”

Gifts were exchanged. I gave Jun-bu the radio I’d bought and the pair of straw sandals I’d made. He placed several lengths of cloth on the floor. They were not colorful. I’d be dressed in traditional persimmon-dyed clothing for my wedding ceremony. I’ll admit this was another disappointment.

With that, we were formally engaged. Mi-ja’s new family wanted her to move quickly into her new life; Do-saeng wanted things to happen rapidly too, because Jun-bu would return to college in Osaka in mid-September. As a result, Mi-ja and I traveled on swiftly moving, but distinctly different, currents.

To begin, two days after my engagement meeting, Mi-ja and Little Sister helped me carry the sleeping mats, blankets, bowls, chopsticks, and cooking utensils I’d acquired through my hard work to Do-saeng’s compound by the shore. The courtyard between the big and little houses was neat. Do-saeng’s diving gear was piled in a corner, and several overhead lines were hung with squid to dry in the sun. Yu-ri stood in the shade, a rope wrapped around her ankle to keep her from wandering away from home. This was the first I’d seen her since returning from Vladivostok. She smiled, possibly recognizing me, possibly not. Jun-bu was not there. The little house had one room and a small kitchen area. By the time we finished putting my things away, women and girls from the village began to arrive to see for themselves what I’d bought in my travels. That night, I stayed alone in my new house. The next morning, I went back to my father and siblings.

The following morning, just ten days after arriving back on Jeju, I helped Mi-ja pack her things. She made no attempt to be happy. I felt equally miserable. Whatever jealousy I’d once carried had been washed back to sea. Now all I could think about was that I would no longer see Mi-ja every day.

“I wish there was a way I could still share my heart with you,” I confessed.

“That we will be apart is too much to abide,” she agreed, her throat hitching.

I struggled to help her see the happiness of her situation. “You’ll go back to living as you did when you were a child. You’ll have electricity. Sang-mun’s family might even own a telephone.”

But even as I said these things, I thought how hard all that change would be for her. On one side, she’d lived in Hado for too long. On the other side, Jeju City was nothing compared to Vladivostok or the other big cities we’d gone to for leaving-home water-work.

“How will I know what you’re doing?” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes glistened with tears. “We can’t exchange letters. I don’t remember how to write apart from my name, and neither of us knows how to read—”

“We’ll send each other rubbings.” I squeezed her arm reassuringly. “Our pictures have always told our stories.”

“But how? I can’t write your address.”

“We’ll have our husbands do that.” But my suggestion was just another reminder that I was illiterate and beneath my future husband.

“Will you promise to visit me?” she asked.

“Maybe if I go through Jeju for leaving-home water-work…”

“You won’t have to do that now. You’ll be married.”

“The Kang sisters are married and have children,” I pointed out. “They still go.”

“But not you.” She seemed convinced. “Do-saeng wants you to help with Yu-ri, so promise you’ll visit me.”

“All right. I promise.” But I’d never be allowed to spend money on a boat trip to the main port—not with Do-saeng watching over me and collecting the money I earned to pay for Jun-bu’s education.

“I can’t imagine not seeing you every day,” she said.

“Nor I you.”

This was the bitter truth. We were two brides filled with sorrow, unable to change our fates. I loved her. I would always love her. That was far more important than the men we were to marry. Somehow we would need to find a way to stay connected.

She changed into the kimono sent by Sang-mun’s family. Once she was dressed, she picked up the straw sandals she’d made for the man who would be her husband.

“What use will Sang-mun have for these?” she asked.

It was hard to imagine.

The groom and his parents arrived. They presented Mi-ja’s aunt and uncle with a case of rice wine. My friend’s future father-in-law didn’t give her a piglet to raise and care for. She was told she wouldn’t need one in Jeju City. Mi-ja’s aunt and uncle gave the new in-laws three quilts. Sang-mun then handed Mi-ja’s aunt and uncle a box wrapped in silk to represent good fortune and tied with a cord to symbolize longevity. Inside lay the letter of declaration and a few gifts. Mi-ja and Sang-mun signed their names. Shaman Kim didn’t attend. No banquet was held, but two formal portraits were taken: one of the bride and groom, the other of the entire wedding party. Within an hour, the wedding celebration was over.

A smattering of villagers joined the procession to the road, where Mi-ja’s belongings were packed in the trunk of her father-in-law’s car. We didn’t have a chance for last words. She got in the backseat. Mi-ja waved to all of us, and we waved back. As the car pulled away, Grandmother said, “That girl has left Hado as she arrived—the daughter of a collaborator.” She sounded strangely triumphant, as though she’d finally won. She headed home with her chin raised, but I stayed on the road, watching until all I could see were clouds of dust.

My chest felt empty. I could not imagine what lay ahead for Mi-ja, but then I couldn’t imagine my life either. She’d sleep with her husband tonight. Soon I’d be sleeping with Jun-bu. Mi-ja and I would not be able to share a single thought or emotion about any of these things. I’d been devastated by my mother’s death, but now, without Mi-ja, I felt completely alone.

My wedding was more traditional but still condensed. Eleven days after Mi-ja and I returned home and one day after she left Hado, my father slaughtered one of our pigs. The meat was roasted on skewers, and we shared the meal together with our friends and family. Jun-bu and his mother didn’t attend. They were writing the letter of declaration and celebrating with their own family and friends. Since we were both from the same part of Hado, people came and went between the two houses. My father drank too much, but so did a lot of other men.

On the second morning, I made offerings to my mother and other ancestors, knowing that Jun-bu, his mother, and sister were doing the same to their ancestors. Grandmother helped me put on the trousers, tunic, and jacket I’d made from the cloth Jun-bu had given me. Little Sister combed my hair and pinned it into a bun at the back of my neck. I pinched my cheeks to bring color into them, then we waited in the open space between our big and small houses for Jun-bu and his family to arrive.

In the distance, I heard the groom’s procession coming closer and then stop at the village tree where Shaman Kim and her helpers beat cymbals and drums. The racket quieted, and Do-saeng’s loud haenyeo voice rang out: “My son is smart. He works hard. He is of good health. He follows the rituals and trusts in the gifts of the sea.” I’d seen this ceremony many times, so I knew what came next. Shaman Kim would take a special rice cake and throw it against the tree. I held my breath, listening for the reaction from the crowd. If the cake stuck to the tree, then my marriage would be blessed. If it fell, I would still have to marry Jun-bu, but we would forever be unhappy. Cheers rose up, and the drums and cymbals blared. My marriage would be a lucky one.

The banging and clanging got louder until finally Jun-bu came through the gate, with the wedding box on his outstretched arms. He wore a tunic that reached midcalf over several layers of ritual undergarments, all of which were tied shut with a strip of cloth wrapped several times around his waist. A dog fur headdress hung low on his forehead and draped over his shoulders. A section of the headdress rose above the back of his head and was tied with a band of bright ribbon. Even dressed as he was in thick layers, anyone could tell he was thin, but his face was round and smooth. His black eyes were set below full brows that arched as if in question. His fingers were long and slim like spider legs, and his hands were startlingly pale—showing that he’d never worked in the sun, not even in his family’s plot.

