The years do not stay; the seasons flow like a stream. The year of forty has come in a flash. — Kong Rong, “A Letter Recommending Sheng Xiaozhang”
From October 26, 2022, to October 26, 2023, I spent a full year at Rushan Silver Beach in Weihai, Shandong. The year went by in the blink of an eye, and yet over that one year — “I came, I saw, I conquered.” Compared with a year ago, I seem to have become a different person, no longer the man I was; and yet I also seem to have kept my own true self, never once changed. Living by the sea, far from crowds, has made me clearer about what I like, what I want, and what kind of person I want to be. I may not manage to get there, but at least now I know. And “knowing” is no small thing. This I earned with a year of time, a year of living alone — thinking, feeling it all out.
Because I wrote a piece called “Half a Year in Rushan” before, this one is mainly about the second half of the year — my life and my feelings from April 26 to October 26. In the first half I went through late autumn, winter and spring; this half was mostly summer. Summer is utterly different from those three seasons. People used to say Rushan Silver Beach was a ghost town, but come summer it’s packed to bursting, noisy and clamorous — a whole new scene. I’ve now taken in all four seasons here in full, and my understanding of the place is more detailed and concrete. Some of my thinking went one way in the first half of the year and changed in the second. For better or worse, I always feel it’s worth writing down.
From late April to May 10 it was still spring. Back then I was still under a thick quilt, still in a jacket and long pants; after the 10th I cast off the jacket and long pants and wore only short sleeves, shorts and flip-flops, and swapped the thick quilt for a blanket. Over the May Day holiday a wave of tourists came to see the sea, but not many, and both the beach and the compound were very quiet. Right up to June 1 there were very few people here. After June 1 more and more came — whether for a short stay (two or three days) or a long one (two or three months) — and Rushan Silver Beach officially entered its high season. And the high season here lasts only three months.
Do you know how summer differs from spring, autumn and winter? The biggest difference is that in summer you can go into the sea barefoot, and you can swim. No shoes, bare feet — is that not the freest thing? Walking free, running free. Our ape ancestors wore no shoes. Walking barefoot on the beach, you need worry about nothing; the sand here is clean and fine, and the seawater cool and gentle. As for swimming in the sea, best to do it in July or August — the water in June is still a little cold. And the seawater is very salty. By the end of August it’s autumn, and swimming gets cold, but you can still walk barefoot on the beach, right up until after the National Day holiday, when at last you put your shoes on.
In April I got to know wheat. Before that I had never known wheat at all. First, I’m a southerner, and I only knew rice; second, I’ve always lived in cities and rarely saw crops. I’m just a bookish man who can’t tell one grain from another. I often went out to the wheat fields to watch the wheat grow — from looking like a clump of grass, to growing tall, setting grain, the ears turning yellow, and the harvest. At least I came to know it outside of books. I recorded it in detail in my earlier diaries, from April 13 to June 15. I was like the catcher in the rye — leaving the big city, leaving behind those phonies, becoming an independent, free man.
After half a year at Silver Beach, I had a fleeting thought of leaving — I felt I’d experienced enough, knew the place well enough, and there was no need to stay on. But I didn’t act on it, and I went on to experience summer here, five whole months without leaving Silver Beach a single step. It wasn’t until early September, when I made a trip to Beijing, that I found big-city life truly unbearable; I no longer wanted to go to a big city to work either, I only wanted to keep lying flat and do nothing against my own heart. Of course, it’s also because I’m well aware that Rushan Silver Beach is the place with the lowest cost of living, the best environment, and the most benefit for body and mind. Weighing it all up, Rushan Silver Beach is simply the best place of all. If I tire of the sea, then anywhere else I go I’ll only tire of faster. And at least for now I’m not short of money, so there’s no hurry.
Once the wheat was cut, the rain began, and the seaside rainy season set in, lasting about a month and more, from June 20 to the end of July. In the first half of the year I’d thought I knew Rushan Silver Beach well enough; I felt every day here was dry, not the least bit humid. Then the rainy season arrived and broke my shallow judgment and my preconceptions. So the northern seaside does have its damp spells after all — if I hadn’t lived through a summer here, I’d never have known. Damp is miserable: the wind is clammy, the bed is clammy, and sleeping on it is very uncomfortable. I can say without the slightest exaggeration that that month or so was the most uncomfortable stretch of the year at the shore. The good news is there was no trace of sea lettuce this year.
