A Yarn About a Sailboat without a Mast

I will apologize ahead of time for the sailing jargon that is about to come your way, but without it, this yarn would have been difficult to spin.

Sailors spin yarns. Some spin grandiose yarns, and some retell the same stories over and over. What these yarns teach you is that in sailing the unpredictable and unexpected will occur. To prepare, you listen to experienced sailors as they spin yarns about troubles on the water. You ask questions. You read books about tales of ingenuity and feats of great character and resourcefulness. You may watch YouTube clips or browse the Internet in search of harrowing experiences. You can also pose situations to yourself and troubleshoot theoreticals. But to tell you the truth, nothing prepares you for an event as much as the event itself.

I had not been sailing in a while when a friend invited me to join him and the owner of the boat for a Sunday sail. While I was a bit nervous about predicted heavy winds, I thought, as I usually do, if the skipper is comfortable going out, then we will all be okay.

On my way to the clubhouse, I thought about the shiftiness of the wind, the lulls and gusts I saw cascading through the streets, causing flags in close proximity to fly in different directions. I figured that perhaps the buildings were causing interference.

As we set up the rigging, I worried about my already slightly queasy stomach on the big waves caused by a passing storm. Normally on days with larger waves, my stomach can throw a bit of a fit, so with a queasy stomach, I wondered how I would fare. I also planned for leaning over the side. One of the great things about sailing and being sick is that you have the water right there. No need to worry about a mess.

Finally, the four of us were off, the owner (a Frenchman), my friend (a British-Belgian), an experienced sailor (a Korean) who was at the helm, and myself (an American). All on board had more experience than I did, and the mix of languages being spoken among the crew was quite fascinating, sometimes instructions or observations were repeated three times, once in each language.

On this small keel, duties were as such: helmsman took the main, the owner took the jib, and the friend who invited me took the gennaker. My hands were empty, so I focused on shifting my weight with the gusts of wind and staying out of the way of working sailors.

I admired the setup of the rigging on the little Open 5.70. It could easily be single-handed, similar to a dinghy.

As we sailed further and further from the buildings and shore, the waves grew bigger, the sky a tad darker, and the wind slightly heavier. Gusts would come regularly putting more and more pressure on this small keel boat, but our helmsman kept us at a comfortable heel. We flew the gennaker to take on a little more speed.

“Watch the bowsprit as it works with the gennaker, and you will get to see the wonder that is carbon,” my friend directed me.

I watched the elasticity of the bowsprit as the wind hit the gennaker and the bowsprit curved, and I began to wonder what would happen if the bowsprit broke. It seemed like it could be slightly dangerous, but we would probably quickly drop the gennaker and take care of any issues which might accompany a flying bowsprit. I also decided that troubleshooting issues like this while underway might not be the best thing. Though emergency preparedness is important, I am also superstitious.

I shifted my attention from the bowsprit to the gennaker trim, watching as the sail curled ever so gently when properly trimmed. Trying to understand the amount of pressure that was on the sail. With every gust, the trimmer shifted and adjusted the sail trim, and you could hear the gennaker sheet groan as it moved through the blocks. I did not pay much attention to the mainsail or main trim. A flying yellow gennaker against a grey and darkening sky is quite poetic.

As I silently waxed poetic, happy that my stomach was behaving, we lunged over a wave. A gust caught our sails. We kept sailing, and the gennaker was adjusted to the wind. We all shifted in our seats. Another gust, another adjustment, another shift.

A stronger gust, the boat heeled. We started to adjust and shift.

“Crack!”

Within a split second after the gust, the sails we had been looking at lay in the water. The mast was down.

As quickly as it happened everyone grabbed something.

The owner grabbed the mast, trying to counterbalance its weight, and keep it from sliding completely into the water. I grabbed for the boom, not really sure what was going to happen but knowing that we had to hold on to the rigging.

As the rest of the crew communicated in a mix of French and Korean, I tried to understand how to help and pulled with the rest to try and get the mainsail out of the water.

As soon as the sails were down, and I saw the bare hull, I knew my stomach was doomed. With nothing to take my attention, and not wanting to get in the way, I was doing as told. I was not focused on more than holding a sail and confirming that yes, the mast had broken not just once but twice, preventing the mainsail from easy removal. The helmsman worked on getting the sail apart from the top fragment of the mast, and I sat there taking deep breaths trying to decide which direction I would yak when it finally came to that.

