The Sea, the Rock and the Sky > IDEAS & IDEALS

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Like many small islands scattered around our peninsular, Hong-do island rises out of the blue water like a small mountain. The rim of the land is mostly rocky cliffs of granite that fall vertically into the sea. So many curiously-looking smaller rocks in and around the island, the caves that have been made into the foot of the rocky walls, and the stunted trees on and between the cracks and ledges of the rocks, bear witness to the ravages of time, wind and water. And all the sad as well as ludicrous stories and legends associated with the names of the prominent rocks and places in the island tell us the tragedies and hardships suffered by and befallen on the inhabitants of this poor and rugged island. In fact, there is nothing special or particular that makes this island different from, or any better than other islands in our country that have become famous and known to the tourists for their scenic beauties.

     I have been to that remote and lonely island for three days last January. It was an impulsive trip. When I turned on the television one evening, there appeared on the screen a ferryboat cleaving the high waves of the winter sea and a swarm of the sea-gulls flying and wheeling about in the sky. I wanted to go to the sea, to the sea-gulls, to the lonely island of rocks, and hear and feel the icy knife of the wind on my face. It was a call from the sea. A few days later I found myself on the deck of a ferryboat that plies between Mokpo and Hong-do island.

     The sea calls. It calls those who have some memory, remembrance and experience of it. It calls with the waves breaking against the shore, with the crying of the sea-gulls, and with the peculiar smell of the salty and fishy water in the pier. Sometimes the call is so powerful and enchanting that for someone it can be his fate and destiny. For Columbus, the Italian seaman, for example, the call of the sea was a divine  mission given to him by none other than God. For him it was sweeter and stronger than the warm embrace of his wife and dear children. Like a haunted man he heard it coming from beyond the horizon and had to follow it. There are so many unknown Columbuses near and far in time and space in the world who are called constantly by the sea and meet their destiny faithfully in the water of the sea.

     But the call for me is a mild one and gentle one. It cannot be so violent or fierce enough to force me to give up my present job, or abandon my wife, my children and friends. It comes to me more like the whisperings or the murmurings of a brook that soothes and comforts the tired travellers. I try to comply with its persuasion and enticement as often as I can, but I also can decline with ease the friendly invitation by making some excuses. I know that the sea can endanger my life. I am very afraid of the high waves. I am afraid to die in the cold water. I am afraid of dying away from home.

     I feel, however, the urgent need, from time to time, to be away from home, away from the routine tasks, away from the familiar faces around me, away from the comforts and benefits of modern civilization, away from the books, from the cars, telephones and televisions, from the gray pavements, even for a moment. And breathe in the genuine air, see the real stars in the real sky and hear the primeval wind and the eternal tides rising and falling, and touch the rocks -- all that are eternal and coeternal with the creation.

     The sea in winter looked very bleak and dreary, but in it I felt unusual strength, attraction and even beauty. The cold wind and weather confined most of the passengers, mostly the inhabitants of the remote islands and some few tourists, within the cabin and would not allow them to be excited or noisy. Some even looked very much worried about the weather and conditions of the sea. They seemed to know intuitively that the large and speedy boat, equipped with all the modern and complicated gadgets of technology for safe sailing, was nothing before the whim and tyranny of the sea.

     The sea makes man humble. With its sheer vastness it makes us feel small and insignificant. Before its anger we ask nothing but for mercy. Its everlasting youth and existence bring sadness to us all who must grow old and become feeble and die soon. It puts a discouraging curb on nan's vaulting ambition and pride. This is why some poets and kings, with great ambition for fame, and understanding, such as Alexander the Great, wept on the shore of the sea. This is why ordinary people, like you and me, lose words and become silent before the eternal rises and falls of the tides on the beach.

     The island that appeared before my eyes was a neat landscape of rocks painted on the blue water against the background of the equally blue sky. The distance from the boat enabled me to transform each of the rocks into any objects familiar with us, mostly into human as well as animal faces and figures. The austere beauty of each piece was an embodiment of loneliness and endurance. The sudden as well as momentary realization that each of them has withstood eons of time listening to the same, monotonous, ever-unceasing sounds of the wind, water and the sea-gulls, day and night, year after year, without a word of complaint, allowing the invisible changes and diminution, was an education serious and grave enough to make even the gay and fun-loving tourists on the boat silent for a moment though.

     In the beginning there was a great explosion, and with it came the rock, the sea and the sky into being. Who caused it and why is beyond our comprehension, but it is certain that these three existed long before the birth of man on this planet. They have seen what we have not, and seem to know what we don't. They seem to be privy to the process of the creation of the universe, and closer to the ultimate meaning and purpose of man's existence in the world. The impulsive trip to Hong-do island in the dead of winter was an inadvertent trespass on the domain of God and a brief encounter with the image of eternity.
          (February 12, 1993)