It’s precisely because June and July were so rainy that the frogs croaked most lustily then. I hadn’t heard frogs croak so loud in ages — croak, croak, croak, croak — so that even in the dark of night you feel no fear. Just outside the compound is open country; the ditches along the fields often fill with water, and even when they dry up they soon fill again. The frogs live in there: they mate, fertilize, lay eggs, hatch into tadpoles, the tadpoles grow and sprout four legs, their tails wither away, and they become frogs. I got to witness all these stages too — like being back in childhood. There are also the cicada nymphs here; plenty of people go out at night to catch them, and there’s a market even for the molted shells they leave behind, and after that still others go after the cicadas with sticky poles.
When does summer end? From May 10 to around August 25 — that is summer at Rushan Silver Beach. Around the End of Heat we formally enter autumn. The twenty-four solar terms are astonishingly accurate on the Jiaodong peninsula: at the Beginning of Summer, summer begins; at the End of Heat, the heat ends. The highest summer temperature reaches 35 degrees; after the End of Heat it drops to 30 or below. Compared with the south, summer here is wonderfully cool. When summer ends, two-thirds of the tourists leave, because so many children have to go back to school. Fewer people, and the beach turns quiet — and clean, too. The people swimming in the sea like dumplings dropped into a pot vanish all at once. The seawater is no longer murky either, but turns clear.
Autumn is the loveliest season at Silver Beach. From August 25 to November 25 — all of it is Silver Beach’s autumn. Autumn here comes half a month later than in Beijing: Beijing may already be into winter in early November, but Silver Beach doesn’t enter winter until the end of November. Beijing starts its heating on November 15; Rushan begins on November 20. But the great majority of compounds at Rushan Silver Beach have no central heating at all. And it’s precisely because there’s no heating that this place becomes a ghost town in winter, with very few people. Take autumn again — the shore in autumn is simply paradise. The temperature isn’t low either; in November it may still be 20 degrees. Basking in the sun like Diogenes is the happiest thing under heaven. And by the end of October almost all the old people have gone; those who don’t leave are the ones wintering here. The compound is as quiet as a vacuum, the beach as quiet as a desert, the streets as quiet as an abandoned village — you can hardly catch sight of a soul or a car. One person, with the autumn of a whole little seaside town all to himself. The leaves along both sides of the road turn yellow and fall; the fields lie withered and still; the seawater is as clear as the water of Walden Pond; the blue sky rinses your eyes, the sweet air rinses your heart and lungs; the coolness leaves you neither fretful nor restless, and the silence leaves your mind free of stray thoughts. How I wish all four seasons were autumn.
Oh yes — I forgot to mention: the wind in autumn is also the weakest, the gentlest. They all joke that Weihai has only two winds a year, and each one blows for six months. Which is to say Weihai’s wind is terribly strong and terribly frequent; especially in winter, Weihai becomes a snow nest — not only is the wind strong, the snow is heavy too, very heavy, not ordinary-heavy. Yet Rushan and Weihai are utterly different. Because Weihai is to the north and Rushan to the south, with the Kunyu Mountains between them, and the Kunyu Mountains block the snow-laden wind sweeping down from the north, so Rushan’s winter wind and snow are very light — far more comfortable than Weihai, and good for longevity. All the more so in autumn: wind and sunlight that leave you intoxicated. Riding a bike or walking on foot along the empty streets, the wind and the light give you such pleasure — there is nothing happier.
For five months I didn’t leave Silver Beach a single step. In early September I made a trip to Beijing to see friends, and took the chance to go to Jiagedaqi in the Greater Khingan Mountains. For me, Beijing has nothing at all to praise; I hate the crowds, hate the noise, hate the closed-in feeling, hate the numbness. “Life should be open country.” My life is definitely not the city. I went to Jiagedaqi because I’d thought of moving somewhere else to live in seclusion, but later I found Jiagedaqi didn’t suit me, so I renewed the lease on my place at Silver Beach for another year, meaning to stay another year and see. My impressions of Beijing and Jiagedaqi I wrote up in “Notes from Beijing” and “A Few Days in Jiagedaqi” — go and look, if you’re interested.