In the end, I turned around and retched off the side of the boat, not letting go of the sail, though there was not much pressure on it. As the skipper and crew salvaged the wreckage of a broken mast, I let loose the contents of my stomach into the seas outside of Busan.

After the retching episode, I did all that I could. I untied the cunningham as directed. I helped communicate that the lower part of the sail had to come up off of the mast rather than down. I did my best to watch the different things happening around me and help others stay safe. The scariest of which was in the maneuvering of the broken mast, the snarled middle part almost hitting the helmsman in the head. Finally, I helped get the furled jib back on the boat.

After we arranged the wreckage inside the hull on the starboard side, I sat in the middle of the boat and held onto the boom as we zoomed back to the marina with our little outboard motor.

No, zoom is not the right word, but we did slightly better than putter.

There was a brief discussion about a possible fuel shortage. A small container filled about a quarter of the way came out of the hold. None of us felt that was very promising, so further discussion resulted in two oars making an appearance. I was happy to see that while fuel planning might have been optimistic, other plans took being stranded out at sea a bit more seriously.

As we motored in, because I previously had considered sailing the ship solo, I asked myself, “How would I have dealt with this situation single-handedly?”

I don’t think it would have been impossible, but it would not have been as fast as this crew working together, of course.

Then my friend posed me a question, “What would you do [with a dismasted ship] if you didn’t have an outboard motor or oars?”

My immediate reaction, as I looked toward Haeundae Beach and all the buildings was that I would set off a flare, and then he clarified, “Out on the open sea, miles from land.”

In that moment, I could not wrap my head around the question. I just was not sure, but as he answered stating that you would have to salvage what you could and make due, I realized that yes, that is exactly what would need to happen. Get your wits about you, and set about troubleshooting and jerry-rigging your mast so you can have some kind of sail.

It just goes to show that if you are sailing on open water, you should have a toolkit and other spare things lying around that can help you in dire straits.

In Cold Water: A Tale of Dinghy Sailing with Unfamiliar Crew

"Ready to jibe?"

“Ready.”

Suddenly, the mainsail, which I had successfully trimmed in for the jibe was headed straight for the water and fast. I had no time to counter the weight of the wind in the sail with my body, being caught off guard at my botched jibe and the weight of my crew on the leeward side. Before I could think twice, I was in the water, swimming around the boat and toward the dagger board. My crew was hanging onto the mast, so as I reached for the dagger board which had not been locked into place, the boat went from a simple capsize to a full turtle. My crew was nowhere to be seen.

As I stood on the edge of the hull, dagger board fully extended now, I shook my head and hoped like hell that my crew could swim. I waited for her to surface, and reflected on how I got myself into this situation.

Earlier in the day, I had rented a Laser 2000 with a novice sailor. It’s not that I am all that experienced myself. I have been sailing for two years, mostly in summer, and I have hopped between Picos (small dinghies) and keel boats. Except for my experience on the Picos and my lessons with the keel, I have not been skipper much. I’m still learning how to identify the wind while sailing, and this is what gets me in trouble.

My rental earlier in the day was to gain experience, and experiment as skipper. After lunch, my English speaking crew from the morning headed off to her prior engagements, and I assumed that I would just be crew for another novice skipper, or I would gain some knowledge from the coach would was helping show us the Laser 2000s.

I was wrong.

As we headed back out toward the boats, one of the novice sailors, the only other woman left in the group, grabbed my arm and insisted that she ride with me. I tried to express that I just wanted to be crew, maybe she could be skipper. I received a very emphatic, “No.” So, there I was, heading back out, a little worse for wear, having woken up at 5:30 that morning to catch a bus.

As we left the safety of the beach, things didn’t seem so bad, except that I was having a hard time catching this wind, which was supposedly right behind us. The wind seemed to be shifting, but it is quite possible that my perception was off from the beginning.

We made it out to bigger water, and we tried some exercises, my crew, whose English was as limited as my Korean, insisted that we fly the jib. I asked her to hold off a bit. I wanted to get my sea legs before adding more power. Finally, her nagging won out, and we were flying the small jib. 

