Ahoy! Captain Daeri Sets Sail
People in the world have such strong prejudices about jobs that they think anything with "sa" in the title—like doctor, judge, or lawyer—is the pinnacle. But I know a far higher, stronger class of profession: ones with "jang" in them. Doctors are powerless before hospital directors, judges, prosecutors, and lawyers cower before corporate chairmen. Even among sailors, engineers and navigators can't dare fuck with the captain. That's reality. So I decided to evolve into an even higher rank myself.
"Ahoy!"
"What does that mean?"
"It means I've evolved from company president to ship captain."
In the hazy dawn, I stood proudly at the bow with one leg propped up, gazing toward the pier. We'd bought this boat from a sinful fisherman and hidden it around the corner of the island overnight, out of sight from the others. After a good night's sleep, we'd beaten the fishermen out and were now spying on them through binoculars as they prepared to head out fishing.
"By the way, can you really sail?"
"I piloted a yacht myself when I went ocean fishing with college friends."
Oh right, this guy's a total social butterfly asshole.
"And modern fishing boats aren't that outdated anymore—they're simplified and digitalized with control panels. Even a regular person can set a course and make it go or stop without issue."
"Yeah, yeah. You pack the cameras and seasickness meds?"
"Checked everything twice. But weirdly, the cameras' batteries drain super fast sometimes, or the focus just goes out. It's a pain every time I film and edit."
"That's 'cause you're using Japanese cameras, you native Jap-lover."
"Cut the bullshit. Time for the pre-departure ritual. Well, you've already jinxed us anyway."
The Mad Woman, who'd burned talismans in the wheelhouse to cleanse the boat's accumulated bad luck like scrubbing off grime, suddenly glared at me like she wanted to kill me. Technically, taking a woman on a fishing boat is the real jinx, so I felt wronged. Hell, wasn't I—the boss—out here helping my employee? Did I insist on night fishing? Did I tell S-man to check all the gear right before launch? Or suggest we creepily tail the fishermen?
"You're lacking respect for the captain. If this were the Age of Discovery, you'd be fish food by now."
"Sure you would. And the bow is the most sacred spot on the ship—don't just plop your foot up there."
The insolent Mad Woman smacked my thigh to make me move my foot, then placed a small jar on the bow and stuck incense in it.
"It's a lost concept these days, but long ago, they'd carve statues or inscriptions on the bow to pray for bountiful catches and safe returns. Since it's the foremost part cutting through the route, people believed gods gripped it and guided them right."
Classic totemism. More precisely, it was on large sailing ships for trade, new routes, or war—not little fishing boats like this. Back then, no satellite navigation, barely any decent maps or star-readers, and wooden ships were fragile—one typhoon or reef and they'd shatter. Way more people died or vanished at sea than today, so in those enclosed, long voyages, totemism thriving in that isolation makes perfect sense.
"You don't need to care when you're walking on land with your own feet, but when the sea's your road, you show respect to the ship carrying you. Half the reasons sailors die in accidents are bad luck, but the other half? They didn't follow the rules."
"If this shitty boat could kill me, I'd have done it myself by now."
I propped my foot back up next to the smoking incense jar. Nothing in the world could kill me when I had no intention of dying.
"Your arrogance never gets old. Or maybe I'm just sick of it. If this were the Han River instead of the South Sea, I'd dunk you to the bottom."
"Not yet."
"......"
Through the binoculars, I spotted the fishing boats finally heading out one by one. Desperate for a taste of fish lately, they were all gunning their engines competitively. No wonder—they were urgent. Fishermen elsewhere were thanking the autumn haul, fattening their bank accounts. These guys had held out through the fishing bans only because some anglers died. The problem? They didn't realize, with no more anglers showing up, they'd be next on the menu.
"We're setting sail too!"
As our small angler-service fishing boat—already warmed up—began to move, a headwind rushed in, shattering the dawn quiet. The incense on the bow jar snuffed out instantly, but I kept my foot planted there. This supernatural vessel, cursed with a female shaman and a naturally yin-weak guy—two of the worst people to bring aboard—boldly departed from Jindo's remote corner. Dawn was still an hour off in autumn, so it was dark, and the fish-frenzied boats ignored anything behind them anyway.
Outsiders don't know, but local fishermen have their territories, like RPG kids yelling "dibs" in public hunting grounds—they divvy up without much overlap. Sometimes fleets swarm with big nets to corral schools, but luckily, these were individualists. Reaching a prime spot, some boats scattered in different directions. Watching, S-man asked for our course.
"Chase the smallest ones first."
"Wouldn't we normally tail the biggest? If ghost ships hunt for sacrifices..."
"Horror movies always kill off the lone weaklings first. Let's stick to the cliché."
In the end, we pursued a fishing boat a bit larger than angler-service size. Deeming it at its secret spot, it started operations. Waves lapping passively near shore versus surging in open water? Totally different scale. Korea's fall is a real bitch—summer lingers, keeping the warm south hot even late September. Late typhoons often grazed the south after hitting China or Japan. Far riskier than calm rivers or lakes, so sailors toughened up naturally.
I stood at the bow, one foot up, staring at waves surging right to the edge. Each crash sprayed salty white foam. In the pitch-black sea, people waved in sync with the swells. Please fall in. Please shatter. Please capsize. We willed it as one, hoping they'd slam their grudges into the hull, brains spilling as they sank gurgling. But no matter. There were more of them than swimming fish schools.
The living ship's hull clawed by nails, swollen hands pounding the bow till strength failed, scattering like salty foam. I gazed at the ink-blue predawn sky.
"Since you unleashed the Great Flood to sink the world beneath the sea, it's piled high with the suffering down there—yet you, who could part the Red Sea, leave them be. Have you forgotten crying for salvation on the cross in human flesh, unable to bear the pain? You, above all, know the tormented crave salvation. Don't become a contradictory being. You must always be perfect."
Or what's the point of me sending them all to heaven?
Another wave hit, rocking our little boat wildly up and down. After eons in cold water, the tormented no longer even uttered salvation. No heaven or hell for them—no faith in a great one who both pities and punishes. Just raw greed for the living's fresh vitality and pure souls overflowing.
I addressed the next wave crashing higher.
"Part."
And the wave split cleanly in two.