Back from Beijing, I stayed another 20 days at Silver Beach, and then Mid-Autumn and National Day arrived. But holidays mean nothing to me, because every day of mine is a holiday and every day is a festival. In my time there is no Monday or Tuesday, no Saturday or Sunday; my time has only the first and second, the fifteenth and sixteenth of the lunar month — because the tide is highest on the first and fifteenth, and the country markets run on the lunar calendar too. I don’t remember the day of the week. Over the National Day holiday I went to Xinjiang. Back when I quit my job I’d thought of finding somewhere to use as a base, and then going to places I’d never been before, like Tibet and Xinjiang. Tibet I’d already been to in the first half of the year; only Xinjiang was left. And it happened that National Day airfares were very cheap. I went to Urumqi, Kashgar and Turpan; the diary is in “A Few Days in Xinjiang.” In this one year I went to a great many places.
Is there any meaning in travel? There is. But it costs money. I’ve been to many places and spent a lot of money, and I can’t spend any more. So I probably won’t travel again. No place holds any attraction for me now. First, because I have no money; second, because one must be content. If I had to visit every place I’ve never been, then what about space and the moon — would I have to go there too? I’m already very happy at Silver Beach, and I’ve seen the nature here. If you want to travel, you have to earn money. If you can’t earn money, then don’t travel. It’s not that I don’t want to earn money — but much of the time, earning money is like eating shit. You pay a price: either bodily ruin, or mental torment.
Many people are curious about where my income comes from now that I’ve lain flat. I can tell you honestly: I have no income of any kind, and no social insurance. I have only some savings — neither a lot nor a little — but enough to keep me provided for at least five years. I don’t think about things five years out; I seize the day, and what comes later can wait. Let nature take its course; don’t think so much. The reason people live too tired, much of the time, isn’t physical but mental — they think too much and do too little. Nor are they brave; they’re afraid of getting hurt, afraid of facing death. The bravest person is the one who isn’t afraid to die. If he doesn’t even give death a second glance, then what has he to worry about with social insurance?
After I came here I started trying to post videos on a few video sites, mainly to record my life. At first I never thought it would earn money, but little by little I built up followers and traffic, and I actually made a little money. It isn’t much, but I’ve found that making videos is rather interesting too. If you’re only sharing your everyday life, it’s no effort at all; but if you’re doing it for the traffic, you have to pander to the audience. Also, I often joke that making videos is my only social activity, because I have to reply to comments and argue with people online. At the very beginning I cared a lot about the comments and would argue with netizens until my mood rose and fell with it. But later someone gave me a word of advice: you need a sense of fun.
I have no social life here, or at least I don’t seek one out. There is passive socializing: from making videos I’ve accumulated some followers, and followers often ask to meet up, but I turn down the great majority. “Sorry, I don’t socialize.” “I’m socially anxious.” “I live in seclusion; I don’t meet people.” Or I simply don’t reply. Yet some people’s kindness is hard to refuse: an uncle who’d just retired invited me to eat at his home once; a guy asked me to do him a small favor; a young woman sent a box of mooncakes at Mid-Autumn; someone met me at the shore, recognized me, struck up a conversation; and someone told me in the comments that they’d seen my maverick figure by the sea today. I think socializing has meaning, but I don’t need it. I don’t need many things now; I live a minimalist life, just as in food — I eat no meat and drink no alcohol.
Someone asked me, eating nothing but potatoes, cabbage and eggs every day, don’t you get sick of it? I said, no, I take pleasure in it. To my mind, don’t you get sick of meat and alcohol every day? What’s so good about meat and drink? They only nauseate me. The same question again: don’t you get sick of the seaside? Then let me ask you — don’t you get sick of the big city? The big city is like a prison cell. And don’t you feel lonely, not socializing? Isn’t socializing exhausting? Every day I look at nature — emerald sea, blue sky, fields, sun and moon and stars, animals, plants — and that’s enough for me. “I can’t live without a woman.” “I can’t live without a man.” What holds you up, going your own way alone? Two legs hold me up; courage holds me up; savings hold me up. And afterward? What comes later can wait: if there is wine today, be drunk today; if there is sorrow tomorrow, be sorrowful tomorrow. What about your parents? They have more money than I do, and there are many children in my family. “Let go of personal decency; refuse the mental friction.”