Since Jun-bu’s father remained in Japan, Do-saeng fulfilled his duties by presenting me with a two-month-old pig. In a year, if it survived, it would have grown three times in value. I held the pig for a few minutes before handing it to someone to carry back to Jun-bu’s family home and place in their stone enclosure with the latrine and other pigs. More wedding gifts were exchanged: quilts bought on the mainland, homemade rice wine, as well as money in envelopes to help both sides pay for wedding expenses.

After Jun-bu signed his name to the letter of marriage, he handed me the pen. “Here,” he said. This was the first word he’d spoken to me. I blushed and looked away. Remembering who and what I was, he poured a little ink into his palm. I dipped my thumb in it, touching his skin. This was our first meeting of flesh since we were children playing in the shallows. Wordlessly, I made my mark on the paper. As we faced each other, I saw that he was not much taller than I was. He didn’t hesitate to search out and hold my eyes. He gave me a smile so small that I was sure I was the only one who could detect it, but that tender act reassured me.

The wedding procession now went back to Jun-bu’s family compound. People sat on mats in the courtyard between the big and little houses for the feast. Do-saeng and her friends had prepared many small dishes, including pickled turnip, salted fish, and kimchee. They presented a porridge of small birds stewed in Jeju’s five grains. Do-saeng had also killed one of her pigs for the banquet, so she served pork sausage with vinegar soy sauce and seasoned bean paste on the side, and grilled pork belly, which guests wrapped in lettuce leaves. Do-saeng and Jun-bu sat down to eat, and I was ushered into a small room in the main house that overlooked the granary. Yu-ri limped in followed by baby-divers from Do-saeng’s collective and a gaggle of little girls. The baby-divers had brought food, but custom required I give most of it to the children in a gesture that was said to promote a bride’s fertility. Yu-ri, who under normal circumstances would have been considered too old to partake in this tradition, ate her rice cake with relish.

Later, I was escorted back outside so Jun-bu and I could pose for a wedding photograph. Finally, the time came for the “big bows”—which I made to show my respect and obedience to my mother-in-law, to Yu-ri, to various uncles, aunts, and cousins in Jun-bu’s family, and then to all the elders in my family.

I was now officially a wife.

I returned to my special room. I tried to soak in the most vital meanings of good fortune, happiness, luck, and fertility. Outside, people continued to drink, eat, and share good cheer. I opened the cupboard, pulled out two sleeping mats, laid them side by side, and covered them with the quilts I’d bought for my marriage. Hours later, Jun-bu entered.

“I’ve known you my entire life,” he said. “If I had to be married to a village girl, I’m glad it was you.” Even to his ears this must not have sounded like much of a compliment. “We always had fun together in the water. I hope our marriage nights are as happy.”

I’d never been shy about taking off my clothes in the bulteok or on the boat during leaving-home water-work, and I tried not to show embarrassment now. And, unlike men on the mainland or in the mid-mountain areas of Jeju, Jun-bu had seen women—including his mother and sister—mostly naked in their diving clothes. Beyond that, having helped take care of his sister since the accident, he had to know everything about a woman’s body. As a result, I was the one who had to overcome his modesty to peel off his clothes. His flesh rose in goosebumps at my touch. It turned out we both knew what to do, though. A man is a thinker and weak during the day, but he’s always in charge on the sleeping mat. A woman may risk her life to provide for her family, but on the sleeping mat she must do all she can to help her husband become the father of a son.

When we were done and I was dabbing at the bloody mucus that ran down my thighs, my husband said softly, “We will get better at this. I promise you.”

To be honest, I wasn’t sure what he meant.

The next morning, I woke long before dawn and went to the latrine to do my business. I climbed the stairs, entered the stone enclosure, dropped my pants, and squatted, wary of what centipedes, spiders, or even snakes might live in this unfamiliar place. The stench coming up from the pit stung my eyes, and the family’s pigs snuffled below me. I would get used to this new latrine, as all brides must. Once I was done, I came back down the ladder and checked over the stone wall. A small area had been cordoned off to protect my piglet. He was wide awake and eager for food. In time, his day-to-day purpose would be to eat what came out of the family’s behinds. I would then gather what came out of my pig and carry it to the fields to be used as fertilizer. Many years from now, my pig would be slaughtered for a wedding, funeral, or ancestor worship. It was a constant circle, with the pigs relying on us and us relying on them. I gave my piglet some of the food I hadn’t eaten or given away last night, said a few cooing words, and then went to search for dung for the fire and to haul water. I hoped that in the coming days I’d be allowed to split my time, helping my natal family and Do-saeng’s family finish their sweet potato harvests. I’d prove myself to be a good wife and daughter-in-law, starting now.

Later, after everyone had dressed and eaten breakfast, Jun-bu, his mother, sister, and I made one last procession back to my family home. My sister made a meal, which we all shared. Afterward, Do-saeng and Yu-ri returned to their home, but Jun-bu and I spent the night with my family. This last tradition—unique to Jeju—told the world that a haenyeo would always be tied to her birth family. I went to sleep early, but my husband, father, and brother stayed up late, playing cards and talking.

“You will be diving with our collective again,” Do-saeng said on my seventh morning of married life. “Even though we still have some dry-field work, we need to eat, and the tides are right.”

“This makes me happy,” I said. “It’s wonderful to be back in Hado, where I can be close to my family—”

“And help pay your father’s drinking debts.”

I sighed. Yes, this was so, but I went on with my original thought. “And I can help my sister now that she’s a baby-diver.”

Do-saeng frowned. “I’m sure your mother would have preferred that I be responsible for her. After all, not everyone has good fortune when they dive with you.”

Her words hit me like a slap to my face. Was this how it would always be, with Do-saeng reminding me of my family’s shortcomings and blaming me for what had happened to Yu-ri?

“Of course you’re responsible for Little Sister, as you are for all the haenyeo in your collective,” I said. “She’s lucky to have you to guide her. I just meant—”

“Will you be wearing your black water clothes this month?”

The further from the latrine and the house of the mother-in-law, the better. I found it especially hard to live within Do-saeng’s fence. Grandmother had told me I would get used to my situation, but if I was humiliated all the time, I wasn’t so sure. On the current matter, Jun-bu was doing his best to plant a baby, and I was working hard to make sure it found a warm home in my body. Jun-bu had been right that we would get better at our night activities. Sometimes he even had to put a hand over my mouth to keep the sounds of my pleasure from drifting over to the big house. Still, it had only been a week.

“You will know when I know,” I answered at last.

So, I worked even harder to help Jun-bu plant his seed before he returned to Japan. I liked how he made me feel between my legs, but the practicalities of marriage were, to my mind, not so great. My husband heated water for me to warm myself when I came home from the sea, but mostly he read books, wrote in notebooks, or joined other men by the village tree to discuss philosophy and politics. The only real ways his life had changed were that he prepared dinner for me to eat in our little house and had me next to him at night. As for me, I dove with Do-saeng’s collective, worked in the fields, and cared for Yu-ri—brushing her hair, cleaning her behind when she had accidents, washing those dirty clothes, making sure she didn’t harm herself by getting too close to the fire in the kitchen, looking for her in the olles if she got loose from her tether when her mother and I were in the sea. For the most part, Yu-ri was good humored, but she could be querulous at times. It wasn’t like dealing with an angry or unhappy child, because she was a full-grown woman—strong, obstinate, a typical haenyeo, even though she would never dive again. My heart went out to her, and I would happily take care of her for the rest of her life, but sometimes it all felt overwhelming. That’s when I longed for Mi-ja the most. I missed running out in the morning to meet her. I missed talking, laughing, and diving with her.

