Personal Boat: Blue
Even into the early years of the twenty-first century, it was not uncommon for someone born into Hong Kong’s boat people to live an entire lifetime without ever setting foot on dry land—born on a boat, growing up on a boat, growing old and dying on a boat.
People who lived only on shore might find it hard to imagine, but the boat people moored their floating homes near the harbors, shopped at floating markets of vessels clustered on the water, sent their children to floating schools, visited floating hospitals, and got their hair cut at floating barbershops. The whole way of life had begun as an escape from Hong Kong’s murderous rents and land prices; those who simply could not afford a place on solid ground fled onto the water instead.
In any case, water taxis were the transportation they used the same way land-dwellers used regular taxis. And Hwi-yeom, drawing inspiration from those water taxis, created the Personal Boat—in other words, a private taxi on the water.
In a sense it was simply an expansion of the old ferryman’s trade: a man who rowed back and forth between two landings and collected a fare for carrying people across. Hwi-yeom intended to station them at the countless landings, ports, and cities that lined the Yangtze, so that they could shuttle passengers from landing to landing. Ferrymen who had once only crossed the river now traveled its length, carrying people between cities upstream and down.
Because you still had to go to a fixed place to catch one, they were nothing like the free-roaming taxis of the twenty-first century; the closest modern image was a taxi rank at a station, where drivers waited in line and took passengers in order.
But this was a world that possessed martial arts, and the work had been handed to former river pirates who knew the Yangtze better than anyone. That combination produced some unexpected results.
Martial artists—especially those trained in water arts—were masters of the oar. With their intimate knowledge of the currents, a single small Personal Boat could, with only a little exaggeration, race along the river at speeds that rivaled a modern motorboat.
And so a new phenomenon appeared.
“Huangmei County all the way to Suzhou—only one tael!”
Angang employees began skipping the short hops between neighboring landings and taking multi-day long hauls instead. Just as with regular taxis, short base-fare trips barely paid; the real money was in the long runs. Merchants, always in a hurry, started bidding up the price for the faster boats.
“Of course not everyone can move a boat as fast as the ones you saw last time,” Ha Tae-ryong reported. “From what I’ve heard, ordinary fellows were running the Personal Boats until we showed interest. Once they realized there was real money in it, the stronger men jumped in.”
When Ha Tae-ryong first issued the order, no one knew exactly what the job would be, so they sent the juniors. The moment it became clear the work paid well, the higher-ranked former pirates—no, Angang employees—with real martial skill began taking the oars themselves.
“Still, I can’t help worrying a little. There are only a few men who can row that fast, yet the fares are bouncing around like a ball.”
“That’s exactly the point, Master Ha.”
“Hm?”
“In a merchant caravan, is the fee for a First-rate martial escort the same as the fee for a Third-rate one?”
“Well… no.”
“Then what should we do? Gather the employees who are currently haggling purely on the thickness of their arms and sort them properly into First-rate and Third-rate grades.”
It was not quite the Kakao Blue model Hwi-yeom had originally pictured. The difference was not a slightly faster dispatch; it was the gulf between an ordinary train and a KTX. The core idea, however, remained the same.
Pay more, go faster.
“People in a real hurry will pay double for a First-rate boatman. Those who aren’t will look for the next tier down.”
“True… if we simply establish official ranks for the employees, we should be able to stop the present chaos. One concern, though—rowing speed doesn’t always scale cleanly with martial rank.”
Sheer strength on the oars was one thing; reading the water and riding the currents was another. Even that single distinction made it obvious that martial rank alone could not be the measure.
“And depending on how well a man understands the river, the routes he chooses and the stops he makes can vary wildly. Setting a clean quantitative standard won’t be easy.”
“Of course. But the answer is already in what you just said, Master Ha.”
“Pardon?”
“Not martial rank—rowing speed, and the ability to read and understand the water. We test them on those. Plus a bit of aptitude screening for good measure.”
