When Life Gives You Tangerines · Chat

The sea of Jeju Island is the color of emerald and indigo crushed together. But the sea water is not always beautiful—it is cold, cold to the marrow of one's bones, so cold that every dive is a gamble. The haenyeo emerged from the water. Their white rubber diving suits reflected the wet light in the sun, and they popped up from the sea one by one, like some kind of secret repeatedly spat out by the ocean. The bruises from the tight straps on their hands were newly added, calluses layered upon calluses, and their knuckles were so thick they hardly looked like a woman's hands. They poured abalones, sea urchins, and octopuses into their net bags, gasping for breath as they sat on the reef rocks to rest. Someone coughed a few times, bending over with the effort, but the others didn't ask—everyone coughed. They coughed during the changing seasons, coughed when it was cold, and coughed after being in the water for too long. This was the fate of the haenyeo: you trade your life for money, and the sea takes your lungs in return. Jeon Gwang-rye was the last one to come up. She had held her breath underwater a bit longer; when she poked her head out, her hair clung to her face, and her eyes were stung red by the saltwater. She gasped for air for a long while before slowly crawling ashore, cradling several plump abalones in her arms—those were for Ae-soon. On the shore, a little girl sat on a rock, hugging her knees as she waited. Oh Ae-soon was six years old, wearing a faded, washed-out coarse cotton skirt, with sand packed between her toes. When she saw her mother emerge from the sea, her eyes crinkled slightly, but she quickly pursed her lips again. She remembered what her mother had told her: Don't cry, don't be afraid, don't let anyone see that you are scared. So, she simply stood up, walked over, and handed over the old cloth shirt draped over her shoulders. Gwang-rye took the clothes and threw them over her shoulders. She reached into her bosom, pulled out an abalone, rinsed it in the seawater, pried it open, and stuffed it into Ae-soon's mouth. Ae-soon held that mouthful of cold, slippery, tender meat, her cheeks bulging like a little squirrel hoarding food. The sun baked the reef rocks until they were hot. The haenyeo went their separate ways; some returned to the village to sell their catch, while others squatted on the shore to tidy up their fishing nets. There wasn't much talk between the women; all the words had been spoken underwater—a single look was enough to know which way the undercurrent was moving, and a single gesture told how many breaths you had left. The wind came off the sea, salty and astringent, carrying the smell of seaweed and fish. Another group of haenyeo walked toward the water's edge, their rubber suits tight around their waists, the floats on their backs swaying. They took a breath, bent down, and plunged headfirst into that color of emerald and indigo crushed together. The waves rolled up and fell back down, drifting away in concentric circles. No one knew what the next wave would bring, or what it would take away. All they knew was that the days were still long, the sea was still there, the sun would rise tomorrow just the same, and the day after too. Ae-soon swallowed the last bite of abalone meat, licked her lips with the tip of her tongue, stood up, and patted the sand off her skirt. The seawater surged quietly, rising and receding. A day on Jeju Island had just begun. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the direction of the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>