The Old Man and the Sea

It was the end of last year. My wife, who works at a bank, was assigned to Singapore as an expatriate for three years. It was a hard-earned opportunity, she said. I told her it was great news—and I genuinely meant it. We sat down to talk about how we could make this chapter meaningful. We decided to send our elementary-school-aged daughter to an international school in Singapore. We felt deeply grateful for such a rare opportunity in our lives. But then, one question started gnawing at me: What about me? Should I go too?

At the time, I had just started settling into my role as the head of a public health center. I liked my colleagues and found the work rewarding. I didn’t want to leave. Yet, the thought of living apart from my family was just as unsettling. Should I take a break from work? Four years ago, when my wife went to study in the UK for a year, I had no hesitation leaving my hard-earned management post to follow her. If I didn’t go this time, my mother-in-law would have to join them instead—how difficult would it be for her in a country where she doesn’t even speak the language?

But when I took a step back and thought rationally, it became clear this wasn’t a decision to take lightly. In London, I was surrounded by museums I loved, and it was only for a year. But in Singapore—a place even smaller than Busan—could I really endure three years of being unemployed? I wasn’t sure I could cope with the monotony. I remembered how, years ago, my father had tied up our intelligent Jindo dog to stare at the mountain alone in the countryside. It didn’t take long for that clever dog to lose its spirit. If I stopped working, my monthly paycheck would vanish too—and that couldn’t be ignored.

Time passed, and suddenly it was 2025. My wife, daughter, and mother-in-law moved to Singapore, and I remained alone in Busan—for three years, from 2025 to 2027. The reality hit harder than expected. The most difficult part is walking into a silent house after work. I have a wife and a child—so why is no one beside me now? I see them every morning and evening through video calls, but once the screen turns off, the silence rushes in like it’s been waiting all along. Why am I doing this alone? That bitter question lingers in my mind.

So I came up with a solution. I set a rule for myself: I would visit Singapore once a month. Our child is growing, and my wife and I are growing older. This time will never come again. I felt a desperate need to create memories, even if they were spaced out. So far, I’ve managed to stick to the plan—thanks to the understanding and support of everyone around me, from my coworkers to the district mayor. And I can’t leave out my mother-in-law, who left home to help take care of her granddaughter. It’s a debt of gratitude I’ll carry with me for life.

Right now, I’m writing this on a plane to Singapore. I’ve just finished the last chapter of Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. Looking out the window, I see the vast ocean stretching across the horizon—just like in the novel. The story is deceptively simple: an old fisherman goes far out to sea and, after three days of struggle, catches a giant marlin. But on his way back, sharks attack and leave him with only the fish’s skeleton. And yet, this story continues to move readers decades after it was written—for good reason.

The joy Santiago feels when he finally catches the marlin. His quiet longing for the boy’s presence beside him. The sense of fulfillment—more than despair—as he brings back only bones. I usually try not to insert myself into the stories I read; doing so feels like too narrow a way to experience a novel. Still, isn’t the power of a great story exactly that—it compels us to reflect on our own lives?

What is it that I want to achieve in life? To be a model husband and father? A respected colleague at work? Or do I really just crave those affirmations from others? Then again, how different is that from the marlin Santiago caught and tied to his boat—beautiful, but ultimately torn apart by sharks? Aren’t such things just as fleeting, even if they’re meaningful while they last?

Maybe the question “What do I want to achieve in life?” is flawed. Life shouldn’t be a means to an end. It should be the end in itself. I shouldn’t celebrate my wife’s assignment abroad because I want to be a supportive husband—I should celebrate it because something good happened to someone I love. I shouldn’t visit my daughter every month to be a responsible father—I should do it because spending time with her is precious in its own right. I shouldn’t work hard just to gain recognition—I should find fulfillment in the process itself, in the relationships I build and the work I do. Actually, even that’s not quite right. It’s not about what I should do—it’s about what I want to do.

And perhaps I don’t need to reject those outward-facing desires entirely. Santiago longs for the boy’s companionship, he feels a kinship with the marlin he kills, and he misses the community he’s part of. All of this reminds me that humans aren’t meant to live alone—we are shaped by the people and world around us. Maybe the desire to be seen and valued by others isn’t so futile after all. Maybe it’s simply part of what makes us human.

We will all die someday. Despite knowing that time moves inevitably toward death, I still strive to live each moment meaningfully. But what does “meaningful” even mean? Is it a real thing? Perhaps the meaning of life isn’t in the destination, but in the act of living itself—day by day. It’s not about achieving something, but about being present in the process. That alone is enough. As critics have long noted, Santiago’s journey reflects the Sisyphean nature of the human condition.

The Old Man and the Sea has already been dissected countless times as a literary classic. The Korean edition I read, published by Minumsa, includes a lengthy commentary by the translator. I don’t claim to have a better interpretation, nor is that my goal. Instead, like all timeless books that reveal new truths with each reader and each generation, my job is simply to reflect on my own life after reading it. That is the most honest response I can offer.

So now I ask: Are you living life as an end in itself—or has it become a means to chase something hollow? Are you weary of living to be seen, or have you swung to the opposite extreme, convinced that “nothing but myself matters”? As you follow Santiago’s three-day struggle, I hope you uncover your own story—one that no one else can ever truly know.