In 1860, with a treaty, Waicheng became Vostok for the Russians. Wang Dehai, a fisherman from the Bohai Bay, led his fellow villagers to this unfamiliar Golden Horn Bay.
They just want to build a shack on the beach, cast a net to catch fish, so that their wives, children and children can have a full meal. But the Russian's tax bill tripled, his gun was pressed against his chest, and deportation orders were plastered all over the pier. On the beach of Askold Island, the blood of his compatriots stained the river water. His twelve-year-old son fell forever on the gold rush shoal.
Some people advised him to flee back to Shandong, but there was no place to stay in Shandong. Some people asked him to fight the Russians, but behind him stood more than 300 fellow villagers with their families.
From three leaky shacks to the bustling Weizi Street; from thirteen broken fishing boats to countless sails in the Golden Horn. Wang Dehai clutched a copper fish fished from the bottom of the sea, and took his compatriots to take root in the shadow of the bayonet and the fort.
The Russian railway was built to the seaside, the muzzles of the fort were aimed at the net-drying yard, and a thirty-day expulsion order was slapped in front of them. Walking is a dead end of wandering; staying is a dangerous road with a knife on your neck.
He stood on the dock, looked at the surging water, and said only one sentence: The sea is here, and we are here.
