Rewards

Someone asked me if I get paid to teach climbing and
maintain the gym's equipment. I said no. I meant,
not monetarily. A few days later after teaching a
young man to climb, he stopped me at the chow hall and
expressed how much he appreciated my taking the time
to teach him. For me, it was just a class; for him,
it was the entrance to a new world he looked forward
to sharing with his wife. I smiled. That’s my
payment.

I planned a trip for 12 of us to take a trip south to
Cheju-do Island, the “Hawaii” of Korea. Harrowing as
it was at times and funny as it was at other times to
lead such a gaggle, the snapshot I treasure most was
neither of those. It happened as I meandered into the
waves behind a fellow pilot, “Elvis”. Normally
controlled and finely cultured, he glanced back at the
bro’s on the beach with a Cheshire cat grin in a
moment of freedom and playfulness, just before he dove
under a wave. The thrill of watching people enjoy
God’s great outdoor playground is why I organize
things like that.

Of course there were other highlights of the Fourth of
July weekend on Cheju-do. One morning started for me
with a short trot up steep trails, over forested
hills, and back through a ragged village of lava-rock
walls. One tiny house had walls of stacked lava rocks
and a roof of grass topped with a black tarp. It
looked so dilapidated I assumed it was abandoned, but
through the door-less entry I saw a bright red purse
beside a Korean recently used bed on the floor. I
quickly left the family’s front yard.

Another day, I set out to run up the volcano that
towers up to 6300 feet in the center of the island.
By the second mile of the trail, however, I was
dragging my tired legs up huge stairs made of railroad
ties. Thankfully I could blame the rivulets of
moisture streaming down my body on the visible clouds
that swept past, hiding all but the closest trees.
Breathing deeply the cool air, all the stress of
coordinating the trip, of being in Korea for the
summer, and of the uncertain future, was lost in the
inexplicable freedom of physical exertion in the great
outdoors. I was reminded of the flight suit patch I
sometimes wear on Friday nights – it’s an Ironman
Triathlon emblem surrounded by the words, “if you have
to ask, you wouldn’t understand.”

And I pondered again that much of what I write is an
attempt to overcome that chasm – so I hope you get
some understanding and enjoyment from the things I
love, even if they are different from your interests
and your life. And I hope you had a good Fourth of
July weekend celebrating the wonder that we call
freedom.

Donna
PS – Read on for more about our trip down south…or
don’t and I’ll never know, but I’ll understand
completely.

2 July: It was after 1am when we finally made it to
our resort on Cheju Island. The travel agent, Ms Kim
and my friend who acted as a translator, Mr Oh, saw us
off at the airport. A man holding a sign with my name
greeted us and led us to a car. 12 big Americans
shoehorned themselves into a 12-Korean van as I call
Mr Oh to translate again for our van rental man. In
the end, he held on to my orange Korean driver’s
license until we returned the car. He led us out to a
main road and set us free.

Shaq insisted we start with a full tank, but upon
stopping at the next gas station, the man searched the
driver’s compartment for the gas door opener only to
discover that the nozzle he held didn’t fit our tank:
he sold LP gas and we required diesel. On to the nest
station.

Weather had delayed the flight an hour and hunger was
sufficiently rampant to drive a stop at a random
restaurant. Sinking into plush chairs and couches in
our private room, we ordered a steady stream of menu
items that apparently weren’t served after a certain
time. Our tiny Korean waitress spoke decent English
though we had to laugh when she snuck into the room in
humble oriental fashion, then announced, “Listen to
me,” in her tiny voice. And proceeded to tell us
something we never quite understood. Slowly our
orders arrived, dish by dish, bowl by bowl of
uncertain food served with meticulous etiquette. Long
stretches without sight of waitress drove a trip to
the unattended bar for another round of beer served by
Snake. After tiny salads, a man came to tell us we
were getting no more food. As fractured communication
continued, we determined that he was only telling us
to eat fast because the restaurant was closing. 2
hours later, we finally got the last of our entrees…

2 July: Day 1. Wandering out to the beach a block
from our “resort”, some of us carefully stepped over
the crowds of cockroach-like bugs to brave the water’s
chill and explore the black lava rocks and clear sandy
bottom far out off our beach. Others enjoyed the view
from a stone arch bridge leading out to a tip of rocky
coast.

