Catching mud octopus was an item the youngest writer had dug up.
It wasn’t peak season, but mudflats had long been a variety show’s treasure chest. Location fees were low, which meant you could invite slightly higher-tier celebrities than usual.
Needing dozens of shovel thrusts to land a single octopus also matched the program’s pursuit of “hard mode” perfectly. And so mud-octopus catching proudly made the candidate list.
The problem was who would go catch them. Because of how intense the work was.
Even multi-year veterans were left winded after a tight few hours. The camera director who did the site scout came back reporting that just walking while yanking your stuck legs free was exhausting.
With cockles you can at least lean on a mud boat to rest, but for octopus you bring nothing but a dedicated octopus shovel. And if you really put your back into the handle, the blade would just jam deep into the muck.
So entertainers lacking raw strength weren’t even short-listed. In an already footage-starved environment, if the cast folded early, they’d end up circling the Mokpo auction just to fill the runtime.
The cast couldn’t be too taciturn, either. They needed to toss out at least some lines while catching octopus. You couldn’t expect scenes of on-the-job talk with other workers, or chatting with customers, like in other episodes.
And above all... they needed the feel to actually catch an octopus. Even if it took fifty shovelings, even if they had to reach into a hole once an octopus appeared, they still had to land at least one for a usable broadcast moment.
“So we need someone strong with good stamina who shovels well, talks well, and also catches octopus?”
“Hard to find?”
“No, I think that person just doesn’t exist.”
The meeting was about to collapse.
Then someone thought of Spark—strong, seemingly good at shoveling, chatty among themselves, and maybe able to catch an octopus—and the mood revived.
“But would Spark even come out for us?”
“Why? Did they skyrocket that hard off A Royal Office?”
Sure, they made some noise off one program, but not enough to jump tiers.
Seeing the puzzled PD, a writer said:
“You didn’t watch the broadcast, did you? Iwol collapsed live from aftereffects. I doubt they’ll be accepting many outside schedules for a while.”
“Seriously?”
The PD’s face fell. He knew full {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} well Spark’s work capacity centered around Kim Iwol.
Still, the production reached out again, clutching at straws—and again, they succeeded in getting a yes.
To repay Spark’s passion, this time they’d prepare even more thoroughly. They wouldn’t reveal the location in advance; they’d give them no time to guess. They’d capture flustered idols off-guard.
What they forgot, briefly, was the reason they liked Spark in the first place: Spark was a group that kept exceeding their expectations.
“Uh...”
“Jihyeok, what is it?”
“They’ve been talking nonstop for three hours.”
They drove the audio director to despair by never shutting up during the entire three-hour transfer.
“Mudflats.”
They deduced the destination from a dim highway alone.
“Gah.”
“How did they know...? Driver, you really didn’t turn on the nav?”
“That’s right.”
The production went on alert. If the members had their phones, today’s whole item would’ve been blown already.
Thankfully, according to the manager, Spark was oddly old-school for kids these days: their phone use still wasn’t permitted. That was a relief.
The camera director nearly had three heart attacks, but he did manage to capture their startled expressions. Catharsis achieved.
The members followed the pro around, learning the technique seriously. You could even feel a strange scholarly zeal from Lee Cheonghyeon.
“I’m seeing mud octopus in their habitat with my own eyes... the legs really are so thin and long...!”
Cheonghyeon covered his mouth, moved. They should have the youngest writer check whether that member’s special interest is seafood.
“All right, from here you’ll split up and start catching octopus on your own. Don’t forget there’s a penalty if you miss your quota!”
At the word “penalty,” the members blanched and scattered.
The main PD stuck close to Kim Iwol with one cameraman. It just felt like the fun footage would be there.
Iwol stared at the mudflat for a long moment. Then he gripped the shovel handle hard.
Up to that point he was “an idol grimly attempting mud-octopus catching.”
“Mr. Iwol, did you do your service?”
Right up until he started shoveling like a madman.
There wasn’t an ounce of wasted motion as he clenched his teeth and dug. The dirt he threw up mounded in a neat ring around him like a small hill. Even from afar, his speed was clearly different from the others’.
Pinpoint focus on a single hole, digging deep. Speed enough to chase an octopus running through the muck. Stamina that didn’t flag.
The three pieces clicked perfectly. When Iwol heaved up a big scoop, an octopus surfaced.
“Is this how we catch them, PD?”
“Uh—yes! Excellent!”
With a perfect mud octopus on display, praise was unavoidable.
Maybe Spark would meet the quota again today and sail home pretty as you please?
The PD got a little scared. He pinged the youngest writer on the boat to check how late the Mokpo fishery auction would be open.
“That makes seven?”