It still felt rough-and-ready for the moment, but know-how accumulated with practice. The exams themselves would improve over time, and so would the overall skill of Angang’s employees.
“Anyway, let’s get it ready. We have money to make!”
Hwi-yeom, rare excitement lighting his face at the prospect of a profitable venture, shouted the words with gusto.
After finishing his talk with Hwi-yeom, Ha Tae-ryong issued orders to every employee scattered across Angang.
“What’s going on? Why’s everyone being called in?”
“They’re making us take a rowing exam? Why?”
“If you want a Personal Boat business license you have to pass the test every year and renew your qualification or you can’t operate!”
“What?!”
“I’m illiterate…”
“You think they’re going to make us write essays? Don’t panic, just go. They say if you run a Personal Boat without registration you’ll end up as Yangtze fish food.”
“Damn…”
The Angang men who had been looking for ways to dodge the “exam” like contrary frogs were herded to the testing grounds by the former pirate chiefs who now served as executives. In the end they all sat for it.
There were three subjects.
First came the speed test: two fixed points on the Yangtze, and how fast a man could make the round trip.
“Your qualification grade depends on how quickly you can cover the distance, so give it everything.”
“What’s the point of a higher grade?”
“You can charge higher fares, your remittance to headquarters is discounted, and you’re allowed to run longer routes.”
“Really? Then I’d better kill myself trying.”
The men spat on their palms, gripped their oars tight, and poured every scrap of internal energy, muscle, and hard-won know-how into the effort. The race looked no different from war chariots charging across an open field with their lives on the line.
“You there! Attacking another boat is against the rules! Disqualified!”
A few employees who still could not shed their pirate tempers hurled harpoons and were stripped of their chance on the spot, but the heat of the competition only proved how seriously they were taking it.
Once the Angang men competing for licenses started burning with ambition, outsiders began to hover around the edges.
“Anyone allowed to enter, or only Angang employees?”
“No—anyone with his own boat who pays the remittance can become an Angang Personal Boat Business Crew member. You in?”
“I’ve made my living at the Yangtze landings with an oar for thirty years, and I have my own boat. I’ll try.”
“Registration fee is five taels.”
And so former professional boatmen and fishermen who scented money began to join the fray as well.
The second test examined knowledge of the Yangtze’s waterways.
“If you take a passenger from Yuseong Landing to Jiujiang Harbor, which route do you choose?”
One of the former-pirate employees thought carefully before answering.
“I’d take the Samnangyeon channel, then cut left into the Opo Water.”
“That’s the long way around. Why not the Geojangpa?”
“On a straight line the Geojangpa looks shorter, but the river is wide and deep there and the current is weak. You have to row the whole way on pure muscle—exhausting and slow. If you head for the Opo Water instead, the current is fierce and you can make good time without killing yourself. The Geojangpa is better for the return trip after you’ve dropped the passenger.”
“You said the Opo current is fierce. Isn’t that dangerous? Holding a boat’s heading in water that strong isn’t easy.”
“Haha—I’m from Opo Stronghold, after all. I know those waters like the back of my hand.”
“Ah, right. The question was a little too friendly to you.”
Another candidate sitting nearby jerked upright in shock.
“Examiner—did that man just admit he used to be a river pirate?”
“Hm? I didn’t hear any such thing.”
“But he clearly said he was from some water stronghold—”
“Tsk. Arguing over every little detail already? Are you going to nitpick our company policies the same way once you’re hired?”
“N-no, sir!”
“Let’s see just how well you know the river yourself, since you’re so free with advice. We were talking about the Geojangpa—tell me the points a boatman must watch when he takes a Personal Boat through it.”
There was a bit of noise between certain employees of questionable background and the people protesting about them, but in the end the men with the deepest knowledge survived the second cut.
The third and final screen was a character test.
“A passenger boards with a chest full of silver, then forgets it when he gets off. What do you do?”
“What do you mean what do I do? Smash the boat that same day and retire on—”
“Get out.”