“Ready to tack?”

“Ready.”

Some tacks were better than others, in many I lost speed before the tack for a myriad reasons. Finally, we started working better together. We, being me and the boat, or me and my crew, or all of us all together. I was feeling confident, and I was practicing maneuvering as much as possible. I had to get my sea legs as I was competing in my first ever dinghy regatta the following weekend.

As we sailed downwind, at a broad reach on a port tack, I felt pretty good about our position. The sail was out, we were flying, catching waves and surfing occasionally. Then, I decided it was time 

for a jibe.

As I attempted the jibe, something went horribly wrong. We caught a strong gust. The mainsail and my crew headed straight for the water.

I had begun to contemplate the possibility of my crew not surfacing, when I finally saw her. She did not look happy. The first thing she said to me was she was cold. I started immediately insisting that she come help me right the boat. I knew what we had to do, and I knew we could do it. She refused. She would not move from her current position. She shook her head stubbornly, frowned, and held tightly onto the bowsprit.

I started looking around. Standing on the edge of the hull, without it leaning even a bit, I knew it was hopeless for me to attempt this situation alone.

In the distance I saw the jet ski of the marina coming toward us. As it approached, I imagined my crew being lifted away onto the jet ski and carted back to the mainland. The way she was acting, I had started imagining that she was near hypothermia or had been badly injured.

As the jet ski approached, she reached out for it. Hoping to be carted away. Instead, one of the men on the jet ski jumped off and started trying to help my right our boat.

We pushed against the hull with our feet and used the dagger board as leverage. This boat did not want to budge, and it took a long time for us to even get her to a properly capsized position. Finally, we righted the boat, and my first move was to make sure we didn’t capsize again. As she tilted back toward the water, I jumped on the opposite side of the hull and grabbed to uncleat the mainsheet, setting the mainsail free.** I also took the opportunity to furl the jib. As far as I was concerned we would not be needing that bit of power anymore.

I boarded the boat to the best of my ability, but I found that jumping back into a boat after a capsize took the last remaining bit of energy I had. The man who helped right the boat, pulled me in by my life vest.

With my crew being cold and seemingly helpless in the water, as she back-floated over to the rear of the boat, I made the decision to head in. When she insisted that we go back out, I refused.

We headed slowly back in, and I called it a day.

**The cleated mainsail was much of the reason the Laser 2000 was extremely difficult to right as it added additional drag.

Luckily I went out the next weekend with crew I was familiar with. We maneuvered in low, shifting wind and came out sixth place out of eleven teams in the regatta.

Your face will get stuck like that OR A girl named Kim

As a young child, watching Bugs Bunny dig to China, presumably through the center of the Earth, and come out on the “other side”, got my thoughts churning.

I am a bit of a loner. I enjoy sitting alone, thinking to myself, musing about the events around me, watching people. As a child, these observations were budding, my musings simple. 

"What does it mean that Bugs Bunny changed when he came out on the “other side.” Was he still Bugs Bunny?"

Perhaps, it wasn’t actually Bugs Bunny. It is impossible to travel through the center of the Earth. Maybe it was Bugs Bunny’s doppelganger.

If it was, maybe I had a look-alike on the other side of the world, too. A girl named Kim who was exactly like me, the same age, the same interests, the same basic person, only, this Kim had almond-shaped eyes.

Sitting alone, in front of the bathroom mirror, mulling over these ideas, I decided I wanted to have almond-shaped eyes. I thought they would be more beautiful than my round eyes.

Suddenly, an idea popped into my head.

My dad had a way of getting us to stop pouting or throwing a fit, or at least trying to get us to stop.

“Make that face long enough, and your face will get stuck like that.”

Rationally, I may have known this was not entirely true.

The statement should have gotten the same “Daa-aad” response that, “If you stick your lip out far enough, a bird will come sit on it,” did.

But.

Take this concept that a face could get stuck a certain way, and apply it to the idea that I wanted almond-shaped eyes.

The result?

I sat in the bathroom for what amounted to be hours, holding the outer corners of my eyes, trying to get my eyes to “get stuck like that.”

Slowly the realization came that there was no way my face was going to get “stuck”. It became obvious that it was improbable that suddenly I would have almond-shaped eyes just because I wished for them.

