The booming surf destination you've never heard of

It’s a warm spring morning, the frothy waves are washing rhythmically against the shore and Songjeong Beach is soaked in sunshine. Standing in a wetsuit at the water’s edge, Lee Eun-seo balls up one fist and then extends her thumb and little finger, brandishing the result high in the air. “The shaka sign,” she says with a smile. “If you see me doing this, it means you’re surfing well.”

Here on the eastern outskirts of Busan, on the southeastern tip of South Korea, you could be forgiven for thinking you were nowhere near a city. Green hills ring the bay, surf schools line the seafront and joggers are out on the blonde sands. Songjeong is barely two miles from the sky-high towers of the crowded Haeundae District, but it feels more like a small seaside resort than part of South Korea’s second-biggest urban centre, with a population approaching 3.5 million.

When you see Busan on a map, you get a proper sense of how much coastline it has. The sea is rarely far away with seven public beaches, from lively Gwangalli, where locals walk innumerable pet pomeranians by the twinkling lights of Gwangan Bridge, to Songjeong — where the country’s first surf school was founded. We hear a lot about the ‘Korean wave’, the phenomenon, also known as Hallyu, which swept the country’s modern culture across the world. But this seaside city might just be the best place to experience the real thing.

And that’s what I’m here to do. Lee Eun-seo is one of the instructors at Surf Holic, alongside her bleach-haired colleague Philip Ahn. She’s talking myself and another beginner, a quiet middle-aged woman on her second lesson, through the basics of catching a swell. Lee Eun-seo wears her hair in a loose bun, laughs freely and has a way of making surfing sound like child’s play. “Think of this as a shark,” she says with a grin, patting a surfboard. “Here’s the nose, here’s the tail, here’s the fin. Simple.”

She has, after all, been doing this for a long time, having learned to surf when she was just 14. “I loved it from the first day. I used to do powerlifting, too, but when I started high school, I had to give both hobbies up because there was so much studying to do.” She turns to look at the sea, and her eyes light up. “I started surfing again when I was 19 — and I’m never stopping again.”

Korea’s surfing scene is still a growing one, with the sport only having been introduced in the 2000s by local students returning from Australia and the US. Since then, clubs and schools have multiplied. In 2020, the country welcomed Wave Park, Asia’s largest surf centre, which creates artificial waves in a lagoon near Seoul. But the biggest surf scene remains here in the sport’s Korean birthplace, with its consistent waves and wide beaches. It’s for this reason that Busan has become the natural place to pull on a wetsuit, for locals and visitors alike.

The city has long had a reputation for welcoming newcomers and outside influences. Despite the area’s long history, much of the city’s population has roots here dating back less than a century. In 1950, at the start of the Korean War between what would ultimately become North and South Korea, northern troops forced the armies of the south to retreat into a small pocket of land around Busan, which was then a port settlement of some 400,000 people. By August of that year, it was serving as the temporary wartime capital of the south.

When the conflict ended in 1953, more than a million refugees had poured into the city. Some of them settled in Gamcheon Culture Village, a port neighbourhood of brightly painted hillside dwellings. It’s since been reinvented into a laid-back community of arty laneways, terrace cafes and K-pop murals. There’s also one unusual postbox: file a stamped card through its slot, and it won’t be sent for a full year, offering the chance to receive postcards from your past self. Given the history of the spot, it’s an especially fitting souvenir.

A balancing act

Remaining on the sand, we begin to practise leaping onto our boards, pushing ourselves up from our stomachs to a standing crouch. Lee Eun-seo goes off to find a replacement leash, needed to keep my surfboard attached to my ankle should I go one way and my board another. I get chatting to my fellow learner, who has already perfected the pop-up jump. She’s from the inland city of Daegu and has made the trip here specifically for a few days of surfing.

Once I’ve refined the art of jumping onto the board on dry land, we venture into the sea. The previous morning, I’d opened the curtains of my room at the Seacloud Hotel above Haeundae Beach and seen around 20 surfers out in the heavy, pre-breakfast waves, bobbing around in the swell like neoprene-wrapped seals. Today, the conditions at Songjeong are calmer, the waves more frisky ponies than white horses. For a novice like me, it’s ideal.

After an initial jolt from its brisk temperature, I find the water cool and enveloping. The ridged sand is soft under my toes. Thirty yards out, I look back at the buildings on shore, which already seem distant and muted, like they’re part of another world. My classmate is in position, belly-down on her board, and Lee Eun-seo is gesturing at the waves and giving me a thumbs-up. It’s time to ride.

It takes me less than five minutes to learn that the sport requires patience. Choosing the right kind of wave — not too small, not too frothy — is half of what makes a good surfer. Getting up into a standing position is even trickier. On my first attempt, I lean too far forward and nose-dive; on my second, I lean too far back and slip off; and on my third, I end up with a mouthful of South Korea’s finest salt water. “Stand up a bit more slowly!” Lee Eun-seo shouts over the thumps of the waves. Whenever I fall in, she lets loose a raucous laugh.

Every so often, a larger wave appears. The first time, I get over-excited and paddle out to meet it too quickly, missing the momentum of the swell. Then, when I’m least expecting it, I feel my board being lifted beneath me, and for a moment I’m being carried by the sea. I get to my feet, wobble and stand, my arms outstretched. The beach is somewhere in front of me, but I’m oblivious to everything other than the sensation of flying. I hear Lee Eun-seo whooping. When I reach the shallows and look back, she’s grinning broadly, making the shaka sign.