Th e Legends of Yi Sun-shin and His Turtle Ships

The Legends of Yi Sun-shin and His Turtle Ships

Anyone who has been in contact with Korean history for a day has become aware that Admiral Yi Sun-shin is considered to be Korea’s preeminent military hero and his “turtle ships” are considered to be the world’s first iron-clad ships. We know that legends have a tendency to grow with time: Did George Washington really chop his ▲ Portrait of Yi Sunshin. (Busan Cultural Heritage Material No. 56) dad’s cherry tree with a new hatchet, or did his biographer, Mason Locke Weems, create the story for the fifth edition of his biography of Washington? Similarly, how much of the legend of Admiral Yi and his legendary turtle ships is based on fact? Andrew Volle addressed this in two past issues of the Gwangju News’ Behind the Myth column: “Admiral Yi Sun-shin” (October 2013) and “The Turtle Ship” (January 2014). — Ed.

ADMIRAL YI SUN-SHIN: TRUTH OR MYTH?

Admiral Yi Sun-shin (이순신) is Korea’s greatest example of heroism, but how much of his story is true? Without a doubt, his military accomplishments were real. As a commander of Korea’s navy during the Imjin War, the admiral won all 23 naval battles he fought from 1592 to 1598. Even his amazing victory at the Battle of Myeongnyang (명량, island off the coast Jindo Island), in which his 13 ships defeated 133 Japanese ships in 1597, is not questioned by historians. The man was a strategic genius.

For his great contribution to winning the war that took his life, kings and scholars honored Admiral Yi for hundreds of years, but nobody considered him the perfect Korean. (Indeed, a superior officer once falsely charged Yi with desertion in battle, for which Yi was imprisoned and tortured.) After Japan finally took control of Korea in 1895, however, the impression of Yi began to change. Writers thought the people needed a good example to teach them how to fight off Japan. What better person could they choose than Yi, who helped save Korea from the last Japanese attacks?

The writers made Yi more than just a war hero though. In The History of Joseon (조선상고사), Shin Chae-ho (신채호) told readers that Yi was “both a hero and a saint” sent by God. Later, Lee Gwang-su (이광수) wrote the long-running newspaper novel, “Yi Sun-shin,” to establish the admiral’s moral excellence. In the novel, Yi is almost a Korean Christ: a perfect but persecuted man who dies saving his stupid, evil people from themselves. Yi continued to be elevated after Japan’s WWII defeat in 1945. South Korea especially encouraged people to admire Yi during the military rule of President Park Chung-hee from 1963 to 1979. As a war hero, Yi was a great symbol for the army-controlled government.

All this propaganda had the effect of greatly improving the drama of Yi’s story. In life, Yi sometimes filed exaggerated or false reports to the king, hoping to improve his name at the royal court. Today, Yi is known as a man motivated only by love for his country and men, and those who might become angry at Yi’s behavior are remembered as jealous, lying fools. People also think Yi was a genius at building ships, not only fighting with them; he is popularly (but wrongly) believed to have designed the world’s first war ship with iron armor: the turtle ship.

The most dramatic change to Yi’s story is the idea that Yi chose to die in his final battle. Some say Yi preferred death than to be treated badly again by an unappreciative king, so he took off his armor. Others say he wanted to inspire his men, so he stood at his boat’s front. Everyone agrees that as he died, Yi asked for his death to remain secret until after the battle.

The truth is, he might have. That is why historians need to rediscover the real Yi Sun-shin: He was neither the Buddha or a Genghis Khan, but behind Yi’s myth is a man worth knowing.

THE IRONCLAD TURTLE SHIP: FACT OR FICTION

Did Korea really invent the first ship with iron armor?

The question should be asked with sensitivity because of the national pride at risk in the answer. In particular, South Jeolla Province and its port town of Yeosu have long celebrated their status as the home of the geobuk-seon (거북선, turtle-ship), a warship supposedly protected from Japanese projectiles and boarding parties by an iron roof covered in spikes, said to be the first historical use of iron armor in naval warfare.

The turtle ship’s role in Korea’s national mythology is even more important than its role in world history. The ship gets a lot of attention in Korean retellings of the Imjin War, multiple invasions from Japan (1592–1598), which now symbolizes every war. Its creation and use suggests that Korea can compensate for its small size through ingenuity.

