Memories of Sokcho – A Story from Several Years Ago
I visited Sokcho.
When I lived in Korea, Sokcho was an unfamiliar place I had never been to.
Since I had served in the 12th Division, headquartered in Wontong, I could have visited a couple of times during my military service if I had wanted to.
However, just as I am now, I wasn’t particularly proactive back then, and I never even considered heading toward the East Sea.
There was a military checkpoint at Hangyeryeong Pass, which marked the boundary of our division’s restricted area.
Some of my fellow soldiers had thrilling stories of sneaking into Sokcho to enjoy sashimi.
But since I neither liked sashimi nor alcohol, and had no interest in photography as I do now, there was never a reason compelling enough for me to risk punishment under the serious charge of “leaving the restricted area.”
To me, Sokcho was like sashimi—I didn’t particularly like it, so I would eat it if someone else offered, but I would never go out of my way to buy it myself.
If I were to compare Sokcho to something else, it was like one of the many girls who briefly passed through my memories during adolescence.
Hearing the name "Sokcho" brought back a long-forgotten face. It was a vague curiosity, a fleeting desire to see that face just once.
Sokcho was a place I had no real connection with, yet one that also wasn’t entirely unrelated to me.
This time, thanks to a friend’s kindness, I finally had the opportunity to visit.
Perhaps it was like revisiting an old crush—someone erased from my mind, whom I had never truly been close to but still felt a slight thrill of curiosity about.
The person who took an entire day to accompany me on this nostalgic journey did so purely out of generosity.
To give someone your time is to give them a part of yourself.
That’s why setting aside time for another person is an act of love and sacrifice.
For someone like me, who loves visiting new places, the chance to go to Sokcho was an irresistible temptation.
Without hesitation, I accepted the offer.
And strangely, I felt a growing sense of excitement.
We planned to leave at dawn, around 4 a.m. on Friday.
Forty years ago, when I still lived in Korea, a day trip from the Seoul metropolitan area to Sokcho would have been nearly impossible.
The journey required navigating winding mountain roads, many of which were unpaved, making it a time-consuming endeavor.
That was part of the reason Sokcho had remained a distant, unfamiliar place for me.
The thought of seeing the winter sea and passing through Inje—a place that had once been a part of my youth—stirred old memories, making me go to bed with anticipation.
But at 12:30 a.m., I woke up due to jet lag.
Between midnight and 3 a.m., I would inevitably wake up.
I watched Kim Ki-duk’s eerie film The Isle, browsed the internet, and before I knew it, it was 4 a.m.
About ten minutes later, my friend arrived to pick me up.
As I got into the car, he handed me a cup of coffee, prepared by his wife.
Since staying at my mother’s house, I hadn’t been able to enjoy a proper cup of coffee.
Moreover, my taste had become too refined for instant coffee or those old-school packet mixes.
Waking up at dawn gave me an intense craving for coffee—perhaps akin to the way an alcoholic craves their first drink in the morning.
And there it was, right in front of me—the coffee I had been longing for.
The moment felt almost euphoric, like an addict receiving their fix.
Even if someone had offered me a stack of cash at that moment, I wouldn’t have traded it for that cup of coffee—at least not then.
Desperation had cast a spell on the coffee, making it taste like the best in the world.
Love is like that—a simple cup of coffee, handed over with sincerity.
That morning, I was deeply moved by a single cup of coffee.
As I sipped it slowly, I also savored the warmth of the couple’s kindness.
A good cup of coffee can delight the palate, but only a coffee brewed with love can touch the heart.
It must be tasted not just with the tongue but with the heart.
Only then can we truly call it moving.
A Coffee Brewed with Heart
That coffee, and the time my friend devoted to me, moved me deeply.
He didn’t even use GPS (which people in Korea commonly call “Navi”); instead, he drove through the darkness as if he were heading home, without hesitation.
Soon, we passed Paldang Dam and Yangsu-ri.
Streetlights flickered in the darkness like distant memories.
To me, places like Paldang and Yangsu-ri had always symbolized hope.
When I was in the army and returning home on leave, passing those areas meant I was getting closer to Seoul—a feeling of anticipation would surge within me.
Of course, heading back to the base had the exact opposite effect.
But something about those lights felt unfamiliar.
This wasn’t the road I used to take when going on leave.
The once winding paths, which I remembered as 80-90% curves, had been straightened, like bent wires pulled taut.
Thirty years had not only transformed city landscapes but also the very shape of the roads.
I felt like I was traveling through an entirely new world.
The distant glow of streetlights seemed almost piercingly cold.
Was it because of the winter air?
Memories, nostalgia, and even the concept of home—after enough time, they fade from physical space and exist only in the dust-covered corners of our minds.
Lost in thought, I saw signs for Hangyeryeong, Jinburyeong, and Misiryeong Passes appearing along the way.
These were places I had never visited before.
The once winding, spiral-like mountain roads had been replaced with tunnels, making the journey straight and direct.
There was no more time to leisurely take in the scenery—only a forward-focused, fast-paced drive.
Curves symbolize relaxation.
Or perhaps, they represent a sense of ease.
Back in the day, when an elderly man needed to relieve himself on a long-distance bus, the driver and passengers would patiently wait for him to finish.
In this era of straight roads, do we still have the patience and warmth of the past?
We have gained speed and efficiency but lost the gentleness and human connection that once existed in our curved paths.
Before, one would say, “I crossed Misiryeong Pass.”
Now, it’s, “I passed through the Misiryeong Tunnel.”
Not long after passing through the tunnel, I began to see faint silhouettes of snow-covered mountains emerging in the darkness.
My friend pointed to them and said, “That’s Seoraksan.”
The sight was indescribably beautiful and mysterious.
In the early morning light, Seoraksan exuded an almost mystical energy, touching something deep inside me.
Perhaps the mountain truly had some spiritual aura that resonated within me, but whatever it was, the feeling belonged firmly within the realm of awe.
Lost in that sense of wonder, morning arrived.
And before I knew it, we were in Sokcho.