Paddling

The fish market was chaotic, preparing for the evening boats that would soon arrive. Near a few vessels that had come in slightly early, auctions were already underway. Perhaps because the weather had warmed up, quite a few tourists were visible as well. The shops selling iceboxes and ice buzzed with activity.

Near the very end of the pier leading to the breakwater, I sat perched on a low concrete mooring pillar, looking out to sea.

The boats that had headed out at dawn were beginning to appear one by one from the distant horizon, returning to port after finishing the day's labor.

A gust of sea breeze carried the smell of fish. As the sun set and the air grew sharply colder, I hunched my shoulders and shoved my hands into the pockets of my light jacket.

Hyung had gone out on the boat today with our grandfather and my uncle. If hyung hadn't been on the boat, I almost never would have come down to the harbor to wait for their return.

My uncle — Yeehan's father — and our grandfather had been pressuring hyung to join them on the boat. It seemed this had been going on since hyung was in middle school, even before I came here.

I had been granted an exemption, but hyung hadn't. He had started running small errands on the boat in the later years of elementary school, and by the time I arrived here he was already fully equipped — a proper fisherman who could pull his weight.

But hyung only ever considered it temporary help for his hardworking grandfather and father. He had no intention of becoming a fisherman himself.

Now that he had been discharged, though, grandfather and uncle were pushing harder than ever, as if they had been waiting for his return. The adults insisted that since he had finished his service, it was time for him to settle down.

Hyung was only twenty-three years old.

He had been holding out, refusing to even board the boat after his discharge — afraid it would be taken as a sign that he intended to keep fishing, or cause them to expect as much. Yet today, he had gone out to sea. Morae's phone had been turned off all day.

Our grandfather's boat came into view. A small secondhand fishing vessel, purchased with loans pulled together from here and there — small enough for three men, grandfather, uncle, and hyung, to operate.

The spot where I was sitting was our boat's designated mooring slip. Hyung, standing at the bow and preparing to dock, made eye contact with me.

I caught the rope he tossed and wrapped it around the piling. He let out a small laugh at how clumsily I handled it. Seeing him smile at me confirmed that nothing serious had happened, and the tightness in my chest that had lingered all day finally eased a little.

In an instant, the catch was transferred to the fish market right beside the pier, and a Fisheries Cooperative employee in a red cap blew a whistle to call the auctioneers. From the moment the boat docked to the moment the goods were awarded to the highest bidder felt like less than ten minutes. Everyone involved was a professional.

Without waiting for instructions from grandfather or uncle, as soon as the auction ended, hyung loaded the fish onto a cart with an oxygen tank and began making deliveries to the restaurants that had won the bids.

I was watching hyung's broad back when I sensed a shift in the surrounding air and turned.

"Old man. A word."

It was Morae's father.

Mr. Lim skipped any greeting to grandfather, a man old enough to be his father, and demanded a private word with a grim expression. Before grandfather could respond, Mr. Lim had already turned his back and started walking ahead.

Everyone who bought, sold, or moved fish at this market — excluding outsiders — owed him money. That was what the adults always said. Even allowing for exaggeration, it wasn't entirely baseless. Our family was no exception; we were in debt to him as well.

Grandfather and Mr. Lim navigated through the sidelong glances of people pretending not to watch, exited the fish market, and turned the corner past the Fisheries Cooperative building. Once the two men were completely out of sight, the surrounding murmur returned to its usual volume.

Only uncle couldn't tear his gaze from the heavy, lingering significance of their departure.

From beneath the brim of his deeply pulled-down hat — a hat that always retained a fishy smell no matter how much it was washed — uncle's eyes, lined deeply for his age, stayed fixed on the spot where they had disappeared. Then, slowly, his paused hands began moving again.

His hands, plunging fearlessly into piles of fish with mechanical precision as he prepared for the next auction, were tough and thick, as if incapable of feeling any emotion or pain.

My own soft hands, which had never once gutted a fish, suddenly felt tainted with guilt — like hands stained with blood after stabbing someone — and I quietly tucked them into my jacket pockets.