The Tiny Fishing Village by the Big Sea

The morning sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon when the first fishermen pushed their boats away from the shore. It was a golden light, soft and warm, spreading across the water like honey poured over a breakfast table. The Pearl River Delta was waking up, and with it, a tiny village that most people in the world had never heard of. A village called Shenzhen.

In the year 1980, if you had looked at a map of China from high up in an airplane, you might have missed it entirely. China was a giant, a country so vast that it took airplanes many hours to cross from one side to the other. The country had tall mountains in the west, great deserts in the north, and enormous cities filled with millions of people along its eastern coast. But here, in the very south, where China almost touched the tropical waters of the South China Sea, there was a small bend in the coastline where a river met the ocean. And in that bend, if you looked very carefully, you would find a cluster of small houses huddled together like chicks next to their mother.

This was Shenzhen.

Now, you might wonder, what makes this small village so special that we need an entire book about it? That's exactly what young Xiaoming often wondered himself, though he didn't know it yet. He was too busy being a happy boy who loved the sea.

Xiaoming was ten years old, and he had the brownest, most sun-kissed skin you ever saw. His hair was black as a crow's feather and stuck up in the back the way hair does when you've slept on it all night. His eyes were bright and curious, always looking at something new, always asking questions. And his smile—oh, his smile could light up the whole village, like the paper lanterns that hung from the bamboo poles during the autumn festival.

Xiaoming lived in a house made of bamboo and wood, just like almost everyone else in the village. The house wasn't big at all—just one room where his family ate, slept, and spent their evenings together. The walls were woven bamboo,轻轻 (qīng qīng, meaning "gently" or "softly") flexible like the reeds that grew by the water's edge. The roof was made of dried reeds and palm leaves, layered thick so that when the summer rains came pounding down, the water would slide off like it was sliding down a slide at the park.

The floor was packed earth, cool and smooth from generations of bare feet walking on it. In one corner, there was a small cooking area where Xiaoming's mother made the most wonderful rice porridge in the whole world. She would add little pieces of fish—fresh fish that Xiaoming's father had caught that very morning—and vegetables from their tiny garden behind the house. The smell would drift through the whole village and make everyone's stomachs rumble with hunger.

But on this particular morning, Xiaoming was not thinking about breakfast. He was thinking about the sea.

Every single day of his life, Xiaoming had woken up to the sound of the sea. Not the crashing, thundering sound of ocean waves that you might hear on a beach with big waves. No, here the sea was gentler, more like a giant breathing in and out. The water of the Pearl River Delta was calm and shallow, dotted with small islands and inlets. It was the color of tea—not brown like dirt, but a soft, golden green, like the jade stones that the traders sometimes brought from the mountains.

The sea was Xiaoming's best friend. It was his playground, his classroom, and his family's livelihood, all wrapped up in one shimmering, endless blue-green blanket.

"Come on, Xiaoming! The tide is perfect!"

That was his best friend, Weiwei, calling from outside. Weiwei was a year older than Xiaoming, with a gap between his front teeth that made him look like a friendly rabbit when he smiled. Weiwei's family had lived next door to Xiaoming's family for as long as anyone could remember. Their grandfathers had been best friends, their fathers had been best friends, and now Xiaoming and Weiwei were best friends. It was the Shenzhen way—families sticking together, neighbors helping neighbors, everyone knowing everyone.

Xiaoming jumped out of his sleeping mat so fast that he nearly knocked over the small table where his grandmother kept her sewing basket. His grandmother was already awake, of course. Grandmothers in Shenzhen villages were always the first ones up, puttering around the house before the sun had fully risen, doing the quiet work that held families together. She was mending a fishing net, her fingers moving with the practiced ease of fifty years of this very work.

"Where are you running off to, little fish?" she asked, not looking up from her mending.

"To the shore, Grandmother! Weiwei says the tide is perfect!"

His grandmother smiled, her face crinkling like a paper fan that someone had folded too many times. "The tide is always perfect to you, Xiaoming. Off with you, then. But be back before your mother finishes the porridge!"

"Yes, Grandmother!"

And just like that, Xiaoming was out the door, his bare feet hitting the packed earth path that connected all the houses in the village. The path was narrow, just wide enough for two people to walk side by side. On either side were the houses—maybe forty or fifty in total, each one similar to his own, each one housing a family of fishermen or farmers.

The village of Shenzhen in 1980 was a place of remarkable simplicity. There were no cars, because there were no roads wide enough for cars. There were no tall buildings, no factories with smokestacks, no shopping malls or movie theaters or fast food restaurants. There was just the sea, the land, the bamboo houses, and the people who loved them both.

As Xiaoming ran toward the shore, he passed by Old Chen's house. Old Chen was the oldest person in the village—everyone said he must be at least ninety, though he himself could never remember exactly how old he was. Old Chen spent his days sitting in a bamboo chair outside his house, watching the world go by. When Xiaoming ran past, the old man called out in his creaky voice.

"Little Xiaoming! Come here, come here!"

Xiaoming stopped, a bit impatient because he wanted to get to the shore before Weiwei left without him, but also knowing that you always stopped when Old Chen called. It was one of the rules of the village.

"What is it, Old Chen?"

The old man reached into the pocket of his worn cotton jacket and pulled out something small and shiny. It was a seashell, but not an ordinary seashell. It was spiral-shaped, with ridges that caught the morning light and sparkled like tiny rainbows.

"I found this one this morning," Old Chen said, pressing the shell into Xiaoming's palm. "It came to me on the tide. I want you to have it. A gift for a good luck boy."

Xiaoming looked at the shell in wonder. It was beautiful, with swirls of pink and white and cream. He could hear the ocean in it if he held it up to his ear, just like magic.

"Thank you, Old Chen!" Xiaoming said, and he meant it with all his heart.

Old Chen nodded his head, satisfied, and went back to watching the village wake up. Xiaoming carefully tucked the shell into his pocket and continued his race toward the shore. But he made a mental note to show it to his grandmother later. She would know what kind of shell it was. She always did.

Finally, Xiaoming reached the shore, and there was Weiwei, standing at the water's edge, his pants rolled up past his knees. The water was so clear here that you could see all the way to the bottom—fine white sand dotted with smooth stones, little crabs scuttling sideways, and colorful fish darting this way and that like living rainbows.

"Finally!" Weiwei said. "I was about to leave without you."

"You wouldn't dare," Xiaoming replied, grinning.

Together, the two boys waded into the water. It was warm, like bathwater, because the sun had been heating it all through the summer. The bottom was soft and squishy between their toes—mud mixed with sand, the kind of ground that was perfect for the tiny clams and worms th