I dropped the octopus into the basket on my back and estimated my total so far. My arm muscles felt ready to pop.
And the footing—every step sank to my knees; against my will I nearly staked a post in the sea off Mokpo with my body.
“How many do you have?”
Cheonghyeon trudged over, dragging his shovel.
“Six or seven.”
“Seriously? How’d you get that many? I haven’t caught one.”
“When you see a breathing hole, dig like hell. What about the others? Anyone getting anything?”
“For starters, Juu is doomed. The mudflat almost ate him.”
From that alone I could picture how badly our main vocal was flailing.
“Fine. As long as he doesn’t drink muck and wreck his throat.”
“Sometimes I don’t know if you love Juu or not.”
“I am a total paragon of universal love.”
While I was baring my honest heart to Cheonghyeon, a deep scream came from somewhere.
That temper—that had to be Choi Jeho.
Sure enough, off in the distance he was stabbing his shovel into innocent mud. If there weren’t cameras, he’d have thrown it. Good thing we drilled him in basic decency.
“What happened?”
“I keep cutting the legs off!”
At Jeho’s feet lay an octopus missing two arms, his outrage justified.
“Did you misjudge your position?”
“How am I supposed to track it in the mud?”
“You’re supposed to follow the signs.”
“If I watch for that, I lose it.”
“Then shovel faster.”
“You two are seriously Dumb and Dumber.”
Muttering to himself, Cheonghyeon looked down into the hole with us.
“The point is, you can’t just brute-force it.”
“You calling me a brute?”
“I’m saying your strength doesn’t seem to include common sense.”
“You think I won’t get it if you rephrase it?”
“Your perception’s improved.”
Even so, I coached Jeho one-on-one so he could land an intact octopus.
I also hauled up Park Juu, who was taking each step like a death march, and wiped the face of Kang Giyeon, who was spattered head to toe but giving it everything.
We also regrouped for a mid-check.
I had nine. Jeho had eight—not intact. Jeong Seongbin had six. Park Juu had five—he said he lucked into those while face-planting. Kang Giyeon had one.
And...
“Cheonghyeon, what happened to you?”
...Cheonghyeon proudly displayed an empty basket. He was so brazen I was speechless a second.
“If they hear even a little footstep, they bolt!”
“You think they’re going to sit still and get caught?”
I dropped two octopus into each maknae’s basket.
With an hour left, I figured I could still hit my own quota.
And I didn’t want to make Giyeon, with his bad knees and ankles, slog around the muck too long.
“If we only start rowing when the tide’s in, it’ll be too late. Burn it now, okay?”
“Yessir!”
With a hearty shout, we headed back out onto the wide mudflat.
The shovel technique etched into my nerves hadn’t rusted; in round two I became one with the shovel again.
Midway, Juu caught fire and started homing in on octopus like a ghost. Seongbin quietly and steadily filled his basket.
Ah, and Jeho did catch a perfect octopus.
Not because he’d found a trick—he basically plowed the earth like a rototiller. I thought he was an excavator. If your body’s that good, maybe your brain really doesn’t have to suffer.
Cheonghyeon managed to catch a baby octopus but released it for the sake of nature’s good cycle. Painful, but obviously the right move.
“We’ve got the tide coming in soon. We’ll do the final tally on the boat!”
At the PD’s last cue, everyone mustered on board. Not one of us looked presentable. Our appearance alone showed how hard we’d worked.
“During the mid-check, Mr. Cheonghyeon had the lowest score, right?”
“Yes, and that’s probably still true.”
Cheonghyeon boldly dumped his basket. Two octopus—presumably the ones I’d gifted—crawled out.
“Not a single one on your own?”
“No one’s perfect.”
He was shameless about it. Giyeon pulled a face.
“And you? How many did you get?”
“Even at my worst, more than you.”
Twitting him to the max, Giyeon revealed his haul.
“Three? Didn’t Iwol give you two as well?”
“Either way, it’s more than you.”
We’d checked only two baskets and already had two penalty candidates. The episode wouldn’t be boring. Not sure whether to laugh or cry.
—
Profile
Name: Choi Jeho
Birthday: November 3
Birthplace: Gwangju Metropolitan City
Height: 187 cm
MBTI: ISTP
Nicknames: Center Emperor, Emperor Jeho, supersized troublemaker, meet-the-parents wrecker
Likes: physical activity
Dislikes: hassle, accessories
Motto: (none)
Favorite food: meat
Preferred scent: lavender
Go-to music genre: punk
Favorite sport: basketball
Body part he’s confident about: thighs (later, “back” added at someone’s insistence)
Personal habit: when wearing glasses, often touches the hinges