Twelve days after the wedding, Do-saeng and I were sitting in the courtyard, repairing nets, when Jun-bu came out of the little house. Like all mothers, Do-saeng regarded him with eyes of love. “If you don’t need your daughter-in-law,” he said, addressing her, “I’d like to borrow my wife.” What can a loving mother do with a request like that? In minutes, Jun-bu and I were walking through the olles, side by side, but not touching in public.

“Where are we going today?” I asked.

“Where would you like to go?”

Sometimes we went to the water’s edge. Sometimes we strolled through the olles. Other times we’d climb an oreum, stare out at the view, talk, and sometimes do nighttime activities in the broad daylight. I liked that a lot, and so did he.

I suggested that we visit the shadow side of an oreum not too far off. “It’s a hot day, and you might find it cooling to sit on the grass.”

He grinned, and I started to run. He followed close on my heels. He was a man, but I was faster. We snaked through the twists in the olles, broke into a field, and began to climb the steep cone. We lifted ourselves over the top and dropped down to the shady side. Soon we were rolling together in the grass and flowers. I still marveled at his pale skin next to my sun-browned flesh. He ran his hands over the muscles in my arms and the firmness of my bottom. The softness of his arms and torso seemed a physical manifestation of how gentle and nurturing he was. Later, after we’d pulled our trousers back on, we lay on our backs, staring up at the clouds as the wind pushed them across the sky.

I liked my husband. He was as warm and kind as he’d been when he was a skinny boy playing with us at the shore. He was also willing to share his knowledge with me. And it turned out I wasn’t as ignorant as I thought. I’d gone out for leaving-home water-work and had seen many places, while he’d only been to Hado and Osaka. He’d read lots of books, but I’d learned by listening and observing. I understood the seafloor, and he never stopped asking me questions about it; he had a better sense of the war and the world, which fascinated me. So, while at first I thought we’d have nothing to talk about, we had plenty of things to share and explore, each of us with our different perspectives on Jeju and the world beyond. He liked to talk about the long-ago time when Jeju was its own independent kingdom. I always felt confident with this subject, because Grandmother had taught me a lot about the Tamna. He also revealed to me things he’d learned about the Moscow Conference and the Cairo Conference, where Allied leaders had spoken about the future independence of Korea. I hadn’t imagined that world leaders would be talking about my country or that independence was possible.

“At college, I’ve met people from China and the USSR who say life can be different,” he said. “We should strive to make our own destiny for our country. The big land and factory owners should share their wealth with those who bleed their souls into the soil and into their work. Boys—and girls—should have compulsory education. Why should mothers, sisters, and wives work so hard and sacrifice so much?” He fell silent. Hadn’t we been married so I could help his mother pay for his tuition? “What I’m telling you, Young-sook, is we should want our sons and daughters to read, understand the world, and think about what our country can be.”

When he spoke like this, he reminded me of my mother in the days leading up to the haenyeo march against the Japanese. These things made me love him for the father he would be one day. And with that thought, I reached over and slipped a hand along his belly and under his trousers. He was young, and it turned out I could be persuasive.

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

“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.

“Mi-ja!” I ran to her and dropped my bag and other gear at our feet.

“I’m coming with you,” she announced.

“Your mother-in-law is letting you go?”

“My father-in-law received a letter from Sang-mun, who says he’s learning a lot and won’t be coming home for longer than we expected. I can’t dive in the city, so I’m just another mouth to feed while my husband is on the mainland.”

Sending Mi-ja away for leaving-home water-work didn’t make a lot of sense to me, because Sang-mun hadn’t married my friend for her diving skills or her ability to earn money for him and his family, but so what? We were going to be together again. She started to laugh, and I joined in.

Over the next couple of days, we got to know the other girls. They were nice enough, although most of them had come less to earn money than to leave the dangers of where they lived on Jeju.

“I was diving with my collective when bloated bodies, like a school of fish, drifted into our field,” a girl with round cheeks recounted. She shivered in disgust. “They’d been in the water a long time, and their eyes, tongues, and faces had been eaten.”

“Were they fishermen?” I asked.

“Sailors, I guess,” the girl answered. “Their corpses were burned. From the war.”

“Japanese?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not their uniforms.”

Another girl, whose eyes were set so far apart she looked disconcertingly fishlike, had lost three sisters. “They went to gather firewood one morning, and they never came home,” she told us.

It was said Japanese troops wouldn’t dare kidnap a haenyeo to take her to be a comfort woman, but who knew? If a haenyeo or any woman from Jeju was abducted and used for sex by Japanese soldiers, the loss of face and the depth of shame would be so great that she would never be able to return to our island home.

“At least we’ll be in Vladivostok and away from the Japanese occupiers,” someone said. “The USSR is fighting in Europe and has ignored Japan.”

“It’s more like the Japanese have ignored the Soviets,” the girl with the round cheeks responded knowingly.

Mi-ja and I never talked about the war; it cut too close to her family’s past. We never considered why we’d always felt safe in Vladivostok, but our haenyeo senses told us we were safe enough not to question what might be lurking behind every corner. We’d learned from our husbands more about world conferences, battle strategies, and the plans being made about our country in rooms far from our influence. Even so, we seemed less informed than these girls.

Mi-ja and I had our favorite boardinghouse in Vladivostok, but this time all twenty of us, plus In-ha, stayed in a dormitory. The room was long and narrow, with a lone dingy window smeared with soot and port grime at the far end. Some of the girls claimed beds on the three-tiered bunks. Mi-ja and I preferred to lay sleeping mats on the floor, so we could be next to each other.

The following morning, we rose, gathered our gear, and made our way to the dock. The boat wasn’t terribly big—there wasn’t enough room for us all to sleep on the deck or gather inside if bad weather befell us—but the captain was Korean and seemed reliable. Beyond the protection of the port, the boat rode up a wave before slapping down on the other side. My stomach rose and fell. The engine was strong, but the sea is infinite and powerful. Up… Down… Up… Down… I felt a little seasick, but I couldn’t have been as pale as Mi-ja. Neither of us complained, however. Rather, we put our faces into the wind and let the salty mists spray our faces.

When the captain shut down the motor and the boat bobbed in the whitecaps, we stripped out of our street clothes. Mi-ja tightened the ties on my water clothes, and I checked hers. We put on our tool belts, wedged our small-eyed goggles into place, threw our tewaks overboard, and then jumped into the water feetfirst. Bracing cold swallowed me. I kicked my feet beneath me to stay afloat. Still, the water was rough enough to smack my face. A breath, a breath, a breath, then straight down. Enveloping silence. My heart beat in my ears, reminding me to be careful, stay alert, remember where I was, and forget absolutely everything else. I wouldn’t be greedy. I’d take my time. For now, I simply looked around. I counted, one, two, three turban shells I could easily harvest on my next breath. I would make a lot of money today! I was just about to go back to the surface when I spotted a tentacle creeping sucker over sucker out of its rocky den. I held that spot in my head, then swam quickly to the surface. My sumbisori—aaah! I detached my net from my tewak, took some quick breaths, and went back down. When I got to the crevice, I saw not one but two octopuses, roiling together. I jabbed one and then the other in the head to stun them. Before they could waken, I stuffed them in my net and kicked to the surface. Aaah! Triumphant on my second dive!

