There are three settlements along the shores of Su-ao Bay in Taiwan：Bei-fang-ao to the north, Su-ao in the center, and Nan-fang-ao in the south. The original inhabitants of this region were the Qauqauts of the Pinpu aborigine tribe, who began to migrate south after the Japanese turned the wetlands here into Su-ao fishing harbor and the Han Chinese people started to trickle in. The Japanese had actually wanted to build a large multi-functional port at Su-ao. But after they conducted a geographical survey and found that the natural conditions of Su-ao were insufficient to support that purpose, they ended up building a fishing port at Nan-fang-ao instead, and a commercial port in Hualien.

Originally an off-shore island, Nan-fang-ao became connected with the mainland after gravel accumulated in the south of the island. Compared to Bei-fang-ao, the deep waters and geographical conditions of Nan-fang-ao made it more ideal as a mooring place for fishing boats. Thus, in 1921, the Japanese invested heavily to build Nan-fang-ao fishing port. Construction was completed the following year. The port, generally known then as the Su-ao fishing port, was the third largest port in Taiwan, second only to Keelung and Kaohsiung. As the Hans and the Japanese fishermen moved in, a village grew around the fishing harbor, and was the predecessor of Nan-fang-ao as we know it today.

For the past six years I have traveled to Nan-fang-ao for more than forty times. Often, friends have wondered at my fascination with the place. I first came to know Nan-fang-ao one afternoon back in 1995. It was deep into fall, and I was driving back to Taipei from Hualien along the Su Hua Highway. As my veteran car and I advanced slowly along the winding mountain road, we were accompanied by the blue skies, the endless sea, and a steady breeze. At the northern end of the Su Hua Highway, close to Su-ao, human activity became more frequent, and fishing boats began appearing sporadically from the other side of the sea. As I navigated my car along the curving contour of the coastline, I could see the fishing port in the far distance, vanishing from sight every now and then as the car made yet another turn along the winding road. Soon I reached the vantage point where I had a panoramic view of the port. This view I took in with the mixed scent of the ocean, fish, and the wind. The magnificent coastal scenery and the picturesque fishing port lay before me like a painting. Save for slowly moving boats and school bells that occasionally broke the silence, the port was quiet and serene.

Nan-fang-ao became my safe haven from the hustle and bustle of city life. A cigarette on the nearby mountaintop was always a welcome relief after traveling long and far. I visited the port at all seasons, at any time of the day, and gradually it revealed more of itself to me, displaying temperaments I had not known during that first meeting. From my vantage point on the mountaintop, the waters sometimes appeared dark and subdued, sometimes grand and choppy, while activity on the land was peaceful and laid-back at times, loud and busy at others. Gradually, the natural and human environment of the port began to grow on me, and I started to linger there, venturing deep into the alleys and pathways, searching for whatever it was that had first drawn me to it.

During the long process of documenting Nan-fang-ao, there was a time when I became lost in the myriad photographic possibilities, indulging myself in the narrow perspective through the viewfinder and the sound of the shutter clicking. But as I learned more about the village and came to understand it better, I was gradually able to rid myself of superficiality and impatience, broadening my perspective to include more than just chance moments or shots, but also specific ambiences. I let the images speak for themselves, stringing the varied scenes together to create an outline of life in Nan-fang-ao.

When I was studying in Japan, my Japanese instructor Yasuo Tamura said during a discussion that “as a photographer, if you press the shutter button indiscriminately, you will find yourself trapped in meaningless reasoning and pointless rambling.” I am aware that my devoting so much time and attention to Nan-fang-ao may seem to others like a meaningless fixation. However, I am simply repaying Nan-fang-ao for the deep self-reflections it stimulated in me, and the capacity for selfless giving that it has shown me. Until now, I am still stirred by recollections of the impatience and insecurity with which I took every picture when I first began to photograph this place.

Break up the Chinese character for sea and you have “water” and “mother of mankind”. Thus some people regard the sea as the source and reservoir of life. For the people of Nan-fang-ao, the sea has not only been their source of livelihood and experience, but somehow also bestowed upon them the wisdom to steer through life, and magnanimity and tolerance in facing life. The quintessential resident of Nan-fang-ao is the aged skipper who, weather-beaten and lamenting the younger generation’s indifference toward the sea, is nonetheless proud and spirited when he recalls the glorious days of the past.

It is my wish that with images covering the fishing trade, peripheral industries, foreign laborers, religious ceremonies and varied facets of life in the port city, I have portrayed not only physical aspects of Nan-fang-ao, but also its social settings; it is also my wish that through these images, which encapsulate the resilience and simplicity of the locals, I have conveyed that intrepid yet reverent attitude with which the people of the sea confront the unknown.

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