Jeju Mornings, Haenyeo Legends, and the Perfect Bite
Something about waking up on Jeju Island threw my entire morning routine into chaos. No local coffee joints, no easy breakfast options—just a long line of groggy travelers shuffling toward the Starbucks in the resort mall, desperately clutching at some semblance of caffeine-fueled normalcy. I won’t lie—I caved. But at least Jeju’s Starbucks had its own exclusive drinks, including the Jeju Forest Matcha Latte, which—for someone who doesn’t even like matcha—was ridiculously good.
Today’s plan? A ferry ride to U-Do, a volcanic island off Jeju’s coast, which is known for its stunning landscapes and one of Korea’s most endangered traditions: the Haenyeo.
The Haenyeo (해녀) are Korea’s legendary free-diving women, harvesting seafood with nothing but their lungs and homemade gear. Fierce, resilient, and utterly irreplaceable, these women were once the backbone of island life, supporting entire families with their skills. But today, with less than 2,000 left—most well into their 60s or 70s—the tradition is fading. In another 30 to 50 years, they may be gone entirely.
But before we got to the Haenyeo, we had another mission.
Shaved ice.
Hallabong (한라봉), Jeju’s famous citrus, is the kind of fruit that makes you believe in summer again. Sweet, tangy, and bursting with the kind of flavor that can reboot your soul on a humid day. We found a shop on U-Do that made hallabong bingsu (shaved ice), and it was everything we needed. The elderly men running the shop were so delighted by our attempts at Korean that they kept slipping us extra candy and cheering us on. “Keep practicing!” They grinned, their English as broken as our Korean—but it didn’t matter. In those few minutes, we weren’t tourists and shopkeepers. We were just people sharing a small, fleeting moment of joy.
After enjoying our bingsu at the black sand beach, it was time. Our guide, Anna, warned us: the Haenyeo aren’t exactly chatty. They don’t do performances. They’re not here to entertain tourists. They work. And after spending hours free-diving in frigid waters, the last thing they want is a bunch of foreigners waving cameras in their faces.
Fair enough.
Still, when we arrived at a rocky peninsula, we could just barely spot them. Neon orange buoys bobbing in the waves. And beneath them? The Haenyeo.
For centuries, these women have braved the Pacific, diving deep without oxygen tanks, emerging only when their bodies demanded air. It’s as raw and elemental as survival gets. And yet, this way of life—this quiet defiance of gravity and limitation—is slipping away. We watched from the shore, silent, reverent. And then, one of them surfaced.
She swam to shore, her basket overflowing with urchins. A man arrived on an ATV, loading her haul with practiced ease. Dr. Woo seized the moment, approaching her in Korean. And—to our shock—she agreed to speak with us. Through Dr. Woo, she explained: fewer girls are training to become Haenyeo. It’s too hard. Too dangerous. Too uncertain. And in a few decades, there may be none left. She let us take photos with her. A rare, generous moment. And then she was gone, back home to catalog her catch of the day.
By the time we left U-Do, I was starving. But Jeju? As I said before, it's a dangerous place for someone allergic to shellfish. We had ordered burgers from a well-known shop—only to find out that they also specialized in shrimp burgers and *used the same grill for everything. So, while the rest of the group devoured their food, I sat there, itchy, miserable, and cursing my genetic inability to safely enjoy most Korean seafood.
Desperate for a distraction, I wandered to the nearby white sand beach. And just like that, I was back in Hawaii. The sand was soft, ground-down seashells. The water was electric blue, warm, familiar. I dug my toes into the sand and let the Pacific remind me that, no matter where I go, it’s always waiting. The same ocean that cradled my childhood in California. The same ocean that surrounded me in Hawaii. And now, on the other side of the world, it was here too.
While at the beach, we met a group of tourists in full goth attire, trying to take Instagram-worthy shots in the midday sun.
We approached them in Korean.
**Blank stares.**
Then, one girl hesitantly asked, “Do you speak English?”
We nodded.
Her face lit up. “China,” she said, pointing to herself and her friends.
With the help of Papago (which, fun fact, translates Chinese too), we offered to take their photos, and they did the same for us. A tiny moment of cross-cultural connection.
From there left the beach behind and headed back to the main town on U-Do where we boarded the ferry and headed to our next stop—a famous hike featuring an old signal house from the Joseon Dynasty. Back in the day, guards would light a fire here to warn of danger, sending flames roaring into the sky. Then, the next signal house miles away would do the same.
Then the next.
And the next.
Until, eventually, Seoul itself was ablaze with warning. A literal Lord of the Rings-style beacon system. By the end of the hike, I was sunburned beyond recognition. (We’re talking second-degree burns here.) But ice pops and copious amounts of aloe vera helped numb the pain.
Our final stop of the day? A legendary Jeju meal.
Now, you can’t come to Korea without eating Korean barbecue. And you can’t come to Jeju without eating black pork. This was the meal I had been waiting for. Fatty, marbled cuts of pork sizzling over charcoal, the aroma of garlic and spice thick in the air. The perfect bite:
Crispy, melt-in-your-mouth pork.
Fermented kimchi, still sizzling from the grill.
Spicy ssamjang sauce.
A fresh, crisp lettuce wrap to hold it all together.
Hot and cold. Salty and sweet. Spicy and savory. A masterclass in balance. And for the first time in Korea, I was able to get a personal favorite: steamed egg. By the time we left, we were slow-moving, satisfied, and maybe a little delirious from food euphoria.
Back at the hotel, I collapsed into bed, sunburnt but happy.
Tomorrow, another adventure awaited. But for now?
Sleep.