Mi-ja discovered she was pregnant first. I expected her to cry and worry, and she did.

“What if I have a son who’s like his father?”

“If there’s a son inside you, he’ll be perfect, because you’ll be his mother.”

“What if I die?”

“I won’t let you die,” I vowed.

But no matter what I said, Mi-ja remained gloomy and apprehensive.

A week later… Joyous! That’s how I felt, even though I was hanging my head over the boat’s railing and throwing up. I too had a baby growing inside me. And Mi-ja and I weren’t the only ones on the boat. Most of us had been married for a year or less. And look! Eight of us were pregnant. Surrounded by so much happiness, Mi-ja’s spirits lifted. She was one of many. Of course In-ha wasn’t too thrilled.

Children bring hope and joy, but naturally every single one of us wished for a son. A couple girls had secretly known they were pregnant when they left home. This meant that babies would start to arrive within five months. Mi-ja and I figured we’d have our babies—if we were right in our counting—in mid-June. But we had to get through the first rough weeks of morning sickness. Each dawn, as we went to sea, all we needed was one haenyeo to throw up to trigger the rest of us. The boat captain didn’t mind if what came out of our stomachs went directly into the sea, while In-ha changed course and decided that each woman with a child growing in her belly would be even more motivated to have a large daily harvest.

We ate abalone porridge with all the organs nearly every day, knowing this was the most nutritious meal we could eat and that it would also train our babies to love the taste. Soon our stomachs began to swell, and we loosened the ties that closed the sides of our suits. We hoped our babies would be born “right in the field,” meaning they would take their first breaths on the boat or slip out when we were in the sea.

Pregnancy brings changes not only to a woman’s body but also to her mind. Things Mi-ja and I had once done in Vladivostok seemed silly now. We no longer dashed from place to place to make rubbings. We’d already captured those memories. Instead, we were growing our babies. By the time the bitter months of winter arrived, Mi-ja’s morning sickness was completely gone. It lingered for me, but I found the frigid waters brought instant relief. The moment of submersion into that cold seemed to calm my baby, put him to sleep, freeze him in place. As the months passed and our bellies grew, water offered new comforts. As soon as I was submerged, my aches were massaged, and the weight of my baby was buoyed. I felt strong. Mi-ja did too.

The first babies began to arrive. Mothers had no one onshore to care for their infants, so each baby was put in a cradle with a single rope securing it to the deck. As soon as we were in the water, the captain would leave us, as was the custom, but go not too far away. Newborns sleep a lot, and the rocking of the boat kept them calm. Nevertheless, as the morning wore on and we came back to the surface after a dive, we would hear not only the individual and unique sounds of each woman’s sumbisori but also the individual and unique cries of each baby. Lunches were lively and busy. The new mothers nursed their infants while shoveling millet and kimchee into their own mouths. The rest of us bragged and gossiped. Then it was back into the water.

In mid-June, Mi-ja went into labor in the sea. She kept working until the final hour, when In-ha and I joined her on the deck for the delivery. After all her foreboding, that baby practically swam out of Mi-ja. A boy! She named him Yo-chan. It was through the ancestral rights he would perform in the future that Mi-ja would be able to stay in contact with her family on earth when she went to the Afterworld. Once we got back to the dormitory, she made offerings to Halmang Samseung and Halmang Juseung—one a goddess who protects babies and one a goddess who can kill them with her flower of demolition—while I prepared a pot of buckwheat noodle soup for her to eat, since it’s known to cleanse a woman’s blood after childbirth. We did not have Shaman Kim here to bless the special protective clothes an infant wears for his first three days of life, but on his fourth morning Mi-ja packed away her worries.

I would have preferred to have gone into labor in the ocean and had my baby born in the field, but eight days after Yo-chan’s arrival, my water broke in the middle of the night. My labor was even easier than Mi-ja’s. What came out was a girl. I liked the name Min and added to that lee for her generational name, which Min-lee would share with her future sisters. I still needed to have a son, but what a blessing it was to give birth to someone who would work for Jun-bu and me and help make money to send our future son or sons to school in the years to come. Mi-ja made me the special mother’s soup, we made offerings, and then we waited three days to make sure Min-lee survived. To honor this most important moment in our lives, we traced the babies’ footprints on pages from Mi-ja’s father’s book.

The four of us were back on the boat within days. The babies lay side by side in their cradles, linked with all the other cradles. When we came back to the boat to warm up, we opened the tops of our water clothes, exposed our breasts, and let our babies latch on to our nipples. I was raised to follow the aphorism A good woman is a good mother. I’d learned how to be a good mother from my mother and then from being a second mother to my siblings, so I loved my baby from the moment of her first breath. Motherhood shouldn’t have come naturally to Mi-ja, but her connection to her son was instant and deep. Whenever she nursed Yo-chan, she whispered into his face, calling him ojini, which means “gentle-hearted person.” “Eat well, ojini,” she’d coo. “Sleep well. Don’t cry. Your mother is here.”

When our contracts ended, at the end of July, our babies were six and five weeks old. We took the ferry to Jeju. Our arrival was both frightening and hopeful. My entire life I’d seen Japanese soldiers, but now there were many more of them on the wharf. Hundreds, maybe even thousands, coming off ships, milling about, marching to and fro. It was stunning enough that Mi-ja, curious as ever, asked a pair of dockworkers, “Why so many?”

“The tide of the war has changed,” one of them answered in a low voice.

“The Japanese might lose!” the other exclaimed, before dropping his eyes so as not to be noticed.

“Lose?” Mi-ja echoed.

We’d all hoped something like this would happen, but our occupiers were so strong it was hard to believe.

“Do you understand the idea of a last stand?” the first dockworker asked. “The colonists say the Allies will have to come through Jeju to reach Japan. This is where the greatest land and sea battles will be! We’ve heard there are over seventy-five thousand Japanese soldiers living underground—”

“And there are more than that aboveground. They say another two hundred and fifty thousand men—”

“The Allies will step on us, crush the Japanese here, and then take one more step to Japan.”

I remembered how Grandmother used to talk about the Mongols using Jeju as a stepping-stone to invade Japan and China. More recently, Japan had used the island as a base for bombing raids on China. If these men were right, then we were to be a stepping-stone again, this time leading to Japan.

“Ten Japanese army divisions are here—many of them hiding! In caves! In lava tubes! And in special bases they’ve built into the cliffs right at the shoreline!” Fear had clearly pushed the second dockworker into his overwrought state. “They’ll charge their torpedo boats directly at the American navy ships. You know how the Japanese are. They’ll defend the island until all are dead. They’ll fight to the last man!”

Mi-ja raised the back of her hand to her mouth. I hugged Min-lee closer to my breast. The idea that the war would come to our island was terrifying.

“What should we do?” Mi-ja asked, her voice quavering.

“There’s nothing any of us can do,” the first dockworker said. He scratched his face. “It’s lucky you weren’t here three months ago—”

“The Japanese were going to move all women to the mainland and use the remaining men to help them fight—”

“But then the Americans started bombing us—”

“They bombed Jeju?” I asked, my concern turning immediately to my family.

“And they have submarines offshore,” the first dockworker said.

