Chapter 51
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 51
Chapter Title: Farming in the Sea? (2)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The Fishing Cooperative workshop had originally been a place where they gutted the fish caught out at sea and repaired their gear.
But thanks to the Farmer Turtles, fishing was on indefinite hold.
That didn't mean people were just sitting around idle.
The fishermen had found a new lifeline in harvesting, drying, and packaging seaweed—a far more lucrative business than fishing. Grateful for the steady, abundant income, they were sweating buckets today as always.
"One, two! One, two!"
"Dominic, you here?"
Right on cue, the uncles who'd gone out to harvest seaweed were paddling back in their rowboats.
"Lower 'em this way!"
Harvesting seaweed was no easy task.
The ferocious Farmer Turtles always attacked anything bigger than a skiff, so they had to row out in small boats that only fit two or three people and approach the rocky shores under their own power.
Once they reached the rocks while dodging the turtles' watchful eyes, the real battle began against the waves.
Fighting off surges from every direction, they'd plunge half their body into the water, slice the seaweed with sickles, and haul it back to the boat. Even the tough guys from the cooperative were reduced to puddles of exhaustion after half a day.
'I had no idea waterlogged seaweed weighed so damn much.'
Dominic had nearly died on his first go at harvesting and drying it.
A massive frond two meters long and eighty centimeters wide, soaked through with seawater.
The swaying force and weight of those strands in the waves could easily drag a grown man—who never lifted anything heavier than a dumbbell—straight to the ocean floor.
Thanks to Uncle Kallon's iron grip, Dominic had survived, but that brief dunking had taught him a harsh lesson.
'If you run into a bed of sea grass underwater and you can't swim, you're just dead.'
Come to think of it, that chuunibyou name "Devil's Hand" wasn't entirely off-base.
"Need a hand?"
"Nah. You don't even know how to use your strength right. You'd throw your back out. Why don't you go stack the dried seaweed over there?"
"Sure, I can do that."
Dominic didn't let the ribbing get to him.
It was wisdom he'd picked up living in this village. No need to make himself miserable too, right?
Technically, I'm a brainiac build. I didn't skip strength—I just didn't invest in it, he thought, eyeing the drying racks.
Rustle, rustle.
The well-dried seaweed whispered like fallen leaves in the sea breeze.
Under the warm sun, hung on lines for three full days, it turned black, lightweight, and crisply rustling—perfect dried seaweed.
They'd made them uniform length from the start, knowing they'd sell them.
The tough stems and bumpy edges got trimmed off right away. But they didn't toss the scraps.
Villagers took some home for side dishes, and Dominic saved the rest, processing them just as he'd suggested at first.
[This is dried seaweed. It's a plant from the sea, so why not farm it like crops on land?]
[What? Farm sea grass?]
[Just move the farm from soil to sea.]
[Suck in a breath—hmm, you think that's possible?]
The moment seaweed gained traction as food and became marketable, Dominic jumped on aquaculture.
But artificially raising anything in the ocean was alien even to these sea-hardened folk.
Convincing them turned out easier than expected.
[If turtles can farm it, why can't we?]
[...Huh? ...You're right!]
[Yeah! Why couldn't we if the turtles do?]
It was the power of the name "Farmer Turtle."
In truth, they just transplanted whole seaweed beds whenever they moved habitats—no real farming. But the people had dubbed them "farmers," and that was what mattered.
'Who knew that report would come in handy? Ugh. Thanks, National Institute of Fisheries Science!'
Dominic had written a report on domestic aquaculture for a food processing class. Back then, scouring the internet, he'd whined, "Why'd I pick food and nutrition?!" But life's full of surprises.
From spring into early summer, he'd dried the trimmed edges in the shade and seeded tanks in the workshop to secure spores.
Next came winding string around square wooden frames—seedling nets—and attaching the spores in the tanks.
Tiny, invisible spores swimming in the tanks would germinate on the nets into sporophytes, then form sori, which became young fronds, the sprouts of seaweed.
'Normally you'd put them back in the sea around summer, but it's way warmer here than Korea, so now's perfect.'
Grow the young fronds one to two months in warm summer waters before fall, pull them out, twist sturdy ropes, insert the fronds like rice seedlings between the strands, and lower into the sea.