Under threatening skies, we began our exploration of
Cheju-do Island inside it. In two steps the air
temperature dropped about 20 degrees and 40 percent
humidity as we descended into a lava tube. Wide,
flat, and high ceiling-ed, it resembled a black subway
tube with dimpled walls and rough cobblestone-like
floor. Even ridges ran along the sides, interrupted
by an occasional rock fall or naturally sculpted rock.

Back in daylight, we continued further around the
island to Sunrise Peak, a stark round crater on the
east side of the island. Heat and humidity drained us
of sweat but the view from the top was worth it.
Hallasan, the volcano in the middle of Cheju, floated
dimly above a layer of haze to the west. To the east,
the dense vegetation inside Sunrise Crater looked like
a plush round carpet surrounded by jagged ridges that
dropped sharply into the sea. A temple with all its
ornate, uniquely oriental architecture and painting
stood at the base of the crater.

Driving further around the island, we cracked the code
on the police cameras. Not only were they displayed
on the map, but before each one was a sign warning of
their presence. The Korean solution seemed to be to
maintain the speed limit, and slow down even more for
the cameras. The American one was a bit more
rebellious.

In Seogwipo City on southern coast we journeyed to a
waterfall flowing off a cliff onto the rocky
coastline. As we played our tourist games, the local
Koreans just down the coast laid out their seaweed to
dry on the rocks, and sifted through small captured
sea creatures to find the edible ones. After stairs
into the lava tube, stairs up to the crater, and
stairs down to the waterfall base, we sought the level
part of town and dinner. However, even with the
advice of some Brits, we managed to find the city
market rather than the restaurant district. 2 block
in each direction of 2-story high shops selling their
wares from low tables. Fresh fish, pickled vegetables
of all varieties, squid jerky, fresh squid, dried
squid, tiny salted whole-fish “fish fries” (like
French fries), fresh vegetables, shoes, purses,
clothes, etc. High above, an arch stretched across
the crowded streets, keeping out the rain and keeping
in the myriad of unfamiliar smells.

After splitting for dinner (some folks needed the
taste of America only Pop-eye’s could provide) we
rejoined on roadside chairs outside a convenience
store that served as our beer supply. There began the
naming of our as-yet-un-named members: the admin and
the maintenance lieutenants. The stories and
suggestions formed time slices of entertainment for
the remainder of the trip and beyond. I was just
enjoying the atmosphere of laughter mixed with night
air and the universal sounds of city life.
Eventually, however, there was a movement to travel
home for the night.

During the day, especially after some physical
exertion, the van was usually quiet as people slept or
just watched the island go by, lost in their own
thoughts. At night, however, the raucous was highly
entertaining. My favorite was each person picking a
direction and shouting it at every intersection: “go
right!”, “go left!”, “go straight!”, “turn around!”.
I just laughed and followed my combination of GPS and
several maps.

3 July: Day 2. It was noon when we finally rallied
the crowd for the attempt to find Surf. An hour
later, arriving at Kwakji Beach on the west coast, we
searched for lunch and found only a Korean place on
the beach that served 4 items. Thankfully one was
chicken, cooked in a way that was palatable for all.
On the down side, it took an hour to pressure cook the
4 chickens. But the salty breeze flowed around us,
there was some food on the table (standard semi-edible
Korean fare), and the sound of waves lapped in the
background. We could have been on Waikiki, had the
hors d’oeurves been recognizable. By the time the
chicken was served, several games of Hearts had been
played and several beers drank. Shaq and I had
explored the statues of women on the beach and the
meditation area – a rectangle of lava rock walls
around a pool fed by a waterfall on one end.

The afternoon flowed by timelessly to the sound of
waves, conversation, and laughter. Body-surf-sized
waves entertained Krusty for hours while Lazr and Shaq
made sand sculptures, Elvis dug ever deeper with his
feet, and Dayton / M60 provided a steady supply of
beer. A Korean man rode up on his 4-wheeler to tell
us something about the chairs we’d commandeered, which
had been neatly stacked against a row of plastic
tables. We never figured out what he was saying, but
$10 sent him back to riding along the beach, sometimes
with his kids, sometimes alone, but never near us
again. A shriveled old Korean woman strode by with a
basket full of something. She stayed to chat for a
while, nearly losing her dentures several times,
though the language barrier prevented any
communication from actually occurring.