“They sank the Kowamaru,” the second one added.

“But that’s a passenger ship!” Mi-ja exclaimed.

“Was a passenger ship. Hundreds of Jeju people died.”

“Now the Japanese want every Jeju person to fight the Americans when they land—”

“Every Jeju person,” Mi-ja repeated.

“You should go home,” the second dockworker said. “Hope for the best.”

The pain of separating from Mi-ja and her son was made harder by the frightening news, because she would return to her husband’s home here in Jeju City, which surely would be the first target in an invasion. Mi-ja, who’d probably come to the same conclusion, had gone white. Sensing his mother’s nerves, Yo-chan began to howl. Urgency propelled us each to hire a boy to help with our things. Once Mi-ja’s boy had her purchases in his wheelbarrow, she turned to me.

“I hope I see you again.”

“You will,” I promised, but I was unsure.

I touched Yo-chan’s cheek. Mi-ja cupped her palm over Min-lee’s head. We stayed that way for a long moment.

“Even when we’re separated,” Mi-ja said, “we’ll always be together.”

She slipped into my hand a folded piece of paper. I opened it and saw some written characters. “Before we left, my father-in-law gave me the address for my married home in case anything happened to me,” she said. “I give it to you now. I hope you will visit me one day.” With that, she flicked a finger at the boy to get him started and then followed him through the banks of soldiers. I watched until she disappeared. She never glanced back.

On the truck ride to Hado, every curve brought a new vista of change. It felt like the entire island had become a fortress. Soldiers were camped on every field and hill. From a distance, I saw outposts at the base of each ancient beacon tower on the crest of each oreum. For centuries, these lookout towers perched atop volcanic cones had been a way for the people of Jeju to send defense communications across the island. Now, cannons pointed out to sea. Even the crows, which were so common on Jeju, felt ominous.

When I got home, my fears about what might happen to our island turned personal and immediate. I learned Little Sister had died the previous winter from “chill.” My father hadn’t received word about my first and second brothers either. But I didn’t have a chance to feel much sadness when Father, Grandmother, and Third Brother were so happy to meet my baby. Do-saeng was beyond pleased to have a granddaughter, and she recited the traditional words when she saw us. “When a girl is born, there is a party. When a boy is born, there is a kick to the hip.” She hung a golden rope with pine branches on the front door to let our neighbors know the joyful news that I’d given birth to a daughter who would help provide food for our family one day. Yu-ri couldn’t stop beaming, but I needed to be watchful that she never be alone with Min-lee. Yu-ri wouldn’t do intentional harm, but I couldn’t count on her to be gentle always.

The person I most wished to see—my husband—wasn’t there. Jun-bu had returned safely from Japan and had been immediately hired to teach at the elementary school in Bukchon, which was about sixteen kilometers from Hado. He was there now, setting up our new home. I wanted to walk there right away, but Do-saeng told me that they’d agreed I should help her with the sweet potato harvest and then join him at the beginning of September, when classes started. Until then, I needed to settle back into Hado village life.

Of course, we were all terrified. If bombs started dropping from the sky or landing boats filled with foreign soldiers came to shore, we had nothing with which to defend ourselves except for the shovels and hoes we used in our dry fields and the hooks and spears we used in our wet fields. There’s nothing like a baby, however, to remind you that life goes on. While I’d been away, one of the Kang sisters, Gu-sun, had given birth to a baby girl, Wan-soon, who was the same age as my daughter. The four of us spent many hours together. Often Gu-sun would purr about how our babies would be as close as she and her sister were or as Mi-ja and I had always been: “Min-lee and Yo-chan might marry one day, but they can never be friends the way that Min-lee and Wan-soon will be.” I never argued with Gu-sun about this. Instead, I accepted her friendship more out of necessity than out of love or like minds. Our babies needed to be nursed, burped, washed, changed, comforted, and put to sleep. I was happy for Gu-sun’s company.

Fortunately, Min-lee was a good baby, which meant my hands could stay busy. When I was in the little house, I used my foot to rock her cradle, so I could repair my nets, sharpen my knives, and patch my diving outfit. When we went to the sweet potato fields, she stayed in her cradle, which I draped with cloth to protect her from the sun. When I dove with Do-saeng and the collective, my father took care of Min-lee. He met me outside the bulteok when we came back for lunch and at the end of the day so I might nurse her. He’d always been good at caring for babies, and he was drinking less.

All that—the real life of a grown woman, wife, mother, and haenyeo—lasted exactly one week. The men sitting under the village tree heard the news on their transistor radios. That day, August 6, the United States dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima. We didn’t know what an atomic bomb was, but as we heard the reports of an entire city flattened… We thought of my father-in-law, who was in Hiroshima… If my husband had come home to perform rites with Shaman Kim, then we would have had to accept my father-in-law was dead. But Jun-bu didn’t come. Still, Do-saeng wept many tears of worry and sadness, not knowing if her husband might have survived but suspecting the worst. Then, two days later, the radio announcer told us that the Soviet Union had officially declared war on Japan. Now another world power might want to use Jeju as a stepping-stone. The day after that, America dropped its second atomic bomb, this one on Nagasaki. If the United States could reach Japan by air, they could very easily reach Jeju, where we had so many Japanese troops. And what would the Soviet Union do?

But a bomb never came and neither did a land-and-sea invasion, because the Japanese emperor surrendered six days later. We had always named historic events by their dates. This one became known as 8.15 Liberation Day. We were free from the Japanese colonists at last! We’d also been liberated from the massive number of deaths an invasion would have caused. We went to bed feeling exhilarated, but the next morning every single Japanese person—whether soldier or civilian—was still on Jeju. On the radio, we heard that Korea would be supervised under a joint trusteeship controlled by four nations: the United States, the Soviet Union, the United Kingdom, and China. Another set of men living on the other side of the world had also divided our country along the Thirty-eighth Parallel. This meant—although none of us understood the practicalities—that the USSR would oversee Korea above the line and the United States would oversee Korea below the line as we transitioned to independence and formed our own country. We thought we were free, but so far the only difference in our lives here on Jeju was that the Japanese flag was lowered, and the American flag was raised. One colonizer had been replaced by another.

The Tail of a Skirt

Two weeks later, I prepared to move to my husband. Do-saeng helped, and after the last of my belongings was packed, she said, “You and my son are newlyweds and you have a baby, who Jun-bu has never seen, but I beg you to take Yu-ri. You have always been good with her, and it will be only for a short while.” I knew Do-saeng worried about her husband’s fate in Japan. To ease her burden, I accepted. So, on September 1, Father led my pig, while Grandmother and Third Brother—who no longer had to hide—carried my sleeping mats, quilts, clothes, and kitchen goods to the olle, where they loaded everything onto the back of the horse-drawn cart I’d hired. Do-saeng, always so strong, walked arm in arm with Yu-ri to the cart with tears running down her cheeks.

“Take good care of her,” Do-saeng said.

“I will,” I promised.

“Come back for the lunar New Year’s Festival,” Father said.

“I’ll come back for more than that,” I replied. “Bukchon is not so far. I’ll be able to return here on occasion.” But I was also thinking about how I might visit Mi-ja in Jeju City, which was about twenty kilometers farther on past Bukchon. These distances I could walk.