Do you know how many benefits there are to a vegetarian diet? Not only is it simple, it’s healthier. I think meat, alcohol and sweets are not healthy in the least. “Water is my only drink.” Thoreau said as much in Walden, and now it’s my motto. Baijiu, beer, milk tea, coffee, cola — I touch none of them. Nor do I need three meals a day; two are plenty, because I burn little, expending neither physical strength nor mental friction. Cooking less also saves water, electricity and gas. Sweets only rot your teeth, and scraps of meat lodge between them; eating neither sweets nor meat, I can go several days without even brushing, saving toothbrush and toothpaste. Salt is an element no one can do without in their food, but you won’t get through two and a half kilos of it in a year; too much does your health harm instead.
Many people say, if you don’t eat meat you’ll lack protein and get sick — and what will you do when you’re sick? First, I don’t lack protein; I eat eggs. Second, I won’t get sick. I’ve been at Silver Beach a year and haven’t fallen ill once. Oh — sorry, I remember now, I did catch Covid, in August, and the August diary records it in detail. August is the peak tourist season; Silver Beach saw crowds like never before, and I unluckily caught it too. You see — this is the drawback of socializing and crowds: they spread disease. If there were no people, if it were a ghost town like in winter, how could I have caught Covid? Covid was nothing much to me; I even drank only some Banlangen, and in four or five days I was fine. We Chinese have a belief: the more you fear something, the more it comes looking for you. So don’t be afraid. Not being afraid, not worrying, will solve a great many problems. In the end it comes down to courage — not fearing sickness, not fearing death. Sickness is no great matter, and death is no great matter either. Zhuangzi said that when someone dies, one should sing and dance.
Others say, you live so miserably — it’s simply because you have no money, because you’re poor. If you had money, you could enjoy a higher grade of happiness. I don’t agree in the least. Happiness has no grades. We Chinese are forever comparing — you’re worse than me, I’m better than you. It’s so tiresome. Who says eating meat is happier than eating vegetables, living in a big house happier than a small one, having ten wives happier than having one? It’s all just desire. Take houses: if a big house is happier than a small one, then isn’t a still bigger house heaven and earth? Zhuangzi said, “Heaven and earth shall be my inner and outer coffin, the sun and moon my pair of jade discs, the stars my pearls, and all things my burial gifts.” Isn’t that the highest happiness of all?
The torment work gave me, the oppression the city gave me, are all far behind now. Some people I can no longer call to mind, and some events too, because in those days I had no habit of keeping a diary. I’ve spent a year by the sea and am completely relaxed; I don’t know what this thing called pressure even is, and I don’t want to taste that pressure ever again — I’ve had enough. No one is on this earth to eat bitterness, and no one should be oppressed by anyone else. To be sure, wanting happiness means paying a price — but the price should be equal. Young people lying flat is not decay but a form of resistance, resistance to those unreasonable rules — one must be a new citizen.
I’ll go on living at Silver Beach and begin a new life in my second year. It starts with golden autumn: the leaves drift down, the seawater clears. Then I’ll live through a northern-seaside winter without central heating, the cold wind stiffening my face, snowflakes carpeting the beach. Spring comes late; a hundred flowers will open and the wheat will grow tall. In summer the tourists will swarm in again, and at night I’ll listen to a chorus of frogs. Then autumn once more: the tourists disperse, and all is desolation. Year after year, the sun moves from its southernmost point to its northernmost, and back from its northernmost to its southernmost, light and shadow shifting across my balcony, round and round without end. The earth is no more than a speck of dust in the universe, and mankind is dust upon that dust. This is the one year of a speck of dust.
October 26, 2023, Rushan Silver Beach Resort, Weihai, Shandong.