From Canoes to Subways

 From Canoes to Subways

I grew up where transportation meant water.

On the island, movement felt natural. Canoes cutting across the ocean. Small boats rocking gently with the tide. Even when we weren’t traveling far, the sea was always part of the journey. The rhythm of the waves decided the pace. You couldn’t rush the ocean. You respected it.

Travel wasn’t just about getting somewhere. It was about feeling the wind, smelling salt in the air, and watching the horizon stretch endlessly ahead. There was space to think. Space to breathe.

Now, I move underground.

In Korea, my mornings begin with the subway. Fluorescent lights instead of sunrise. The hum of rails instead of waves. People stand quietly, scrolling on their phones, headphones in, eyes forward. The train arrives exactly on time. It leaves exactly on time. Precision replaces patience.

The subway doesn’t wait for tides.

At first, I felt swallowed by the speed. Everything moved fast — the trains, the crowds, even the expectations. Back home, if you were late, life adjusted. Here, life keeps moving whether you’re ready or not.

But somewhere between canoes and subways, I’ve changed.

The canoe taught me rhythm. It taught me to move with nature, not against it. It taught me that some things cannot be forced. The subway is teaching me momentum. It teaches me direction, structure, and purpose. It reminds me that time is valuable and progress requires discipline.

Sometimes, standing in a crowded train car, I close my eyes for a moment. I imagine the sound of water against wood. I remember the softness of island mornings. And then I open them again to steel, speed, and city lights.

I am shaped by both.

The ocean raised me slowly.
The city is sharpening me quickly.

From canoes to subways, my journey has changed — but the current inside me is still the same.



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