Nevertheless, evidence strongly supports the theory that the turtle ships designed in 1592 had only wooden roofs with iron spikes. In his book Yi Chungmugong Haeng-nok (이충무공행록), Yi Bun, nephew to the famous Admiral Yi Sun-shin, described the vessels in detail, explaining that “the turtle’s ‘back’ is a roof made with planks.” The prime minister of Joseon at that time, Yu Seong-nyong (류성룡), also reported that the ships were “covered by wooden planks on top.”

Contradictory evidence is almost nonexistent. Scholars find no mention of plated ships in any Korean writing from the era. Even Admiral Yi Sun-shin, who ordered the construction of the ships, wrote nothing of the idea in his journal, possibly because he realized that putting iron plates on the ships would have been a bad idea. The ships did not need the additional armor; thick wood was enough protection, since the Japanese used few cannons at sea. Moreover, cladding the ships in iron would have slowed them down. Since turtle ships were meant to ram other vessels, their speed was very important. Finally,

But even if the vessel’s architect, Na Dae-yong, did not cover his creations with metal, he still designed a ship worthy of Korean pride. (By the way, Na Dae-yong was a government official who resigned his post in 1587 to return to his hometown of Naju, South Jeolla Province, to devote himself to designing the geobuk-seon.) The geobuk-seon represented a multitude of advancements in shipbuilding. Ironically, one of these advances was the use of wooden nails (pins) instead of metal ones. Metal nails rusted, weakening the ship, but the wooden pins absorbed water and expanded in their holes, which strengthened the ships’ joints. More visibly, the ships became capable of shooting cannonballs directly fore and aft, a new maneuver that the sailors used to brutal advantage; they rammed enemy ships, then fired cannonballs at them at nearly point-blank range.

For now, however, the iron roof remains the mistaken focus of praise for the famed turtle ship.

Written by Andrew Volle. Compiled by David Shaffer.

Sources

신채호. (1931). 조선상고사. Seoul: 조선사연구초. 이과수. (1930, June 26 – 1932, April 3). 이순신. Seoul: Dong-A Ilbo. 이분. (1613). 이충무공행록. Joseon.

Lost in Gwangju

Odds and (Dead) Ends:

The Third Coming

Written and photographed by Isaiah Winters

▲ Safely admiring the view.

Welcome to another wholesale liquidation of the half-baked rejects and lowbrow minutiae cluttering my workspace these last six months. In this edition, we’ll fi rst look at the latest doomsday dictum from Gwangju’s one-and-only Heavenly Father™. Next, we’ll observe English’s longstanding role as a language of love for Gwangju’s lads on the down-low, and then bringing up the rear is a much-needed installation that abridges suicide in the City of Light. So, stow your trays and get ready for another uncomfortable ride.

When Your Preferred Pronoun is “God”

As you’ll recall, Choi “Heavenly Father” Ban-ok is Yangdong’s self-proclaimed messiah, and every so oft en he comes out with a new business card that reads like the Book of Revelation. Distributed freely from a card holder on his front door, I like to stop by every few months and catch up on his latest pocket-sized prophesies. As of my last visit in mid-October, he’s updated his rapture message, gotten a makeover, and newly festooned his home to accommodate a recent uptick in visitors.

Basically, Heavenly Father’s scheme is to convince as many people as possible to register their names at a rural address he owns, which is where he’ll recreate heaven, or something. (How he’d actually profit from this is a mystery that’s captivated me for some time.) According to his latest card, heaven has apparently moved from a tiny rice field along the coast of Yeonggwang-gun to one of the nice little islands off the coast, so things seem to be looking up for him. For those of you who didn’t join his cult on the ground floor like I did, we rejoice in your lamentations.

Aesthetically, his new card is more stylish than ever. I admit I felt American Psycho-like card envy when seeing its backside, which now bears his full-body portrait. Sporting a sleek, buzzed head reminiscent of Charles Manson’s later years, Heavenly Father no longer dons the bold, red robes of his past. His attire of choice today is a refulgent space hanbok of shiny silver and white. The way it sparkles over badly photoshopped blue skies and cottony clouds is simply paradisiacal. Tastefully, the only splash of color in his countenance is the word cheonbu (천부, Heavenly Father) tattooed in red across his forehead. With a mark like that, what more needs to be said?

In terms of his latest apocalypse message, there’s nothing much new. He still controls the world’s doomsday clock 21

and implores you to register at his new address in order to enter heaven. If you don’t, heaven will forever remain cordoned off. Since I’m already a member, I honestly find the warning sign posted on his front door far more interesting. It asks visitors not to knock, but instead to call out to Heavenly Father when seeking entry. As a stern coda, it says those who enter without Heavenly Father’s permission are subject to censure by heavenly decree. When you take all the recent changes together – the stack of new white shoes out front, the updated cards, and the new makeover – it suggests that the house has been seeing an increase in visitors over the last six months. I wish the cult well.