Little did I know that in this thought, this wanting to have an eye shape that I did not have, I unknowingly had found the key to what in the future turned out to be “a girl named Kim who was like me.”

Fast forward to my life in Ulsan, South Korea, an industrial city where having cosmetic surgery is the norm and never having had cosmetic surgery makes you an outlier.

Here, I am constantly complimented on my small face and big eyes. Both of these things are thanks to my heritage, and the fact that holding out the corners of your eyes does not change their shape, no matter how determined you are.

In Ulsan, girls are not just holding their faces in a shape hoping their faces will get stuck. In Ulsan, I am surrounded by plastic surgery eyes, by shaved jawlines and “high” noses.

You would think that simply being surrounded by all this plastic would have reminded me of my brief, childhood dream of having almond-shaped eyes, but it wasn’t until winter vacation when a coworker of mine got double eyelid surgery, that I started remembering.

First it was the idea of changing eye shape, and then it looped back to “that girl named Kim who is exactly like me, but she lives on the other side of the world.” If by Kim, I meant a family name, and by exactly like me, I meant wanted to look differently than she did, then I found her. 

In Korea.

As an adult.

Transforming her eyes to look more like mine.

Looking at Art: The Busan Ferry Terminal at Night

The Busan Port at night is a magical place. No one is around and the boats all sit quiet aside from the occasional pilot coming back in from assisting a larger ship out of the port. Near the water, benches are set up, specifically, it seems, to encourage people to watch the port activity. The lights in the distance shine like unflickering fireflies, and the houses disappear into darkness. Cars zoom past at all hours and a stray pedestrian saunters by.

I had the occasion to see the port late night on a weekday when I first met Philipp. We wandered here after climbing the hill behind China Town / Texas Street and seeing the port from above. Conversation kept us occupied as we walked and explored. We talked about everything from family to traveling to future dreams. We first connected on our mutual love of Russia, and the topic and storytelling never got old.

Philipp knew about my knowledge of and love for art. He also knew I had taught others how to look at art, so he gave me a challenge. “If this were a work of art, what would you say about it?” “This” referred to the port as it stood in front of us. Excited about the challenge, my eyes lit up, but to be honest, at first I balked a bit at the port being considered artwork. I said, “Ok, let’s imagine this is a photograph. And for whatever reason, what we are looking at now, this, was the perspective chosen by the artist.” I followed this brief and somewhat uninspired statement with a standard starting question for looking at any work of art.

“What do you see?”

Before the words came out of his mouth, without even looking at him, I predicted what he would say. He had told me that he always sees things as they are.

“Um, ok … what do I see? I see boats and buildings and water.”

I started trying to ask him for details or what kind of story he would tell, but even though he was open, his resistance to interpretation was strong. I knew I needed to give him a starting point, so I changed my tune and broke every rule that I have learned for showing children art. You do not usually tell children what you see because of the assumption that the child will think there is a “right” answer. I knew Philipp had more mental capacity than a child, so I forged ahead and broke rules.

“Ok. Let me tell you what I see. You said you see buildings. Maybe it’s my poor eyesight, but I actually don’t see many buildings, the whole land mass out in the distance is hard to bring into focus. Instead, I see lights scattered around, a bit like fireflies, and I see the reflections on the water. Of course I know there are ships and machinery, but if I really look, that’s not what I see.”

He stood there for a moment, taking it in. “Weird. When you were describing all of that, I saw it. Why has no one ever done that for me?”

At this moment, I realized that Philipp was the kind of person that I admire and want to be around. Even if he does not know something or is not aware of it, he is open to the possibility of its existence. He is open to trying new things, even if it means challenging his world view. That night we decided we had to go to the art museum together.

Finally, the day before Philipp left for Fukuoka, we went to the art museum. I usually prefer to go alone for a variety of reasons, but with Philipp the art museum felt like a different place. He had somehow joined my inner dialogue and brought it out. We joked and laughed and discussed what we saw. He helped me see things that I had not seen on my previous visit to the Busan Bienniale. My personal favorite was his interpretation of a work he nicknamed “CCTV”. The first time I had seen this work of art, I did not know what to make of it. I looked at the grid, the yellow arrows, the brown squiggly lines, the gray circles, and then made a connection between the marks in the grid and the “key” to the artwork below. I made a connection, but I could not jump to a story or an interpretation. The work of art did not stick with me. This second time around was different.

