Battering the Waves

1    An Innocent First Love

        In the mid-1970s, during my national service, I met a fellow soldier who lived on Pulau Ubin. One weekend, we agreed to meet at the jetty in the evening, and he would show me around the island.

        There was no special reason for going ashore. It was mainly to verify what I had learned in geography class as a child: that Pulau Ubin had once been a granite quarry supplying stone to mainland Singapore.

        As I recall, there were more than two thousand islanders then. The jetty was quite busy.

        But when the appointed time came, my friend did not show up. After landing, I wandered alone around the small town, drifting past coffee shops, the opera stage, and Bin Kiang Primary School.

        The air on Pulau Ubin then was distinctly different from that of mainland Singapore.

        No…… not fresh and fragrant. On the contrary, it carried the dry scent of yellow earth. Perhaps it was psychological, but I thought I detected sand, explosive powder, and stone dust as well.

        It must have been the end of the workday at the quarry. At the jetty, tall, broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced workers gathered, waiting for boats back to Singapore. Were they heading home for the weekend, or planning to use their leave to buy cheaper daily necessities on the main island?

        As they hurried past, greeting one another, they occasionally glanced back at me with curious looks, as if asking, “Who’s this fool?” Pulau Ubin was a massive worksite then, with few tourists. Such reactions were not surprising.

        Alone and unfamiliar with the place, I did not venture far. In less than half an hour, I turned back toward the jetty.

        That was my first encounter with this simple island; at once close and distant.

2     A Wooden House by the Sea

        In the mid-1980s, by chance, I met another newcomer to Pulau Ubin.

        His surname was Sun; I called him Mr. Sun. His migration story was somewhat legendary. Around fifty and newly retired, he loved the sea and yearned to return to nature. Coincidentally, an island friend offered him a seaside plot. And so he began cultivating a new life there.

        He first searched the mainland for abandoned houses, salvaging usable building materials like wooden planks, zinc sheets, and so on. He transported them to the island. Except for tasks requiring more manpower, he built the house largely with his own hands: cutting, planning, hammering nails, laying bricks, roofing, plastering with lime. After days of sweat and toil, a wooden house stood by the sea.

        To live on the island, one needed water. To have water, one had to dig a well. And to dig a well, one had to know where groundwater flowed. Some experienced people reportedly dug more than ten times without finding water. Mr. Sun had no experience. Trusting his intuition, he dug at the foot of a lush hillside. Less than twenty feet down, he struck water.

        Perhaps providence silently blesses those who are sincere.

        Did every island resident have their own legend like his?

     Mr. Sun owned a small motorized sampan, though starting its engine took effort. I often took that sampan to the island, sometimes staying for days. At first it was curiosity. Each morning, using the wooden house as a base, I wandered in different directions.

• Beside the house was Yuhua Quarry.

• To the west: a Mazu shrine and vegetable gardens.

• To the north: a Thai temple, orchid gardens, poultry farms, seafood restaurants.

• To the east: a broken bridge, abandoned prawn ponds, quarry lakes, a pond of white water lilies.

        When Mr. Sun was less busy, he would take me island-hopping. The most special was Crab Island (Pulau Ketam), a sandbank in the sea with simple causeways built across swampland, enclosing prawn ponds. The furthest and most tranquil was Serangoon Island; deserted, with tall straight trees and fine white sand, dreamlike.

        At dawn, I often saw fishermen collecting shrimp fry. The scenery was a sight; and so were the people.

        In the evenings, I lazed in the sea breeze, counting the ripples of sunset light.

        Sometimes we visited the famous seafood restaurant in the north, separated from Johor Bahru by just a stretch of water. Even in the early 1980s, mainland Singaporeans would travel by boat for a feast.

        Connoisseurs, upon arriving at Ubin, did not dine at the jetty’s nearby eateries. They took a taxi north for half an hour. I did not understand at first, until I saw it myself. The draw was the freshness and variety of seafood. Live fish, prawns, and crabs were kept in kelongs. Customers chose their catch, specified cooking styles, and the dishes quickly appeared on the table. The host’s warmth and the diners’ involvement created a unique experience competitors could not match.

        At times I joined Mr. Sun in retrieving fishing nets. Not all the lively sea creatures could be eaten. Small fish and prawns were released. Poisonous fish had their spines clipped before being returned to the sea. Unwanted crabs, stingrays, pufferfish were set free.

        Walking around Ubin at night, in utter darkness without lights, was an irreplaceable experience. Only in such darkness do you notice fireflies glowing faintly in the grass. Once, I saw hundreds.

        The jetty stretching into the sea was the best place to listen to tides, watch stars, and drift to sleep with the rhythm of the waves.

        Beyond humans, even the island’s cats, dogs, and rats were adept swimmers.

        After the novelty wore off, my focus shifted to change; watching the sea gradually lay fine sand over muddy shores, watching Mr. Sun extend his house, watching crops grow.

        For me, seaside life was leisurely. For Mr. Sun, not entirely.

