Sir, You Can't Sleep Here!

[Series: Life Like a Panorama - Guleopdo, Incheon] Ep. 3 "Sir, You Can't Sleep Here!"

We clinked our glasses, only to realize the evening glow had already settled around us.

The sun dipped lower, and the wind grew colder. The grass, warm during the day, quickly cooled and gathered dew as the shadows stretched.

Backpackers started prepping dinner at their own spots. The sound of hammering tent pegs faded, replaced by the rustling of wrappers, water pouring, and quiet laughter.

Perhaps out of respect for nature, everyone was pulling out no-cook meals.

We dug through our bags too. Self-heating ramen that cooks with just water. Canned tuna. Beef jerky. And vacuum-packed Jokbal (braised pig's trotters).

There were no fancy dishes, nor any impressive gear. We just tore open plastic wraps, popped bottles, and shared chopsticks.

Yet, this might be the most beautiful moment in the world. Feeling the ocean breeze while filling our stomachs—what more could we possibly need?

We talked about business, parenting, and finances. We shared our dreams and worried about how we should navigate life moving forward.

My old friend was still exactly the same.

He’s a father now. He has a lot of responsibilities waiting for him back home, but his way of speaking hasn't changed. Even his comedic timing is the same— whenever I say something ridiculous, he still lets out that delayed chuckle.

We chatted for a long time until silence naturally fell between us. I looked up, and the stars were out. Sure, it wasn't the sweeping starry sky we once saw together in Mongolia, but the dim night sea blended perfectly with the starlight. One by one, the tents on the hill turned into small lamps, becoming the only beacons in the dark.

We sat there a bit longer before crawling into our respective tents. Mine was a single-person tent from AliExpress. It cost me a grand total of $6.

It was so ridiculously cheap that I had my doubts. Since I didn't have time to unbox it at home, I opened it right there on the hill—and surprisingly, everything was included. Fabric, poles, pegs... it was almost fascinating that nothing was missing.

"What? $6? That's a steal! Mine was way more expensive and didn't even come with pegs." My friend had joked earlier in the day when the sun was still high, watching me hammer down the pegs.

Yeah, I figured as long as everything was there, it would work out somehow.

Once I got into my sleeping bag, it wasn't too bad.

'It is pretty cold, though.' But maybe because I was in a good mood, the air felt incredibly refreshing. The air hitting the tip of my nose was as crisp as it was cold.

Outside, the sound of ship horns echoed in the distance, and the distant waves crashing relentlessly. The tent fabric flapped in the wind.

I must have dozed off. I woke up several times during the night. It felt like something was dragging me down to the bottom of the island.

I don't know how many times I woke up. But at some point, I felt something touching my face. I thought my sleeping bag had ridden up to my neck, but reaching out in a sleepy daze, I realized it was the tent fabric.

Why was the ceiling, which should be pitched high, sagging down? Right over my face.

Half-asleep, I thought to myself. Or maybe I was dreaming. 'Ah, the tent collapsed.'

The ocean breeze blew right next to my face, and damp air brushed my nose. Half-buried under the fabric, I mentally screamed 'What do I do?' before immediately falling back asleep.

"Sir, you can't sleep here."

My friend woke up first and greeted the morning.

I heard him stretching outside, followed by footsteps getting closer. The footsteps stopped right in front of my tent.

There was a brief pause, as if he vanished into thin air, and then a burst of laughter loud enough to chase the sleep away completely.

"Hahaha!"

That laugh, which I've known for over ten years, seemed to pierce right through the fabric. "Hold on, stay right there."

His Busan accent was dripping with mischief.

Click-

I laid there with the tent draped over my face and started laughing too.

"Sir, you can't sleep here."

My friend started a roleplay.

This is exactly how we used to play when we were kids. We’d randomly grab onto a scenario, assign roles, and push the act to the very end. Eventually, one of us would break character, and we'd both collapse in fits of laughter.

We are still doing it.

