By Michael Breen
The sun, I'm sure you don't need telling, rises faithfully each day. One cold day recently, I went to watch it.
It's not everyone's cup of ginseng because catching the sunrise means getting up early. This I did, in a fine motel near the bus terminal at Sokcho.
I found I was not alone. Sunrise-watching is a big deal in Korea. In the pre-dawn quiet, people quietly move to the beaches all the way down the east coast to catch the first light.
The city of Donghae claims its Chuam Beach is the best place to watch the sun appear. Pohang, the port dominated by the steel maker POSCO, says its Homigot Plaza is the most easterly part of the mainland and thus the first place to catch the sun. On New Year's Day, hundreds of thousands gather on beaches for all night festivals, and on mountaintops, to celebrate the appearance of the first sun.
Everything seemed heightened. The waves broke along the cold, dark beach in a steady rumble. The sound, a lighter counterpoint of collapsing waves, has thumped and washed the beach at Sokcho for millions of years.
Several couples and small groups of friends stood on the sand. They hunched their shoulders against the cold, pulling hotel blankets tighter round their necks. A child held out a long flaming firework, normal nighttime play at the popular beaches. Boat lights bobbed on the black sea as far as the horizon. I counted at least forty.
Further north, under a darker sky, was North Korea and Russia. From there, the shores of the East Sea curve east round to the Russian island of Sakhalin and down to Japan.
Along Sokcho Beach itself there are statues of fish, metal on a stone base. Perhaps it was early morning irritation, but I found myself wondering what they're for ― like I don't know I'm looking at the sea and that fish live in it. There's a stingray; something monstrously ugly; a sea urchin, a fish with its mouth open; and another with its one petulantly closed. Only the dolphins, which kids can clamber on ― the rest are set too high ― seem to make sense.
A man coughed. A couple stood behind a tripod. More were arriving, among them two Buddhist nuns. Subdued by dark and cold and the early hour, the gathering had a feel of reverence, although the occasional gesture and word indicated the carefree sense that characterizes all but the central action of Korean ceremony. People took up a position on the sand and face east.
Then it started. A black mass of cloud rose on the horizon like a mountain range, above it rainbow-layers of purple, red and yellow. As if on cue, three birds flew north along the ragged line where the yellow crept into blue.
The movement of the sky's brightening was imperceptible. Then, of a sudden, a deepening red collected at one spot. People shifted toward the sea. On the horizon, from the direction of Japan, a massive flaming curve emerged from the sea. One or two people applauded. The sea tried to hold it back, stretching it like a liquid bulb. Then it is free, a full red ball rising into the sky.
There are two remarkable things about a sunrise: one is the speed ― the sun moves fast; the other surprise is that you can look at it. It's already bright ― when you blink, you see its spot in your vision ― but still clear to the naked eye. In no time, it has claimed the sky and is no longer willing to tolerate the rude stare. You have to turn away.
Michael Breen is president of Insight Communications Consultants in Seoul. He can be reached at mike.breen@insightcomms.com.