Philipp looked at it for a minute, and then said, “Ok. Should I go first or you?” I told him to go ahead.

“So, this artwork is about monitoring, about America monitoring terrorism. These are cameras, and that is the headquarters. Each time a beard [brown, horizontal zigzag line] is found, a record is made, and that person is watched.”

He went on describing his interpretation of what the grid and organizational chart meant. He had a description and connection for each element of the artwork, and I was impressed. He noticed parts of the artwork I had missed and his story made this artwork come alive. With his description, the art became a dynamic, memorable work of art with a story and direction. I appreciated his ability to help me see something I had not seen before.

--written in November 2014 about October 8, 2014.

Red Coat is the Coat on Fire

I know, most of you think of Katniss Everdeen as the Girl on Fire. But on Friday the 13^th, my four year old, shapely red wool peacoat, complemented by me and a chintzy bit of Korean, was the Coat on Fire.

It always stuns me when I have had an article of clothing, be in shoes or a coat or a sweater, for a prolonged period of time, and then I have a day of compliments directed toward that old article. On the day before Valentine’s Day, this flurry of compliments might have had something to do with the color of my coat.

The evening of Friday the 13^th started with a coworker, who honestly must have seen this coat 20 or 30 times by now, saying, “Oh. That’s a really nice coat,” like it was the first time he had ever seen it. I shook my head at this lack of observation skills, and said, “Thanks. It's 100% Korea.”

After work, I headed out to barbecue with one of my coworker turned friends, and proceeded to impress the new waiter at my regular barbecue place with my functional but limited Korean. I tend to have just enough of this language to get myself into a position where the other person assumes my Korean is a lot more extensive than it actually is.

At the end of the meal, when we went to the cash register to pay, and I communicated that we wanted to split the bill, the cashier looked at me and said, “Something something pretty something something.” I just looked at him with a question mark on my face. Previously at this barbecue place I have been told I am beautiful by the wait staff (maybe one of the reasons I keep going back), but this guy had never been involved. The question mark may have turned into a, “Really? That’s nice, but come on,” look.

He recovered quickly, and said the same phrase but gestured to my coat. Ah! Ok. Second compliment on a four-year-old coat in one day. This old girl (the coat) must be building some confidence and putting some swing in her skirt. Of course I said thank you in Korean as politely as I could muster under pressure, which mostly just includes the regular thank you and a slight bow.

On my way home, I decided to stop by the new 7-11 and grab a drink. It was still early, and it was my last Friday at work anyway. Why not celebrate? When I went to the cash register, the old man behind the counter went to grab a bag. I had a bag with me, so I told him in Korean, “It’s ok.” He looked at me a bit surprised, repeated the phrase I had said and kind of chuckled. Then told me how much my drinks were.

When he saw that I did not have to look at the numbers on the screen and was repeating the numbers in Korean to get correct change, he got a little flustered. He asked me in rapid fire Korean where I was from. This is a question I usually understand, so I knew the speed was a bit too fast because I did not understand. I told him, “I don’t know,” in Korean because I haven’t bothered to learn, “I don’t understand.” He said some of the few words he knew in English to communicate he wanted to know where I was from. This use of English probably increased his adrenaline. I did not have exact change. So I gave him 7,000 won for something that cost 6,800, and I told him in Korean that I was from America. He said something in an approving tone and went to grab my change. I could see his hands were visibly shaking, and then he tried to give me all my money back plus the change I was due. I shook my head, and that confused him. He then tried to give me a different amount. I finally told him as best I could, "I gave you 7,000 won" … really just "7,000 won" is all I know how to say in Korean. He understood. His wife, who had been standing by making sure her new employee did not mess up the till, shook her head at him and smiled at me. Then we all kind of laughed, and I walked out the door.

I could not help but wonder if it was more than just my fragmented Korean that threw him off. I wondered if my coat had been possessed somehow.

On my walk home, I laughed a bit more and was thankful that I had decided to go home rather than out on a night when I was wearing the Coat on Fire.

