Inshore islands reclaimed by the mainland

By Tim Edelsten

Writing from Korea in the year 1895, the author Isabella Bird noted that ``the coast fringes off into innumerable islets, some of which are immersed by the spring tides. In the channels scoured by the tremendous rush of the tide, navigation is oft-times dangerous."

Fifty-five years later the scene was the same. The allied invasion force of 1950 had to coincide their landings precisely with regard to the shifting 32-foot tidal range. A slight mistake in timing left marines at Wolmi Island, off Incheon, bogged-down in a vast expanse of mud.

Things have changed dramatically since then. Viewed from the air, Incheon meets the sea in stretches of straight lines and geometric corners. Wolmi is no longer an island, it forms the leading edge of a relentlessly expanding mainland. Reclamation projects have swallowed every rocky outcrop from Incheon to Ansan. The former massive tidal-flats have disappeared, concreted over by a wave of development.

Heading toward the seawall that has connected Daebu Island, the triangular peak of Oido looms into view. It too was once an island, with its ancient residents drawing their livelihoods from the surrounding sea. Now it floats only in a sea of grass, which awaits further brash construction projects.

Many of the inlets and estuaries of Daebu have similarly been converted into new building land. Its former rich harvests of seafood have apparently been replaced by grapes. Their bold but friendly vendors line the arterial route, alongside mats of drying red chili peppers.

The only sights, however, to draw any wonder or curiosity from my companions, are those few landscapes which remain natural and untamed. These are the wide, shimmering bays, mysterious snaking sandbars and glistening mudflats, delicately covered with pink hamcho flowers. By contrast the purely functional man-made landscapes of seawalls, vineyards and car parks, hold no such beauty of form.

A recently-placed viaduct links to Youngheung Island via the scenic Seonjae Island, which has been settled since the Stone Age. Its sparkling shores are at last the pristine, primeval scenes that I enjoy. A restaurant serves the local specialty, bajirak kalguksu, the succulent ingredients of which are provided by the mudflat. Such delicious seafood includes oysters, kkolduggi and gejang (crab).

It is late September, and the clouds have rolled away to reveal a deep, vaulted, blue sky. The quality of the light is superb. There is a clarity and harshness that silhouettes the figures digging for seafood in the bay.

Also gathering this bounty are migrant birds, refueling for their journey ― whimbrels and curlews, with their fantastically long bills. Hurriedly they probe and stab the silt, drawing out mollusks. They are ushered along by the advancing tide, which meets along meandering paths. There is nothing more soporific than the soothing sound of surging waters, rippling and bubbling into view. Taken together, it seems the perfect antidote to the stresses of city life.

Seonjae Island is named after a mythical, heavenly fairy that danced upon its shores. I can't help but think this actually refers to a real-life local character ― the decidedly eccentric Chinese egret. There he is, crouched, fixated and motionless over a rock pool. His hunt for fish continues through the shallows, where he high-steps and prances in a highly affected fashion.

Suddenly he springs into a zigzagging dash, his head swaying sideward. As the water deepens, he whirls around, a perfect pirouette, before plunging almost completely into the waves. Endangered and found only on mudflats in the Yellow Sea, it is at once symbolic of the need to conserve such timeless landscapes.

The writer is a conservationist and environmentalist affiliated with Birds Korea Organization. He can be reached at https://birdskorea.org/BK-Startpage.shtml.