The driver was eager to get started, so we had no extra time for tears, but a feeling of unease made the parting hard. As the cart began bumping along the dirt road, I kept my eyes on my family. Even Do-saeng stayed put until we were out of sight.

A few hours later, we arrived in Bukchon. I left the driver on the road to watch over Yu-ri, the pig, and my other belongings, then walked through the olles, past stone houses with thatch roofs, to the shore. Bukchon was built around a small, well-protected cove. The beach had more sand than Hado, but it still had plenty of lava rocks to step on as I made my way to the bulteok. With my baby in my arms, I entered. Three women sat by the fire pit, the sun shining down on them through the roofless structure. I bowed deeply several times as they scrambled to their feet. They shouted in their loud haenyeo voices, “Welcome! Welcome!”

After I introduced myself, I said, “My husband is the new teacher in your village. Can you tell me how to find the home of Yang Jun-bu?”

A woman in her forties, with muscled thighs and arms, stepped forward. “I’m the chief of our collective. My name is Yang Gi-won. Your husband told us you were coming. We hear you are an experienced haenyeo. We would like to offer you diving rights in our village.”

I bowed several more times in gratitude, but I had to add a condition. “I have to see what my husband says. He works, as you know.”

Mine was not a situation with which they were familiar, and they laughed good-naturedly.

“You and the baby must be tired,” Gi-won said. “Let us take you to your house.” Then the corners of her mouth turned up, and she added, with plenty of insinuation in her voice, “Your husband has been eager for you to arrive.”

The others howled. I blushed.

“No need to be bashful with us. You didn’t get that baby by just looking pretty.”

She motioned for me to follow, but the others came along too. We threaded through another series of olles. Up ahead I caught sight of the school. To the right was a series of small houses, each behind its own stone wall.

“All the teachers live in these,” Gi-won said. “Here is yours.”

One of the other women yelled, “Teacher Yang, your wife is here!”

With lots of giggling, the three women pushed me through the gate. Then they sauntered back down the olle, leaving Jun-bu and me to greet each other privately. When I saw his silhouette in the doorway, all the worry of these last months—being separated, caring for a newborn without her father, the impending battle on our stepping-stone of an island—drained out of me. I was a haenyeo—independent and resilient—but I’d missed my husband. He rushed to me, stopping a meter away so we could bow and exchange endearments.

“I missed you.”

“I’m glad you’re safe.”

“You look well.”

“You look thin.”

“Your daughter. I named her Min-lee.”

He peeled back the piece of persimmon cloth that protected her face from the sun. He smiled. “A beautiful girl. A beautiful name.”

“I have Yu-ri in the cart,” I said.

A shadow passed over his features. Perhaps this was not the reunion he’d anticipated, but then his expression shifted. “Let’s go get her and everything else,” he said.

The driver lugged my things. Jun-bu escorted his sister. I prepared a place for her next to the warmth of the kitchen wall. Jun-bu and I put away my belongings. Min-lee fell asleep in her cradle. Without eating the dinner my husband had prepared, we lay out our sleeping mats. He was hungry for my flesh. I was hungrier still for his. We did not worry about Yu-ri watching or hearing us. When we were finished, and I curled myself into the crook of his arm, I sent a prayer to Halmang Samseung. Plant a son in me tonight.

The next day, the emperor of Japan signed the agreement officially ending the war, which sent many soldiers on Jeju out of their caves and tunnels like ants flooded from their homes. They didn’t wait for military transport. They just booked passage on ferries and left. But thousands of soldiers remained, still camped on the hillsides. Barely a week later, the cycle of the moon told me that the month’s first period of diving had almost ended. I stood in my doorway, Yu-ri sitting at my feet, as haenyeo from other parts of Bukchon made their way past my house to the sea. Many of them called out, “Join us” or “Come to the bulteok.” I just waved and watched them go. In the afternoon, after I’d swept the courtyard, washed Yu-ri, and pickled vegetables for winter, I watched them come home—happy, loud, and strong. I found myself missing the company of Kang Gu-sun and Wan-soon, the comforts and companionship of the bulteok, and so much else.

On September 10, the Committee for the Preparation of Korean Independence met for the first time in Jeju City. The members had all led or participated in anti-Japanese movements. The goals, of course, were to have true independence for the island and all Korea and to have our first-ever elections. Eventually, this organization became the People’s Committee. On Jeju, every village started its own chapter to create youth clubs, peacekeeping units, and women’s associations. With the help of these committees, every village instituted literacy efforts. All boys were to be educated, but women and girls were also encouraged to attend classes.

“Village leaders want to instill political awareness in women like you,” Jun-bu said. “I hope you will go.”

“My mother wanted me to be literate, and she surely was political,” I responded.

“Now you can be an inspiration to our daughter as your mother was to you.”

But I wondered what use I would have for an education when all I wanted to do was dive.

Ours was not a traditional marriage. Jun-bu went to work every morning, which meant someone had to take care of Min-lee, which, in turn, meant I couldn’t dive. In addition to baby chores, I had to make sure Yu-ri didn’t wander off. I cleaned the house and washed clothes. Jun-bu came home tired and still having to grade his students’ work, which meant I had to cook dinner. He kept encouraging me to go to the night school to learn to read and write, so I went. I didn’t have a gift for reading and writing, though. My skills were in the sea, but I was trying to be a traditional Korean wife. I sowed seeds in my kitchen garden. On a rare hot fall day, I made my husband a chilled soup with shredded cucumber and homemade soybean paste in raw damselfish broth. When my husband caught a cold, I stirred for him bean-powder porridge with tofu and wrapped rice in young bean leaves. For his part, my husband did not sit under the village tree, make and feed our baby abalone porridge, gamble, or drink. Our lives were upside down and contrary to the nature of Jeju. I thought we’d be fine. Then, as the moon moved across the night sky and I saw that the next diving period was coming, I felt the pull of the sea very strongly. I had made it a little over three weeks.

One night—after the baby and Yu-ri fell asleep and Jun-bu and I had made love—I gathered my courage to speak. “We’ve been living under the same roof for only a short time after almost a year of separation. Before that, we were together for only a few weeks—”

“And we still don’t know each other very well,” he finished for me. “I want to know you better and not just on our sleeping mats.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Have I hurt your feelings in some way? I hope you know how grateful I am for all you do. Taking care of my sister alone… But please, tell me how I can be a better husband.”

“You’re a wonderful husband, and I want you to be happy always,” I said. “But I miss the sea.”

He turned toward me, a confused expression on his face. “I don’t want to be the kind of man to live in a household that depends on the tail of a skirt.”

“I’m not saying you are.” I tried to explain it to him in a way he’d understand. “I love the way you touch me and the time we spend together on our sleeping mat, but being a haenyeo—”

“Is dangerous.”

I corrected him. “Being a haenyeo is who I am. There are parts of it I need. I long for the water and the triumph I feel when I find something valuable. I miss the company of women.” I didn’t add that I loved how women could speak and laugh in the bulteok without fear of hurting a man’s sensitive ears. “Most of all, I miss contributing. I’ve worked my entire life, why should I stop now because you’re a teacher?”

“I had hoped to keep you safe after what happened to your mother and Yu-ri, but it’s clearly important to you, and I won’t fight you on this matter. I am my mother’s son. She didn’t quit diving when my sister had her accident, and she hasn’t given up now that my father is…”

Even Jun-bu couldn’t say what had to be true—that his father was a hungry ghost, roaming the shattered ruins of Hiroshima.