The Coat on Fire as it was in 2011.

The Coat on Fire as it is today.

Conversations with Strangers. Part V.

In preparation for future travels and just to enjoy life more, I have been working on having more human interactions in public places. Overall, I am failing this course. Moscow trained me well to wear a “city face” and stare off into space. For the most part, I do not talk to strangers.

So, when I got onto the train for Daejeon, searched for my seat, and saw that an older Korean woman was sitting in the seat next to mine, I geared up. I could tell from the look on her face that she was ready to chat.

My seat was the aisle, but she insisted that I sit near the window. Because I understood this interaction and the word “sit” in Korean, she continued to speak in Korean. She said something, and I caught the word “pretty.” A nice thing considering I had no make-up on and was wearing my glasses. I said, “Thank you” in Korean.

In Korean, she said, “Ah, you speak Korean!”

Now, I knew I was in for it. I tried to slow her down by saying, “a little,” but she continued speaking to me like I understood everything. Maybe if I had studied Korean formally, the phrases she had used would have been familiar. Maybe if I were always surrounded by women this unapologetic, I would learn more.

She forged ahead and asked me how long I had been in Korea. To simplify things, I told her “eight,” meaning eight months. I did not know the word for years or months, but I could tell by her surprise and expression, she had understood eight years. I fumbled a bit, then took out my notebook and wrote down the date that I arrived in Busan. February 2014. Then she understood. In retrospect, I suppose it is technically nine months now. I communicated that I taught English. After the end of our short interaction about me, there was a lull. I did not know how to ask her about where she lived or what she did, and like I said, I’m failing the course of conversations with strangers.

Then, at about the time the heat in the train was getting unbearable, she piped up. She made a twisting motion with her hand in the air and said something in Korean that I could not quite make out. Based on how I was feeling, I assumed she was talking about the air being turned on, on the train. The motion could easily be interpreted as such. So, I said, “It’s hot,” and fanned myself a bit. She kind of shook her head, not in disgust, but there was a tinge of frustration. She was a talker and needed to be understood. She repeated herself and made the twisting motion again.

Finally, she simplified the thought to one word.

“Gam,” she said. “Gam.”

I shook my head.

She said, “gam” again, and then wrote with her finger in the air the Korean letters in “gam” 감. Luckily I know the Korean alphabet. I guess she could safely assume that because of the bits and parts of Korean that I understood. Still, for some reason, I thought this effort to show me the spelling was odd. Perhaps it was based on her knowledge of English. Maybe she only understood written words. When I shook my head again and told her, “I don’t know,” she said, “gam. Gam,” more loudly. Then she wrote quite emphatically with her finger on the back of the seat in front of us, the three letters that make up “gam” in their syllable block, in Korean.

I could tell she was not going to let it go, and why should she? I live in Korea. I should try to understand what she was getting at. Also, we had a couple hours in front of us. So, I took out my phone and used google translate.

감

In my google translate app, only one translation came up. “Feeling.”

I looked at her confused.  She glanced over. Then she shook her head and said, “gam,” as if searching. So I tried the other letter in Korean that sometimes sounds like a type of “a” 검. That just caused more confusion for me because it means “sword.” Then she did something ingenuous for translating a word that has multiple meanings. She told me a longer phrase. When I typed it in, “persimmon tree” came up. I probably made the most ridiculous, “Ahaa” sound. I knew the word for persimmon in Korean. Why couldn’t I put two and two together?

At that point she must have known exactly how limited my Korean was. She smiled and pointed to herself and communicated that she picks or grows persimmon. Then she rambled on a bit more. I caught “America” “gam”, and I could tell by the intonation it was a question. At this point I started mixing the tiny bit of Korean I had with English to communicate a bigger thought. I tried to tell her, “Yes, we have persimmons in America, but I never tried one until I came to Korea. They are delicious.” I’m certain she understood delicious, but when it came to America, she repeated a similar sounding phrase. She seemed surprised when I said the equivalent of, “Yes, persimmon America.” So I googled “persimmon America” to show her. That seemed to convince her and placate her interest. I tried to communicate my grandma grows apples, by saying the equivalent of “my grandma … apple.” She nodded. I have no idea if she understood. Then the conversation ended abruptly. Language barriers create labor intensive conversation.