We all rinsed off with the hose in the women’s room
entrance then set off to find the “best western food
restaurant” on the island…only to learn it had gone
out of business. 10 folks opted for Chinese food in
Shinjeju City while Krusty and I went to explore Iho
Beach. A cute arched bridge connected two beaches
across a stream-fed pond. A sign at the pond read “no
swimming”. We had to assume the stream ran through
Jeju City, draining its sewers. Unlike speed limit
signs, we heeded this one. As we strolled past a row
of tents housing restaurants, several young employees
strolled out like bait to invite us to eat at their
restaurant. Eventually we took the bait sent by one
place and sat on a platform with a small, low table in
the middle of it. A traditional Korean dining
platform. With the beer was served a platter of
munchies: hard-boiled small brown speckled eggs, whole
HOT peppers, and cucumber with red bean paste dip.
They also served French fry-shaped, fish-tasting,
Funion-textured munchies in a bowl, which was
beginning to seem standard on the island.

Back in the city, 3 American women who were in Korea
for some sort of work attached themselves to our group
of mostly men. All 15 of us western-sized folks
packed into our 12-Korean-passenger van and bottomed
out the struts over every bump on the way home that
night. Since it was now after midnight, and
officially the Fourth of July, we lit our fireworks
and shot them out over the beach at Hamdeok near our
hotel. Not to worry, mom: there was only one minor
injury due to slightly off judgment and aiming. I
prefer to believe that the aim was off because of the
strong wind that brought in a thunderstorm soon after.
One beach umbrella was already lying in the sand, so
3 of us crouched behind it with a clear view of the
night sky, but in a complete rain shadow, courtesy of
the wind.

4 July: Day 3. Shaq, Snake, Krusty, and I left early
for a short day of adventures before the flight back
to Kunsan. The remainder of the group chose instead
to sleep. With an eye on the gas gauge moving rapidly
toward E, I elected to stop at the closer trailhead
for the top of the volcano, called Hallasan, that drew
Cheju Island from the sea. Snake hiked and I ran up
the beginning of the trail. Not far along the trail,
a mile of slippery railroad-tie steps slowed me to a
fast hike. As the ties gave way to a series of long
boardwalks that allowed running again, the forest gave
way to white sky. Visible clouds swept in moist waves
across my path. But the coolness, the springs of
clear fresh drinking water, and the etched stone and
wood markers along the way, made it a perfect run.

We all but rolled the van downhill to Seogwipo City
and another waterfall, never passing a gas station.
Pausing only to swim in the waterfall’s pond (and get
kicked out of it), to sing in the amphitheater, and to
photograph our imitation of the grandfather statues
that stood at every turn, we swept through the
waterfall park and drove on toward a “black beach”,
which turned out to be only brown with its mix of
lava-rock sand and broken white shells, but stood
beside a stunning view of cliffs and hills and surf.
Finally filling the gas tank, we continued to the Art
Park.

I suspect folks may have had the idea I wanted to see
the art when I suggested the park. Those who I
dragged with me realized otherwise. There was one
statue – 2 dancers doing a lift – that I did want to
see again. The rest of my motivation for going was to
laugh. And laugh we did. Not at the sculptures
themselves, but at the comedy we could add to them
with ourselves and our cameras. We imitated some and
created scenes (like 3 stone women chasing Krusty)
with others. Judging from the tarnish on some of the
sculptures, it seemed that such doings were not
unusual.

Later, returning the van, the rain that had threatened
all day finally began in earnest. Not to worry,
however, since the rental van man insisted on giving
me his umbrella to cross the parking lot to the
airport terminal. And I was allowed to bring it on
the flight. My emergency pocket knife, that had made
it on the flight down, however, was packaged and sent
on board the aircraft, to be returned to me upon
landing…which it was. Things that would never happen
in the US! After a short flight, we touched down
across from the hangars that sheltered our aircraft
from the downpour, less one eyebrow (lost to drunken
buffoonery) and 3 days of our total time at Kunsan
Airbase.