Traditional aquaculture done.
But he couldn't throw around terms like "spores" or "sori."
He kept it simple and intuitive.
[The seed-like bits can only be here.]
[Right? Seeds don't come from leaves.]
[Can't plant in soil, so stick 'em in water and give it a shot.]
[Think it'll work?]
[We'll try a few times. Manage the dried stock and wild beds in the meantime.]
[Yeah, let's try something. Can't just sit.]
[Succeed, and we harvest way more, way safer.]
[Jackpot!]
[Exactly!]
The village women threw themselves into prepping aquaculture harder than the fishermen.
Success meant no more husbands and kids risking their necks on rocks daily. That drove their hands.
"Dominic."
"All done?"
Uncle Kallon approached after finishing his task, while Dominic chatted with the aunties and packed dried seaweed.
"Yeah. Here about the turtles?"
"Yep. They really gone these past few days?"
"So far. We'd spot one or two scouting from afar on the rocks, but last few days? Dead quiet. Haven't seen a peep."
"They migrate?"
"They usually shift habitats around now. But too soon to relax. They're cautious bastards..."
Time to move the seedling nets from tanks to sea.
But growing young fronds meant deep water, impossible in rowboats.
Needed at least three workers per boat, hundreds of nets per vessel.
Time to launch a proper boat.
The problem? Turtles.
Uncles said their teeth marked them as monsters, not animals.
Mature males rammed hulls with sharp shells and chewed wood like candy.
And fast—untouchable underwater.
"Wait a few more days, Dominic. Safety first, right?"
"True, but..."
Uncle Kallon was right.
But what if cold winds hit early?
Undergrown fronds won't survive winter.
It was a race against time.
Dominic needed to bulk up the baby seaweed, but violent turtle packs stood in the way.
Miss this window, wait a year. Losses too big.
Decision time.
Safety-first Dominic, but thinking of the aunties' hands made him lean one way.
No turtles for days... They prep to leave around now anyway.
They moved every year less a bit.
Dominic crossed his arms, pondering.
"Alright. Three days. If no turtles, we sail."
Time to farm the sea.
Three days later, back at the communal workshop.
"So these have seaweed seeds on 'em?"
"Probably. Yesterday I checked a test frame we put in shallow water—sprouts everywhere."
"Heard about it! Hard to believe it worked. Man, why didn't anyone think of this?"
"They didn't even know it was edible. Farming it? No way."
"Fair point."
As Dominic chatted with Uncle Kallon, wooden frames wound with string stacked steadily onto the fishing boat.
Sporophytes—the "seeds"—clung thick to every strand. Too small to see, but there.
Weeks ago, he'd tossed a few seemingly barren frames into the sea as a test.
Ideally deep water with steady temps, but some'll sprout.
Tough seeds always pull through, and despite the risk, Dominic nailed it.
Each frame sprouted two or three young fronds peeking out.
Tiny black leaves smaller than nails, but the fishermen cheered. Proof of real hope.
No one doubted sea farming now. Just amazement.
"All loaded, boss!"
Time to lower into the sea.
"You really going yourself?"
"Of course."
"You're the mayor now. No need for grunt work."
"Pfft. Village chief or mayor, same diff."
"Heh. Weirdo. You're the only rep who'd say that."
"Blame the uncle who dumped chief on me."
"I'm coming too."
"Knight too? Fine, whatever."
Ian followed Dominic aboard.
"You swim?"
"...Obviously."
A half-beat late.
"Cast off!"
No time for bickering now.
"Come back safe!"
"Remember the buoys!"
"Woooo! Let's go!"
Splash!
With cheers, the boat cleaved the waves.
"Feels like forever."
"To that island?"
"Yep. Deeper water there. Quick trip though."
A small isle opposite the workshop shore—deepest spot reachable in thirty minutes. Turtles spotted on its beach too.
Splash, splash.
Steady waves.
"Peaceful."
Someone smiled on deck. Dominic's hair stood on end.
...Wasn't that super cliché?
Why was his gut never wrong?
Thud!
"Wh-what?!"
Crunch!
Something heavy struck the hull bottom.
"Damn it!"
No turtles, they said!
────────────────────────────────────