        Wooden houses and jetties near the sea decay quickly. Planks needed frequent replacement. He always had work to do.

        Life on Pulau Ubin was both static and dynamic.

3    Dogs

        Almost every household kept dogs.

        By the sea, fences were impractical. When tides receded, gaps were left open; when tides rose, unexpected guests might arrive. Houses were spaced apart; how were they to guard and help one another?

        Thus dogs became loyal stewards.

        Mr. Sun adopted stray dogs. Three left deep impressions.

        The first, Brownie, was small but fearless, even in the face of larger dogs. Impatient, he once gulped down bones, fell ill from indigestion, and soon died.

        The second, Hitam, was usually tied up when Mr. Sun went out. One day, another dog challenged him. Restricted by the rope, he could not fight back and was badly bitten. His wounds festered; he died young.

        The third, Ringo, was named after a popular film character at the time. Ringo was friendly and loved greeting people, wagging his tail and circling their feet. He could even perform a dive: walking down the jetty, jumping into the sea, swimming ashore.

        Six months later, Ringo died too.

       Foaming at the mouth, he had been poisoned. He liked wandering into neighbours’ homes, provoking annoyance. Someone had laid out poison.

        Mr. Sun lamented: “A dog is just a dog. It may cause trouble, pee at neighbours’ doors, fight other dogs. My dog may wander; others’ dogs may trespass too. As the saying goes, ‘A quarrel at the head of the bed ends at the foot.’ Why can’t people be more tolerant about dogs?”

        But what was done was done.

        He dragged Ringo’s body to the neighbour’s doorstep — whether as protest or apology, I do not know.

        After that, he stopped keeping dogs.

        “I’m not capable of training them,” he said.

4    Guarding the Land, Standing at Sea

        In the mid-1990s, fear spread among islanders after the government announced northern development plans. People worried about relocation.

        By late 2001, after public feedback, officials visited Chek Jawa before reclamation began. The project was suspended. Marine life was spared. People sighed in relief.

        But Mr. Sun’s house was not so fortunate.

        Under the Land Acquisition Act, he had to move for the expansion of the Outward Bound School.

        The school aimed to toughen Singaporeans, instil resilience; idealistic in spirit. Ironically, Mr. Sun’s wooden house stood right at the edge of the expansion site.

        Demolition was inevitable. Reluctantly, he dismantled and simplified his belongings, then built a floating house about thirty meters offshore. It swayed with the waves, lonely and fragile. Unable to dock properly, it was hard to maintain. Waves battered it; it aged quickly.

        From afar, I saw tragic beauty; helplessness mixed with stubborn survival.

        At last, it was time to part.

        He consoled himself: “Never mind. The house is gone, but there’s still the boat.”

5    The Boat

        Yes, the boat remained.

        For those by the sea, boats matter more than houses.

        In the mid-1990s, Mr. Sun developed stomach cancer. Fortunately detected early, much of his stomach was removed. Through qigong and medication, he recovered.

        To test his limits, he bought a second-hand tongkang, once a workhorse on the Singapore River. He restored it, repainted it, replaced its engine. It could carry thirteen people.

        But registration required insurance. As an old vessel, premiums were high. Unable to afford them, he chose to scrap the boat himself.

Farmers do not slaughter their own plough oxen; people do not eat dogs that guard their homes. Yet the same hands that built the boat now dismantled it.

        The house was gone. The boat was gone. The man remained.

        Now he lives in Pasir Ris, tending grandchildren, gazing toward Pulau Ubin across the sea, though high-rises block part of the view. Only vast emptiness remains.

6    A Cultural Reflection

        Though Mr. Sun’s house is gone, I still visit Pulau Ubin at least once a year.

        Over the years, villagers dwindled; houses were abandoned. Roads were improved, pavilions and maps installed.

        Former temples and schools disappeared. Buildings that once offered urban dwellers a rustic retreat were razed, replaced by wild grass.

        Was relocation truly necessary? Was ecological protection understood only as natural ecology, excluding human culture?

        While we search anxiously for tourism attractions, we may unknowingly destroy cultural ecology with unique appeal.

        Other places turn local traditions into living heritage. Why not Ubin? Couldn’t prawn ponds, durian nights, traditional fishing methods, indigenous foods enrich its character?

        To prevent accidents, quarry lakes are fenced off; safe, but inaccessible. We lose not only the sight of clear waters, but opportunities to confront and manage risk.

        New maps rename old quarries in Malay, romantic and exotic. Young visitors come for cycling, marine ecology, training; but do they know the island’s past?

        Pulau Ubin is not young. Village headman Lim Jae Hoo lived there over sixty years, celebrating his centenary. Yet history here is neither respected nor continued.

        Do we lack cultural sensitivity? Do we worship eternal youth, neglecting mature depth?

        In pursuing vitality, should we not let cultural history underpin modern life?

        Walking on newly paved roads, strangely, it is easier to lose one’s way.