Not long after, she got up, stood next to the seat, and let the rightful ticket holder take their seat.

I dreamed out the window about the landscape, the fall leaves, the biking paths, the river, and the mountains. Then the landscape changed rather abruptly. Orangish-red objects covered dark brown trees that had already dropped all their leaves. Rather than fall leaves of all colors, the hillsides were inundated by persimmon tree upon persimmon tree. Quite appropriately at the train station surrounded by persimmon trees, the older woman got off. She smiled, waved goodbye, and stepped into the landscape of persimmon trees.

Bonding with coworkers somewhere outside Fukuoka, Japan

At the end of my first two months back in Korea, work organized a trip to Fukuoka, Japan, using PTO days, and arranging for us to travel in a tour group with a tour guide who feigned no English and talked incessantly.

The first stop on our tour was the Kirin Brewery. Our visit was short, and much like our bus tour, it did not include much English. We all looked forward to a beer after what had already been a long first morning of vacation. When it came time for beer tasting, our tour guide stopped us, gave us the run down, and gave us a time limit.

The gist? Three beers and fifteen minutes.

Suddenly, our relaxing vacation had turned into a drinking contest. We had fifteen minutes before we had to be back on the bus, but we were welcome to try as much beer as we would like. Needless to say, we all downed the first glass of beer and went for a second, some of us a third. Then we all hopped on the bus and headed for a resort in the mountains that was supposed to take all our work stress away.

The resort in the mountains that would take away all our worries.

No one had any idea when our next stop would be, and after about an hour of riding through forested mountains, I began to wonder how far away this fabled resort was. My bladder was starting to feel the pressure of the two beers I had ingested. I held my breath a bit and tried to ignore it.

Then I started squeezing my pinky finger.

Finally, a coworker mentioned her bladder. It was time to build up the courage to demand a pit stop.

Just as I was about to speak up because we kept passing rest stop after rest stop, our bus pulled off into a turnout in the middle of the mountains. I stopped. I looked around. I was confused. This did not look like a rest stop. It looked like the side of the road. It consisted of an information sign, a parking lot, and an old, rundown and closed restaurant. The bus turned around and finally came to a stop. A man from our group jumped up and ran off the bus. Clearly, I was not the only one suffering. 

I said, “Are we stopping? Is this a restroom?”

I knew it was not, but it did not matter. I had to go, and it was either going to happen in the bus and on myself or in the grassy area beside the bus. As I stood up and began the journey from the back of the bus to the door, the tour guide (who “did not speak English” mind you) said to me quite emphatically and in perfect English, “There is no toilet. There is no restroom,” as if men are the only ones who could possibly piss in the woods.

I placed all shame aside and said just as emphatically, “Yes, but I have to GO.”

I felt as if I was going to cry, and I’m sure the tone came across. One of my American cohorts followed suit and was right behind me off the bus. I had no time to be baffled that we were the only ones with full bladders. At this moment, necessity trumped shame, but had it not been for my coworker, my embarrassment at the situation might have been too much. I needed someone to empathize with me. She too could not hold it.

As we looked around for a spot out of view of the road, the bus, and the man already pissing, we realized we would have to wait for the first man to clear from his spot. It was literally the only place hidden from the road. By the time he finished, we had been joined by two more of our coworkers.

After what seemed like hours, the first man left our new found haven.

Without a second thought, three of us, all women, ran to the grassy, overgrown area. We pulled down our pants and shamelessly relieved our bladders. Side-by-side we pissed. None of us cared that we squatted nearly too close for comfort. Instead we laughed at the absurdity of the entire situation.

 If this is what my boss had meant by team building, that is what she got. Get us drunk on too much beer, too quickly, and then do not provide a toilet. There was no time for shame or modesty. When you have to pee, you have to pee.

 Of course, after relieving myself, the shame set in.  As I stepped back on the bus, I averted my eyes and avoided eye contact with everyone. I was humiliated. When I had a moment to think, I realized that no one else on the bus had gone, and they held their bladders for the next two hours.

Later, my coworkers and I theorized that they were either all wearing diapers or had some high-tech catheters. I would not put it past Korea. There are things here that you never even knew you needed.