Chapter 35

"Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 35"

The turquoise waters of Jeju Island's coast crashed against volcanic cliffs as Su Yao's car wound along the shore, passing black sand beaches and fields of tangerine trees. Up ahead, a cluster of stone houses with curved roofs emerged—a village where the legendary haenyeo (sea women) lived and worked. Near the harbor, a group of elderly women in navy blue wetsuits sat on wooden benches, mending nets with deft fingers. Their leader, a 78-year-old haenyeo named Kim Sun-hee, stood as Su Yao approached, her weathered hands gripping a net needle. "You've come for the jjukkumi nets," she said, her Jeju dialect laced with pride, referring to the specialized nets used to catch octopuses.

The haenyeo, female divers who harvest seafood without breathing equipment, have been central to Jeju's culture for over 2,000 years. Their net-weaving skills are as vital as their diving abilities—each net is handcrafted with patterns that vary by family, designed to entangle octopuses while avoiding damage to coral reefs. These nets are more than tools; they are heirlooms, passed from mother to daughter with rituals and prayers for safe dives and bountiful catches. Su Yao's team had traveled here to merge this maritime craft with their seaweed-metal blend, hoping to create a durable netting material that honored the haenyeo's sustainable fishing practices while reducing wear and tear. But from the first conversation, it was clear that their understanding of "tradition" and "improvement" was as different as the island's volcanic rocks and the deep ocean.

Sun-hee's granddaughter, Choi Mi-young, a 26-year-old haenyeo in training who also studied marine biology, spread a net across the benches. Its brown hemp fibers formed a diamond pattern with deliberately uneven spacing. "This is my grandmother's net," she said, tracing a knot with her finger. "The irregular holes let small octopuses escape, so they can grow. We call it gyeongbok—respect for life. A machine-made net can't do that."

Su Yao's team had brought industrial netting machines and synthetic fibers, intending to create a standardized version of the jjukkumi net using their seaweed-metal blend. When Lin demonstrated a prototype net with uniform holes, the haenyeo clucked their tongues. Sun-hee's sister, Park Jeong-ja, an 80-year-old diver with over 60 years of experience, shook her head. "You think you can improve on 2,000 years of knowledge?" she said, her voice sharp. "These nets are alive. They know which octopuses to catch. Your machine makes a dead thing."

Cultural friction deepened over materials. The haenyeo weave their nets using hemp grown on Jeju's hillsides, soaked in seawater for three days to make it flexible and resistant to rot. They believe the hemp absorbs the island's gi (energy), creating a bond between the diver and the sea. The seaweed-metal blend, despite its oceanic origins, was viewed as an outsider. "Your thread comes from distant seas," Sun-hee said, after examining a sample. "It doesn't know our waters. It will frighten the octopuses."

A practical crisis emerged when the metal threads in the blend reacted with Jeju's salty seawater, developing a greenish coating that made the net stiff and abrasive. "It hurts the coral," Mi-young said, showing Su Yao a damaged reef sample. "Our hemp nets glide over the rocks. This scrapes them like a knife."

Then disaster struck: a powerful typhoon slammed into Jeju, destroying the village's net storage shed and sweeping away dozens of handmade nets. The haenyeo's hemp supply, stored in a stone warehouse, was soaked with rainwater and began to mildew. With the octopus season approaching, the divers faced the prospect of losing their primary source of income. Sun-hee, performing a traditional pujeon (prayer ritual) at the village's sea goddess shrine, blamed the team for angering the sea spirits. "You brought metal to our waters," she said, offering rice cakes to the shrine. "Now the sea is angry, and she takes our nets."

That night, Su Yao sat with Sun-hee in her stone house, where a pot of * haemul jjigae* (seafood stew) bubbled on the stove. The room smelled of garlic and dried seaweed, and outside, the wind still howled. "I'm sorry," Su Yao said, sipping a cup of omija tea. "We came here thinking we could help, but we've only disrespected your ways."

Sun-hee smiled, passing Su Yao a bowl of stew. "The typhoon is not your fault," she said. "The sea has always been 喜怒无常 (temperamental). My mother used to say she gives and takes as she pleases. But your thread—maybe it's not a curse. Maybe it's a chance to teach our daughters that our traditions can grow, not just stay the same."

Su Yao nodded. "What if we start over? We'll help you dry the hemp and repair the nets. We'll learn to weave by hand, using your techniques. We'll keep the gyeongbok pattern, but add our seaweed-metal thread as reinforcement, not replacement. And we'll treat the metal with your seawater soaking ritual, so it belongs to Jeju's sea."

Mi-young, who had been listening from the doorway, stepped forward. "You'd really learn to tie the haenyeo knots? It takes years to make them strong but flexible."

"However long it takes," Su Yao said. "And we'll help with the pujeon rituals. Whatever the sea spirits require."

Over the next month, the team immersed themselves in haenyeo life. They helped rebuild the net storage shed, their hands blistered from hammering wooden beams. They learned to soak hemp in Jeju's seawater, following Sun-hee's instructions to change the water at high tide and offer a small bowl of rice to the sea each morning. They sat on the harbor benches, tying the intricate maedeup (Korean knots) that formed the net's diamond pattern, their fingers sore as Jeong-ja corrected their work. "The knot must be tight but not rigid," she said, demonstrating with a nimble twist. "Like a diver's grip—firm, but gentle."

To solve the metal's reaction to seawater, Lin experimented with coating the threads in a mixture of beeswax and miyeok (seaweed extract), a technique the haenyeo used to waterproof their diving gloves. The wax created a protective layer that prevented corrosion while keeping the net flexible. "It's like giving the thread a diver's skin," she said, showing Sun-hee a net sample that glided smoothly over coral.

Fiona, inspired by the haenyeo's diving patterns, suggested adding subtle reflective elements to the metal threads—just enough to help divers spot lost nets underwater without scaring fish. "It's like a beacon," she said, and Mi-young nodded, noting it could reduce net loss by 30%.

As the octopus season began, the village held a dano (harvest festival) where the haenyeo performed their traditional songs and dances. They unveiled their first collaborative net: a hemp base with gyeongbok patterns, reinforced with seaweed-metal threads that shimmered faintly in sunlight, strong enough to withstand rocks but gentle on coral.

Sun-hee tested the net in the bay, diving to 10 meters and returning with a large octopus. "It works," she said, grinning as the village cheered. "The octopus didn't even notice the difference. And the net didn't hurt the coral."

As the team's car drove away from Jeju, Mi-young ran along the beach, waving a small package. Su Yao rolled down the window, and she tossed it in: a section of hemp net, tied with a piece of seaweed-metal thread. "To remember us by," read a note in Korean. "Remember that the sea connects us all."

Su Yao clutched the package as Jeju's cliffs faded into the distance, their volcanic shapes silhouetted against the sunset. She thought of the hours spent tying knots by the harbor, of the way the metal thread had finally learned to work with the hemp, of Sun-hee's laughter as she taught them the diving songs. The haenyeo had taught her that tradition wasn't about resisting change—it was about adapting while staying true to core values, like respect for the sea and its creatures.

Her phone buzzed with a message from the Kaluli team: photos of Yawari holding their collaborative tapa cloth by the Sepik River. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added a new pattern—Jeju sea and yours, woven as one."

Somewhere in the distance, a haenyeo song drifted across the water, a melody as old as the island itself. Su Yao knew their journey was far from over. There were still countless cultures to learn from, countless threads to weave into the tapestry of their work. And as long as they approached each new place with humility, recognizing that they had more to learn than to teach, the tapestry would only grow more beautiful, a testament to the wisdom of those who live in harmony with the natural world.