By Matt Filbeck
The boat motor had stopped working over an hour ago, and we were struggling to get to the bank, paddling as though our lives depended on it. The rain was coming in buckets, the shoreline a million miles away. The “bow” was on an inflatable two-man rubber boat that we’d paid $100 for, and the trolling motor our sole means of propulsion. Think Alaskan river boat meets swimming pool float.
Rich and I had been friends for years, grown up together in Georgia, and spent most of our adult lives as government contractors working around the globe. He’d arrived in South Korea months before and, when we’d last spoken on the phone, demanded that I “bring the bare minimum clothing and pack as much fishing gear as possible.” I cleared out the lures at Bass Pro and got on the plane, arriving 25 hours later, and went straight to bed. I woke up to his calling at 5 am—time to fish.
Foreign Waters
Months later, we were here, fighting to stay afloat on Andong Lake in the worst storm I’d ever experienced. We’d arrived at the lake earlier that morning to scope it out prior to the Korean Sport Fishermen’s (KSA) international tournament, which started the next day. As foreigners, we were to be paired with a Korean fisherman in an effort to raise awareness of bass fishing in Asia, modeling their slogan, “Fishing brings people together.”
Four hours after the motor died, with back and arm muscles screaming for relief, we arrived at shore soaked to the bone and near hypothermic. Eager to get warm, I jumped in my Hyundai Galloper, pressed the gas pedal, and heard the engine rev, but she didn’t move.
Getting out, I looked. “Son of a bitch.” We were sitting on the axles in knee-deep mud. Stuck. Bad.
With no other option, we grabbed our kayak paddles and started digging. Two hours later, covered in mud with fingers we could no longer feel, she was free.
Lost in Translation
Andong, Korea, is not a huge city, so finding lodging was difficult. Luckily, we came across a rundown motel and walked into its poorly lit foyer. Immediately, I noticed nothing was translated into English. A grunt behind an interrogation-looking glass welcomed us, and I told the old man we needed two rooms. He took our money and threw me two sets of keys with disdain.
My room was typical for a one-star joint like this—crappy lamp, old mattress, dingy linens. But the bathroom. It was double the size of the bedroom with a walk-in shower boasting eight heads and large enough to park a truck. Odd.
Later, finally showered and warm, Rich and I rehashed the day’s events over a gas station bento box dinner. We cheers’d our tenacity, shotgunned a couple Hite beers, and headed back to the hotel for desperately needed sleep.
Going Nocturnal
The night was uneventful save for a repeated knocking at my door every two hours. A light sleeper, I awoke each time, would open the door, look down the hallway, but no one was ever there. Again, odd.
Morning came quickly, so Rich and I grabbed breakfast from the same gas station as the night before. Walking in, we were greeted by a nice, English-speaking Korean working the register.
Usual pleasantries aside, he asked, “What brings you here, and where did you stay?”
“From Georgia and the hotel next door,” I replied.
Looking puzzled, he informed us, “There are no hotels within 10 miles of this store.”
Rich and I exchanged quizzical smirks.
With eyes alight as if he’d solved a mystery, he outburst, “You stayed the night in the brothel,” and doubled over in laughter.
A brothel. Nice. At least that explained a few things. We grabbed our food and high-tailed it out of there, heading back to Andong Lake.
Game Day
Parked on high ground, away from mud, Rich and I realized this was no small fishing event like originally marketed. It was huge. Hundreds of Koreans, Japanese, and a few Americans waited in registration lines. I completed an application and received my license as an official Korean Sport Fisherman, before drawing a number and being introduced to Mr. Kim, a 5-foot-4-inch guy with thick glasses, likely twice my age, who didn’t speak any English. He was to be my partner for the day.
Start time was upon us, so Kim and I made our way to his Bass Tracker, where I climbed aboard and immediately punted his box of weights—hundreds of weights of various sizes exploded in all directions. He grumbled and shook his head in disgust while I apologized. “Great start, Matt”, I mumbled. “Great start.”
The next two hours, Mr. Kim never smiled, looked in my direction, or acknowledged my existence. But then, I put the first fish in the boat, and then the second. Sweet redemption. I was no longer a walking, foreign liability.
Mixed Bag, Full Sack
The day proved fruitful. Ol’ Kim and I shared a few Hite’s I’d picked up at the brothel gas station, and I taught him a new English word. While reeling in fish, I have a habit of calling for a net, whether required or not. I’ve done it for years and learned it from my grandfather. This time was no different, and Mr. Kim, being the fast learner he was, followed suit, yelling, “NET-o!!!!NET-ooooo!!!!” when he landed three huge bass.
Back on shore, I found Rich, and we watched in amazement as some of the largest bass I’d ever seen were weighed. I had no idea what was said for 99% of the awards ceremony, but when it was time for the winners to be called, I heard, “Misser Maffew and Misser Kim, numbah fourff.”
We were both shocked! Fourth place?! We shook hands, hugged like brothers, and smiled proudly for the cameras. We were the perfect cross-cultural embodiment of the tournament’s slogan; fishing really does bring people together.