“A bleeding wounded man begs you to take him aboard. What do you do?”
“I jump in the water and swim for it. No point getting tangled in jianghu business and ending up silenced.”
“You may leave by the exit.”
“Why? Am I wrong? I have to stay alive first!”
“You’re not wrong, but you don’t fit our company. Next.”
“While you’re rowing you see river pirates attacking another Personal Boat. What do you do?”
“I pull alongside immediately. People are in danger.”
“Good. And then?”
“And then I take a good look at who they are.”
“A look?”
“You bastards! Which family are you with?! Nobody operates here except the Eighteen Strongholds of the Yangtze Waterways—don’t you know that?! I shout them down, seize the initiative, and either talk them into leaving or smash their boat so they never run unlicensed again—”
“Why do we keep getting guys like this? You—out!”
The Angang employees and outside contract boatmen who somehow survived that strict and merciless screening received grades according to their test scores and character.
The lowest grade was Red. A Red-grade boatman could only ply the waters between neighboring landings; operating outside the licensed zone was forbidden.
Above that came Green. Green-grade men could cross county borders. They were authorized to carry passengers not only to nearby landings but across waterways that took a full day or two, into other counties.
Next was Black. Black-grade boatmen could cross provincial borders—though only into the single province immediately to the left or right of their registered base.
The highest grade of all was Blue.
A Blue-grade boatman could go anywhere along the Yangtze and operate wherever he pleased.
Every Personal Boat operator received a registration badge. Presenting it entitled him to various conveniences from Angang: discounted inns at intermediate stops for multi-day passengers (free room and board for the boatman himself), free or cheap use of repair assistance, rest areas, and kitchens at the landings. All of those facilities were funded by the monthly remittances the Business Crew paid to the company.
After every hardship imaginable, a boatman named Seok Sung finally received a Blue-grade Personal Boat license. He could barely contain the emotion that surged through him. Had he ever in his life thrown himself with all his strength toward a single goal like this? Never. He had wanted that Blue badge so badly he saw it in his dreams. And so, having endured every trial, he was able to hang the proud jade tablet carved from blue jade on his chest and set out for his first day of business.
Blue-badge boatmen did not need to shout and haggle for fares at the landings like ordinary men. They waited in a private lounge reserved for Blue holders, drinking tea and playing go with their colleagues until the reception clerk rang a bell to announce a customer.
One ring meant an ordinary passenger. Two rings meant an important one. Three rings meant a very important passenger.
Then, without warning, the reception clerk began ringing the bell as if he had lost his mind. The clapper hammered madly.
“What the—?”
Curious, Seok Sung stepped out of the lounge and down into the waiting hall—and immediately understood why the bell had gone insane.
Standing there was none other than the Chief Boatmaster—no, the President—bowing and scraping as he delivered a report to the Chairman himself.
There was not a single Angang employee who did not know the Chairman’s face by now. There was not a single employee who did not know how terrifying the power of that Chairman and his family truly was.
We’re screwed.
The Blue-badge men were already frozen at attention in the peculiar panic that only high personages can inspire. Seok Sung hurriedly joined the rigid line beside them.
The Chairman smiled with a kindly face.
“As expected of Blue-badge men—even their presence is different.”
“You flatter them. These gentlemen provide safe, comfortable journeys so that our customers never feel so much as a single ripple before they reach their destination.”
The way the President turned and smiled at the staff was pure murder. The silent message was unmistakable: fail, and he would personally send them on a training trip to the Dragon King’s palace.
Hwi-yeom smiled.
“Well then—we’ll trouble you for a Personal Boat.”
“Yes. With a large party we’ll need to split up.”
“Of course.”
“As for the Chairman… hey, you there. You. I’ll give you the honor of carrying the Chairman.”
“Me?”
Hic!
Seok Sung, suddenly wishing he could fling the Blue badge around his neck into the river, managed an expression that was neither smile nor sob.