English: The Language of Disparate Lovers

I’ve long believed that English, more than any other living tongue on Earth, is the undisputed language of love for disparate peoples. Of course, it’s not the sound, rhythm, or romanticism of English that makes it so. Instead, it’s the sheer number of both native and non-native speakers that allows more people of various unrelated backgrounds to randomly hook up than any other language. Pair up any two people with different mother tongues anywhere in the world over and over again and, most likely, English will emerge as the dominant enabler of intercourse.

An example of this is etched on the wall of a seedy back alley between Geumnam-ro and Daein Market.

Not far from a string of sex shops and senior-citizen dance clubs known as colatheques (콜라텍) is a sort of preinternet Grindr profi le for someone seeking “behindsex” at “Korea teatre” on “土,” (토 / to, Saturday) at 4:00 p.m. Th e specifi c spelling, capitalization, and lexicon used all off er insightful hints at who might have etched this enduring public service announcement. As your humble linguistic confi dant, I’ve spent innumerable late nights wrapping my head around this longstanding enigma and have come to certain dispassionate conclusions.

Of course, “behindsex” isn’t the native English-speaking nomenclature, while “18–23 Age Men” uses rather unorthodox grammar, punctuation, and capitalization. Furthermore, the use of hanja (Chinese characters) to mark the day of the week is quite telling. Also of particular interest is the spelling of “teatre” which, aft er a lot of late-night Googling (for research purposes, of course), links strongly to a few diff erent theater venues in Barcelona, Spain. Th is could be because Spanish is likely the second-most common language spoken among lovers of disparate mother tongues, or maybe he was just sounding out “theater” in his head and, lacking a dictionary, came up with this unique spelling.

Ultimately, if I had to guess the background of this protoGrindr graffi ti artist, I’d say he’s an older Korean male who’s learned a fair amount of English in life and maybe traveled to Europe a bit. If I had to venture an alternative guess, I’d say he was a transient European who loved going downtown for anonymous romps on weekends. (Note: In preparation for this article, I spent an entire Saturday aft ernoon in front of Gwangju Th eater looking blissfully available but sadly failed to establish any liaisons. Maybe it was my age.) As they say, more research is required, I guess.

Bridging the Gap

Exactly two years ago, Lost in Gwangju covered the tragic beauty of Nam-gu’s Cloud Bridge, a 37-meter-high pedestrian overpass spanning a narrow valley along the ridge of Jeseok-san in Bongseon-dong. Th e bridge has unfortunately been the site of many suicides, including two in 2017 that took place on the same day. Th e victims were lovers in their twenties, one of whom was a young man suff ering from mental and fi nancial diffi culties and the other a young woman who couldn’t stand to go on alone in his wake. A year and a half aft er that article was published, the bridge was given a signifi cant safety facelift that ironically created an entirely new crisis.

▲ Seeking Garrison fi nish downtown.

During a revisit to the bridge last spring, I was surprised to fi nd that a forest fi re had scorched much of the nearby mountainside. Even more surprising was the fact that the bridge’s safety railing had very recently been reinforced and topped with a spinning anti-suicide bar. Aft er doing a little research, it turned out that while workers were cutting and welding the railing for the new safety installment, the nearby hillside caught fi re, likely from sparks fl ying down onto the dry vegetation. Luckily, the fi re was extinguished in about an hour and no one was injured.

Whereas the railing was previously only about chest high, now it towers above most people’s heads and curves inward, making it much harder to climb. Th e spinning top bar works a lot like beads on an abacus, with little spinning discs lining the bar’s entirety and making it hard to get a grip on the top rung. It’s an ingenious addition that has almost no eff ect on the stellar view and maintains the original aesthetic of the bridge. I’ve got nothing but praise for whoever proposed that fi x and highly recommend you visit the bridge to enjoy both its beauty and ingenuity.

Th ere you have it, dear readers. I hope you’ve enjoyed the third coming of Odds and (Dead) Ends. Whether you’re in search of an up-and-coming cult, weekend passion, or a new lease on life, Lost in Gwangju’s got you covered.

The Author

Originally from Southern California, Isaiah Winters is a Gwangju-based urban explorer who enjoys writing about the City of Light’s lesser-known quarters. When he’s not roaming the streets and writing about his experiences, he’s usually working or fulfi lling his duties as the Gwangju News’ heavily caff einated chief proofreader.