My Visit to Jeju Island
I stepped off the gangway at Jeju Port on a Tuesday morning in late October, and the first thing I noticed was the smell — salt air mingled with something faintly sweet, almost like citrus blossoms carried on a cool breeze from the island's interior. The sky was a pale, washed blue, the kind you only see in the shoulder season when summer's haze has finally cleared. My wife and I had been looking forward to this stop for months. We had read about the lava tubes, the volcanic peak, the women divers. But nothing we read prepared us for what Jeju actually felt like beneath our feet.
Our taxi driver, a quiet man in his sixties, drove us east along the coastal road toward Seongsan Ilchulbong — Sunrise Peak. I watched the landscape shift through the window: low stone walls made of dark volcanic rock lined the fields, tangerine orchards stretched across gentle hillsides in neat rows, their fruit glowing orange against deep green leaves. Every few minutes we passed another dol hareubang, the stone grandfather statues carved from basalt that stand guard across the island. My wife pointed at each one, delighted. The driver smiled but said nothing. He had seen a thousand tourists discover what he had always known.
Seongsan Ilchulbong rose from the ocean ahead of us like a fortress built by the earth itself. The tuff cone, formed over 5,000 years ago when seawater met molten magma, stands 600 feet above the waves. I started up the stairs, and within ten minutes I was breathing hard. The steps are steep but well-maintained. However, I noticed that the path was not wheelchair accessible — travelers with mobility challenges should be aware that this hike involves continuous stair climbing. Halfway up, I paused to look back. The harbor below had shrunk to miniature. Fishing boats bobbed like toys. I could hear the wind now, a steady sound pushing across the crater rim, and I felt it cool against my damp forehead.
At the summit, I stood at the edge of the crater and looked down into the bowl of green below — grasses and wildflowers filling the ancient volcanic vent. The ocean stretched in every direction, cobalt blue fading to silver at the horizon. My heart swelled with something I could not name. It was not just the view, though the view was extraordinary. It was the knowledge that I was standing on the rim of an explosion that happened before human memory, and that the violence had become this — this quiet, wind-swept beauty. I whispered a quiet prayer of gratitude, grateful to be standing in a place where creation's power was so evident.
We descended and drove to the coast near Seongsan where the haenyeo — Jeju's legendary women sea divers — were preparing for their morning harvest. These women, many of them in their seventies, have been diving without oxygen tanks for generations, plunging 33 feet into cold water to harvest abalone, sea urchin, and octopus. UNESCO recognizes their practice as Intangible Cultural Heritage. I watched as they waded into the surf in their black wetsuits, their faces weathered and calm. One by one they disappeared beneath the surface. I counted the seconds — thirty, forty, fifty — before they surfaced with their catch, gasping and laughing and passing conch shells to a younger woman on shore. Yet there was a sadness beneath the spectacle. Their average age rises each year. Fewer young women choose to carry on the work. I was watching a way of life that my grandchildren may only read about.
From there we drove inland toward Manjanggul Lava Tube, one of the world's finest lava tube systems. The entrance felt like stepping into another world entirely. The air shifted immediately — cool, damp, about 54 degrees Fahrenheit even though it was warm outside. The tunnel stretched ahead of us, lit by soft amber lights along a walkway. The ceiling soared 75 feet overhead in places, tall enough for a seven-story building. I reached out and touched the wall — rough, porous basalt, still bearing the texture of the moment it hardened from flowing magma thousands of years ago. Lava stalactites hung from the ceiling like frozen tears. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness, each drop echoing through the vast chamber. I stood still and listened. The silence between drops was enormous. My wife took my hand and we walked deeper in, past lava columns and formations that looked like melted cathedrals.
After the lava tube we stopped at a roadside stand selling fresh-squeezed tangerine juice for 3,000 won — about $2. The taste was unlike any citrus I have had — intensely sweet with a brightness that seemed to carry the island's sunshine in liquid form. We bought a bag of hallabong tangerines to take back to the ship, five for 5,000 won. The vendor, a woman with sun-browned hands, told us in halting English that her family had grown tangerines on this land for three generations. I savored each sip of that juice as though it were distilled from the island's own story.
In the afternoon we visited the lower slopes of Hallasan Mountain, South Korea's tallest peak at 6,388 feet. The full summit hike takes eight to nine hours — far too long for a cruise day. But the Eorimok Trail, a shorter two-to-three-hour loop, gave us a glimpse of the mountain's cloud forest. I walked under canopies of ancient trees draped in moss, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. Birds I could not identify called from the branches. The trail was peaceful, almost meditative. Despite the crowds at the trailhead, we found ourselves alone after twenty minutes. The mountain swallowed sound. I felt small beneath it, and grateful. Looking back now, I realize that Hallasan was not a destination but a threshold — a place where the busy mind finally quiets and something deeper speaks.
We returned to the port through Jeju City, stopping briefly at a small restaurant near the waterfront where we ordered heukdwaeji — Jeju black pork — grilled thick-cut at our table. The cost was about 15,000 won per serving, roughly $11. The pork was rich, tender, distinctly different from any I had tasted before, served with fresh kimchi and leafy greens for wrapping. The warmth of the grill, the savory smoke rising between us, the sound of meat sizzling on the hot plate — it was a sensory experience as complete as any museum or monument. Though I had come to Jeju for its geology, it was the food that anchored me to this place.
As our taxi pulled up to the cruise terminal, I looked back at the island one last time. Hallasan's summit was hidden in clouds, as it often is. The late-afternoon light caught the tangerine orchards on the hillside, turning them gold. Somewhere along the coast, the haenyeo were ending their day, hauling their catch ashore as they had done for centuries. I realized then what Jeju had taught me. The lesson was simple but it took a full day to learn: the most powerful forces — fire, water, time — do not only destroy. They create. They carve tunnels from lava, shape peaks from ash, build an island from the sea floor and then dress it in green. Sometimes you have to stand in the crater, or walk through the cave, or watch an old woman surface from the deep, to understand that destruction and beauty are not opposites. They are partners in a story that never ends.
I learned that Jeju is not a place you visit — it is a place that visits you, long after you have sailed away. The images stay: the dark walls of the lava tube, the orange of the tangerines, the weathered faces of the haenyeo. I carry them with me still, and I suspect I always will.