“We already have a daughter,” he said, quickly changing course. “If Halmang Samseung is good to us, maybe we’ll have many more children. Whether they are boys or girls, I want them to be educated, just as I want you to have the opportunity to learn.”

Send a daughter to school? I wasn’t sure I could do that, despite my husband’s passion for education. Even if a girl could attend public school, I wouldn’t want to spend the fees to send her there. And the idea that we would send a daughter to a private school… Jun-bu must have sensed my thoughts.

“We can decide together what’s best for our children. The sea is important to you, and education is important to me, but on what I earn, I could never pay the tuition to send five, six, or seven children to school. I’ll need your help.”

“Seven?” I tried to calculate the school fees in my head. Impossible.

We both laughed, and he pulled me toward him.

“Even if we have only our daughter, I want her to have the same opportunities my mother gave me. She’ll go to school and—”

“But not if we have seven children! I’ll need her help to take care of the younger ones and later help put her brothers through school.”

“Brothers and sisters,” he reminded me.

I patted his back. So much wishful thinking, but what else can you expect from a man?

The next morning, I went from door to door, looking for a young girl or a grandmother I could hire to take care of Yu-ri and Min-lee. I found an older woman, who’d recently retired from life in the sea. Granny Cho agreed to work for five percent of what I pulled from the ocean floor for her home eating. That night, I rummaged through my belongings to gather together my water clothes, goggles, tewak, and other harvesting tools.

The following day, Granny Cho arrived early. The baby went to her easily. Yu-ri didn’t seem to care one way or the other that we had a stranger in the house. Every mother must leave her children to work, and every mother suffers, but we do it. After goodbyes, I picked up my gear and walked down to the bulteok.

“We wondered how long it would take you to come,” Gi-won shouted her greeting. “A woman is not meant for the household!”

Sometimes village collectives are unwilling to let a new wife join them. Perhaps their fishing grounds are small or have been overfished through bad management or greed, or they don’t care for the new wife, or her husband’s family has been a source of ill feelings or grudges, or her skills are not good enough to adapt to new waters. This was not the case for me.

“Hey, your husband is my son’s teacher,” a woman yelled. “Come sit here with me!”

“I live very close to you,” another woman called out. “My name is Jang Ki-yeong. That’s my daughter.” The woman pointed across the circle to a young girl, who waved, encouraging me to come over. Ki-yeong just laughed. “Stop it, Yun-su. You and the others are only baby-divers. Young-sook looks to be a small-diver.”

“We will see,” said Gi-won. “For now, sit with Ki-yeong. You’ll dive with her today. She’ll test your skills, and tomorrow I’ll let you know with which group you’ll sit.” As I made my way to Ki-yeong, Gi-won addressed the group. “Now, where shall we dive today? I was thinking…”

Later, we rowed out to sea. A long pull through the water’s resistance, then a heave of the oar over the swells, then the dip back into the sea, followed by another hard pull. For the last few years, I’d worked as an itinerant laborer on a boat powered by a motor. I hadn’t lost all the strength in my arms, but I’d surely be sore tomorrow. What a good feeling that was!

We didn’t go too far out, and our dives took us down only ten meters. But even in these relatively shallow waters, the seafloor was abundant with life. For a woman who’d never entered new waters and only knew the wet fields where she’d dived with her mother, sisters, cousins, and haenyeo of her natal village’s collective, the experience might have been daunting. But I’d dived in the Sea of Japan, the Yellow Sea, and the East China Sea. Every new diving spot is different, because the ocean—while one vast entity—is varied and complex. Just as on land, it has mountains, canyons, sand, and rocks. Also, just as on land, it has different types of animals: some predators, others prey, some loving the sun, others preferring the dark safety of a cave or crevasse. The plants, too, tell us that the land and sea are but mirror images of each other—with forests, flowers, algae, and so much more. I may not have been here before, but I was in my truest home, and it showed. Gi-won was impressed, and she rewarded me with a seat between the small-divers and the granny-divers.

“Even though Young-sook is barely married, her skills are very advanced,” Gi-won explained to the collective. “Young-sook, we welcome your sumbisori.”

Two weeks later, as we rowed to sea, a wave of nausea washed over me. I knew immediately what it meant. My smile was big and wide, and then I had to pull in my oar, lean over the side of the boat, and throw up my breakfast. It was as hot with chilies coming up as it had been going down. The other haenyeo cheered for me.

“Let it be a girl!” Gi-won shouted. “One day she will join our collective!”

“Let it be a son!” Ki-yeong exclaimed. “Young-sook still needs one.”

“Let it be healthy,” my husband said, when I got home.

“No woman can ever underestimate the sentimentality of a man,” Gi-won averred the next day, and we all agreed.

At the end of September, a group of American officers arrived on Jeju to accept the surrender of those Japanese who’d remained on the island, hidden underground. We were told the Americans would bring democracy and quash communism, but most of us didn’t know the difference between the two. We wanted to be left alone to have control over our own lives. We didn’t even want mainlanders to interfere. Meanwhile, the Americans dumped Japanese rifles and artillery into the sea, exploded tanks, and set aircraft on fire. The booming woke the elderly from their naps. The acrid smoke—blown about by Jeju’s erratic winds—stung our eyes, burned our lungs, and soured our tongues.

“It is not a diving period now. Perhaps you should take a day to visit your friend in the city,” Jun-bu suggested. “The air might be better for you and Min-lee.”

It was a perfect idea, but I didn’t want to leave Jun-bu alone. Still, he insisted. For days, I scavenged for gifts to bring: mushrooms picked on the side of an oreum, mugwort gathered shoreside in case Mi-ja needed to clean glass, and seaweed so she might flavor her husband’s soup. All these things I packed into a basket. Jun-bu gave Mi-ja’s address to the cart driver, and I was off to see my friend.

When Min-lee and I arrived in Jeju City… Hyng! The streets were barely passable. Thousands of Japanese soldiers—as well as Japanese businessmen, merchants, and their families—filed in long lines toward the harbor to board ships; coming the other direction were thousands upon thousands of Jeju people returning home from Osaka and other places in Japan, where they’d done migrant work. Unemployed men and women milled everywhere, because the Japanese-owned factories and canneries had closed. And then there were the refugees, who’d fled south and to our island after the country had been divided at the Thirty-eighth Parallel. The past few weeks had been frightening, but the crowds and chaos deeply unsettled me.

I was still troubled when the driver pulled the cart to a stop in front of a Japanese-style house. I knocked, and Mi-ja greeted me at the door, her baby on her shoulder, his neck wobbling as he lifted his head to look at me. She hadn’t known I was coming, but she didn’t seem excited by my unexpected appearance at her home. I wrote her reaction off as surprise. When she wordlessly glided deeper into the house, I slipped off my shoes and followed her. The house was even bigger and more elegant than I’d imagined. Everything was clean and tidy. A vase of flowers stood on a windowsill. The floors were polished teak instead of the worn planks I’d grown up with. The cushions we sat on were made of silk. The room was eerily quiet even with two babies not yet four months old. We laid them side by side. Mi-ja’s son sucked on his fist. My daughter slept. Mi-ja and I would have to wait a long time before we’d see them play together, let alone negotiate a marriage match. Children are hope and joy. A sense of peace, of everything being right—something I’d never felt, as nice as they were, with Gu-sun and Wan-soon back in Hado—sank into my bones, but when I took in Mi-ja, my perceptions forcibly shifted. She looked as pale and scared as when we’d said goodbye on the dock. I asked the first question that entered my mind.