In our late thirties, on this hill in Guleopdo. One of us a father, the other running a company.

I laughed, still crushed under the tent.

I wasn't embarrassed. Strangely, I felt grateful.

Grateful that at this age, I could still end up in a situation like this in front of someone. Grateful that my friend’s first instinct was to take a picture of it. And grateful that we were laughing together.

It felt like, with this friend, I could revert to childhood at any moment.

I pulled myself up and crawled out to find the tent completely flattened.

The roof had caved in, and the upper guylines had snapped, rendering them useless. The inside was damp, and my sleeping bag was completely soggy.

Only then did I take a good look at where I had pitched the tent.

The ground was sloped. It tilted slightly downwards from my head to my feet. I must have slid down slowly all night. Little by little while I slept. That's why it felt like someone was dragging my feet. This flimsy $6 tent simply couldn't handle my weight shifting.

Maybe it was the inevitable conclusion.

A dirt-cheap tent that probably cost less than shipping. My very first backpacking trip. A carelessly chosen spot. On slanted ground.

All these conditions faithfully aligned to crush my tent. And yet, I slept surprisingly well.

The morning air was crisp, and the ocean was still making its noise. I could smell the wet grass.

My friend was still looking at the photo and laughing. In the picture, it didn't look like a person inside, but a discarded piece of luggage. It was just me, squished under a collapsed tent.

"Woah there~ You can't sleep here, sir~" he repeated over and over, and we laughed together for a good long while.

We packed up our gear.

It was clear the tent was beyond saving. The poles and fabric were mangled, like a used disposable item.

"Hey—at least it did its job! (Chuckle)"

He was right. That was enough.

It rained on the day we were leaving. Well, not quite rain—more like a light mist. Clouds and sea fog hung low between the islands.

Yesterday's golden hills were gone. The grass darkened with moisture, and the sea turned a moody grey. The distant islands were half-hidden behind the fog.

I liked this view too.

Sunny days aren't the only face of this island. Wet grass. Grey sea. Hills swallowed by the fog.

Guleopdo showed us different expressions until the very moment we left.

The Reality of the Village

We hiked down and stopped by the village head's house. Just as we were about to greet the local elders, a loud noise pierced our eardrums.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Cutting through the damp air, the sound of metal striking the ground stung my ears.

Behind the village head's house, a massive, flashy building—perhaps a resort or a pool villa—was going up. The ground was dug out, materials were piled high, and construction was in full swing.

Again, Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Even from a distance, the noise was deafening.

Right in front of the site stood the village houses. Old, weathered houses. Houses that smelled like home-cooked rice. Houses where the locals, who hauled our luggage in their trucks, lived.

Against the skeleton of the new, towering buildings, those homes looked even smaller.

Suddenly, an incident from our first day flashed through my mind.

"Why are you eavesdropping!"

The normally gentle village head had lost his temper at someone. At the time, I wondered why he was being so sensitive. Now, I felt like I understood.

With a slightly bitter taste in my mouth at the sheer ruthlessness of capital, I kept walking.

A ferry that arrives once a day. An island home to just over a dozen households. Flocks of people swarming in every weekend. And a glitzy new building rising behind the village.

The Dock

The ferry arrived.

A lot more people got off compared to the day before. They were backpackers coming in for the weekend. An endless stream of people with massive backpacks poured out, and the buzz of voices filled the tiny dock. Laughter, cheers, exclamations of awe.

My friend spoke up.

"Weekends here are a no-go."

"Yeah, definitely," I replied with a smile.

We wove through the crowd and boarded the ferry.

Real life remained exactly the same. I still had writing to do and tasks to handle when I got back. The company still had to keep running.

But strangely, I didn't feel rushed anymore.

Was it because I survived the night, even inside a collapsed tent? I realized that when morning comes, my friend will be there to laugh about it, and the broken gear can just be tossed in the trash.

The rain eventually stopped, giving us a clear send-off. The island slowly drifted further away.

(Fin.)