The luggage drop area at 1st Incheon International
Ferry Terminal consists of an area of about 100 square metres. It was crammed
with trolleys, people packing and wrapping box upon box of rice cookers and
other electrical goods, ready for the journey across the Yellow Sea. Litter and
discarded tape lay scattered across the floor. I took my backpack and set it down on the x-ray machine so that it could be checked in.
Once I was aboard the ferry, I felt as though I was also adrift. I had taken leave of family and friends, and a chapter of sorts had been completed by my departure from South Korea. The feeling seemed comparable to dropping a feather over the side of a boat, and watching the beauty of nature at work as it floats away, but knowing that it can not be retrieved.
If I was feeling lonely, the ferry was a good place to be. I
wandered around the decks, viewing Incheon from the boat. A woman asked me to
take a picture of her and her friend, and then made the effort to start a
conversation with me, asking questions in halting English. She was going on a
hiking trip with an 18 person-strong tour group. As the ferry left port,
seagulls hung in the air just above the deck, presumably using the slipstream
from the boat to help them glide.
We passed under a bridge and by a small island, its pilot’s boat
coming out to sail alongside us for a while before heading back to the island
to which it belonged. The only other Westerner on the boat, a man of about 65,
said hello to me as I walked past.
I sat down again. Two men were already at the picnic table in
the outside area at the stern, where passengers could enjoy the sea air. They offered me a beer; we said “Cheers” and shared snacks. The sky went
red as the sun set behind more of the small islands that are sprinkled around
the coast here.
Groups of middle-aged people gathered on the deck in their
polyester hiking gear, drinking soju and singing Korean folk songs in chorus. I
returned to my bunk, tired. In the morning I would be in China.