“Where is everyone?”

Her eyebrows rose on her forehead like two caterpillars. “You would think that collaborators like my father-in-law would have been punished. Instead he’s been hired by”—and here she struggled with the words which were new to all of us—“the transitional American government to help the U.S. Army with logistics.”

The words and concepts were foreign to me, but it was the way she spoke them that was unnerving. She whispered, even though we were alone.

“The Americans want the island to be kept running as smoothly as possible,” she went on, almost as if she’d memorized what she felt she had to say. “They plan to restore the businesses and enterprises that shut down when the Japanese left. And are still leaving… My father-in-law says there could be riots with so many of our citizens out of work. He says more than one hundred thousand migrants have returned home from Japan.” Those would be some of the people I’d seen loitering on the streets coming here. “Men—and women—will do desperate things when they’re hungry.”

“We’ve always been hungry on Jeju,” I allowed.

“This is different. Too many people and not enough food.” She sighed. “My father-in-law was a collaborator for the Japanese. Now he’s a collaborator for the Americans. I will always have that label associated with me.”

Was that true? Was she unable to shift her fate? No matter how many offerings we make to goddesses, it’s nearly impossible to change our destinies. I tried to steer the conversation in a new direction.

“My mother-in-law is not a bad woman,” I said. “I have great respect for her water skills, but I’m happy not to be living in her compound. How are things with your mother-in-law?”

All brides talk about these issues, and I expected Mi-ja to share her heart with me as she always had.

“Madame Lee went to the five-day market,” Mi-ja answered, and that was that. Her eyes drifted to the window. I had the sense she was longing for the sea, but how odd that she wasn’t inquiring after me, my husband, or the people we knew. And not a single question about Hado.

I tried a different approach. “Is your husband well?”

Her body had such lightness to it. She could have lifted right off the floor and out the window. “The last time Sang-mun wrote to his parents was five months ago,” she answered. “He was in Pyongyang, above the Thirty-eighth Parallel, visiting warehouses and learning to better manage shipments and storage. We’ve not heard from him again.”

Maybe this wasn’t the worst news. Still, I hesitated before responding. I placed a hand on her knee and tried to sound positive. “You must not worry. One Korean would never hurt another Korean.”

But as the afternoon wore on, I understood there was no point in trying to comfort my friend. She was paralyzingly unhappy. She needed to leave this place.

“You could go back to Hado,” I suggested.

“And live with Aunt Lee-ok and Uncle Him-chan? Never.”

“You could come to Bukchon and rent rooms near me—”

“I couldn’t live in a village as though I were a widow. I would be nothing.”

“Not as a widow,” I answered, hurt. “As my friend.”

All in all, it was a disheartening visit.

Before I left, Mi-ja gave me money to hire Shaman Kim the next time I went to Hado, so she could perform a ritual to retrieve Sang-mun’s lost and wandering soul. I returned to Bukchon feeling grateful for my husband, our home, and the stability of my life, which—while completely different from anything I’d previously known—was secure, peaceful, and happy. I worked as a haenyeo, and Jun-bu taught his classes unfettered by Japanese occupiers. He spoke to his students entirely in our native tongue, and they used their Korean names and spoke in the Jeju dialect without fear of punishment. We could do these things, because we were free from the colonists at last, although we still didn’t know what life with the American occupiers would be like.

When Jun-bu and I took the family to Hado for a visit, I sought out Shaman Kim, who conducted the ceremony for Sang-mun. “Where is the husband of Mi-ja?” she asked the gods. “Bring him home to his wife. Bring him home so he might show respect to his parents. Bring him home so he might meet his son.”

In June, a baby boy easily slipped out of me. We named him Sung-soo, with the soo as his generational name, which all sons born to Jun-bu and me would share. I dressed Sung-soo in the special outfit for him to wear during his first three days of life from good-luck material given to me by Gi-won. Bukchon’s shaman blessed him. Her powerful spirit infused his spirit. He not only survived his first three days but turned out to be a strong baby with big lungs and a lusty appetite for my milk.

When he was four months old and fall colors blazed on Grandmother Seolmundae’s flanks, Jun-bu, Yu-ri, Min-lee, and I took a boat to Hado to help my father perform ancestor worship for my mother, my sister, my fourth brother, and my two brothers who had not returned home after the war ended. As soon as we arrived and were settled in my natal home, Jun-bu fetched his mother. Do-saeng beamed with joy when she entered my father’s house. “A grandson!” she shouted. But beyond the guarantee that ancestral rites would be performed for her for another generation, she was happy to see her daughter, although Yu-ri didn’t seem to remember who she was. Together, Do-saeng and I worked side by side to prepare the ritual foods. This year our ingredients were minimal, but we were able to make soup with tilefish, white radish, and seaweed, a bowl of seasoned bracken, and turnip and green onion buckwheat pancakes, since ancestors are known to have a fondness for these dishes.

My father was chasing Min-lee, who was fifteen months old and a master walker, when we heard a honking horn. I knew only one family who owned an automobile. I dried my hands and ran through the olles to the main road. Indeed, there was Sang-mun’s family car. Mi-ja stood by the open back door, leaning in. She straightened, pulling out Yo-chan. She set his feet on the ground. She wore a Western-style dress and a hat decorated with a long pheasant feather. Yo-chan, whose plump cheeks made him into a miniature image of his father, had grown a lot this past year.

“Have I ever missed marking this day with you?” my friend asked. “Sun-sil was like a mother to me.”

Just then, the sedan’s other door slowly swung open, and Sang-mun emerged. I hadn’t seen him in two years, and I might not have recognized him if he had not been with Mi-ja and her son. He’d turned to skin and bones. His eyes and cheeks were sunken. He also wore Western-style clothes, but on his feet were the straw sandals Mi-ja had made as a traditional wedding gift. His feet were covered with open sores.

“My husband escaped from the north,” Mi-ja explained, speaking for the broken man beside her. “When he first came home, we thought he might not live. Now we are here to ask Shaman Kim to thank the gods and spirits who worked on his behalf. I think he can heal here.”

We ended up staying together in Hado for a week. Jun-bu made bowls of sea urchin porridge—known to help the elderly and ailing babies—which Sang-mun slurped down. Each morning, my husband helped Sang-mun to the shore, so he could soak his feet in salt water. The two men watched our children, while Mi-ja and I went diving with Do-saeng’s collective. In the early evenings, the four of us sat on the rocks, watching the sun set, drinking rice wine, and doting over our children, who’d stand, fall, grab on to a rock, pull themselves up again, totter over the uneven surface, and fall again.

One day Sang-mun took photos of Mi-ja and me with his wedding camera as we stepped out of the sea in our diving clothes. I took that as a sign he was feeling better, except that his mind remained both bitter and terrified. Like many of those who’d escaped from the north, he hated communism and was distrustful of the direction Jeju and the rest of the country might take, while my husband was idealistic about our new nation and what it could become. By the time we all needed to return to our own homes, the two husbands were barely speaking.