I was assigned to Osan Air Base in Songtan, Korea, with the 6903rd Electronic Security Group — known affectionately (and perhaps a bit irreverently) as ‘Skivvy Nine’ — from June 1982 through August 1983.
But, in truth, Korea had captured my attention long before that assignment officially began.
My first exposure to Korea was in October 1981. At that time, I was stationed at Misawa Air Base in Japan with the 6920thElectronic Security Group, serving as the Advisory Support Manager. One of my responsibilities was attending monthly PARPRO (Peacetime Aerial Reconnaissance Program) conferences throughout the Pacific theater to coordinate reconnaissance mission scheduling, involving aircraft like the SR-71, U-2, RC-135, and Navy P-3.
Whoever scheduled these conferences was a genius: Hawaii in December; Philippines in February and November; Korea in April and October; Tokyo in May, June and August; Okinawa in March and September; Alaska in July. No matter the location — perfect weather. There were no conferences in January because the higher-ranking commanders preferred Hawaii, and December’s budget rarely survived intact.
In October 1981, the conference was held in Korea.
Important meetings. Serious business.
I arrived professionally prepared.
I left personally changed.
When I landed in Korea, I wasn’t prepared for how alive I felt stepping into Songtan.
Korea was vibrant. There was an energy everywhere. I was a 27-year-old single Air Force NCO who thought he had life reasonably mapped out. Yet I suddenly felt like a kid turned loose in a place I hadn’t known existed. The color, sound, culture, movement — and, yes, the beauty of the women — all struck me at once. And I realized my future assignment preferences needed adjustment.
By the time I returned to Misawa, I didn’t go back to my dorm room first. I made a beeline to CBPO — the Consolidated Base Personnel Office — and updated my ‘Dream Sheet’. Osan Air Base: Number One.
About a month later, I received the notice.
Approved.
Sometimes destiny begins not with a lightning bolt — but with paperwork.
At Skivvy Nine, I was assigned to Charlie Flight in the Surveillance & Warning Center inside the HTACC — the Hardened Theater Air Control Center. It sounds imposing because it was. Long hours. Shift work. Intensity.
Three mids. Twenty-four hours off. Three days. Twenty-four hours off. Three swings. Seventy-two hours off. Repeat.
It was a rhythm that distorted time and disoriented sleep — but it also created strong bonds. The people I worked with were some of the finest I’ve known — professionally and personally.
And when we weren’t underground in the HTACC monitoring sensitive operations, we were above ground in ‘the Ville’. Songtan’s Ville offered its own version of diplomacy: The Honeymoon Club, Stereo Club, Penthouse Club, Hilltop Club, UN Club, OB House, Utopia, Golden Gate.
Songtan had its own rhythm.
I became close friends with a coworker, Debra — ‘DJ’. We both had an individual desire to move out of the dorms and explore life off-base. Having recognized this like desire, we eventually discussed getting a place together. I was certainly receptive because, quite honestly, I had become increasingly attracted to her.
We searched for houses for weeks. She liked ones I didn’t. I liked ones she didn’t. It was a study in compromise — without resolution. It became almost comical.
Then, on Sunday, 27 February 1983, a group of us met at the Stereo Club. OB Beer. Peach and Grape Oscar. Soju. Laughter. Music.
In the middle of dancing, she said:
“If we can’t find a place by tomorrow, I’m staying in the dorm.”
It landed heavier than she likely intended.
I did not want to stay in the dorm. Not just practically — but psychologically. Moving off-base meant freedom. Independence. Growth. A step forward.
So, I did what any rational man would do: while the others continued enjoying themselves, I left early, slept two hours, and began house-hunting at 3:00 a.m. all over Songtan in the freezing Korean darkness.
East to west. North to south. Narrow streets. Locked gates. It sounds reckless in hindsight — but at the time, it felt urgent. Necessary.
By morning, I had narrowed it to a few.
I revisited my favorites in daylight and chose one. It was large. Not perfect — but promising.
I believed it would meet DJ’s standards.
I brought DJ to proudly show it to her.
She didn’t like it.
“The second bedroom is too small.”
It was small — but workable. I would have been fine using it and offering the large master bedroom to her. In fact, being attracted to her, if things progressed the way I hoped… perhaps that second room wouldn’t matter much anyway.
She was firm. “No.”
She walked away.
In that moment, I faced a choice.
Wait — or move forward.
I told the landlady I still wanted it — with or without her.
That decision — that moment of “fine, I’ll fly solo” — set into motion a week that would change everything.
TUESDAY 1 MARCH 1983
I moved in alone.
The landlady watched me sign the lease and said, half teasing:
“Are you sure you can take care of this big house all by yourself?”
I bristled internally, “Do I look incompetent?”
Then she smiled and added, “What you need is a nice Korean woman to take care of the house… and take care of you. Your girlfriend just left you. Now, I have a friend…”
I laughed.
What the heck? I had no intention of turning down destiny disguised as matchmaking. “Sure,” I said. “Why not? At worst, I gain another friend.”
That night, after moving most of my belongings in from the dormitory, there was a knock.
When I opened the door, I was met by one of the most beautiful Korean women I had ever seen.
She introduced herself as Yu Kum-Sun — nickname Sun-Hui.
We talked for hours in broken English and in broken Korean — stitched together by effort and patience. It wasn’t smooth. But it was most certainly real. It felt less like small talk and more like an interview for life. Dreams. Goals. Values. Family. Expectations.
She learned what made me tick — including why my focus had shifted toward Asian women — shaped in part by an experience on my 25th birthday in Japan in 1980. Confusion. Mixed messages. A “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” experience that left me cautious. Observant. Quiet once again.
The quietness protected me.
It also held me back.
Sitting there in that house in Songtan, conversing with Kum-Sun, I sensed something different. She said what she meant. She allowed me to say what I meant — without ridicule, without games.
Before she left, I asked her out for the next evening.
No hesitation.
WEDNESDAY 2 MARCH 1983
We met at Osan’s Main Gate and took a taxi to the NCO Club Annex. Though technically an annex, it offered better service and more privacy than the main club. We dined in a quiet room. I had my usual bulgogi — they made the best.
We lost track of time entirely. It simply dissolved. We were so absorbed in conversation, and each other, that we didn’t notice the dining room had closed.
When the waitress finally informed us, we looked up to find we were the only two left. Chairs were upside down. Floors were being vacuumed.
The world had quietly moved on.
We hadn’t.
The waitress — a Korean girl I knew well who sometimes brought me kimchi she personally made — had waited until the last possible moment to interrupt. I suspect she saw something happening long before we did.
Sitting next to Kum-Sun, listening to her speak plainly — even in broken English — I realized something:
She did not say one thing and mean another.
If she had concern, she voiced it. If she had curiosity, she asked it. If she disagreed, she did so respectfully.
There was no decoding required.
For a man who spent years decoding ambiguity, that felt like oxygen.
During dinner, she repeatedly ended sentences with, “I’m here.”
She would raise serious questions — about cultural differences, family and friend acceptance, interracial marriage — then conclude firmly, “I’m here.”
I remember thinking: I love that. I interpreted that as a commitment.
Months later, after her English improved, we discovered she had actually been saying, “I’m hear…” as in, “I heard.” As in: “Maybe American parents do not want sons marrying Korean women, I’m hear?”
We laughed hard at that newfound revelation.
I told her, “That’s okay. I’m here.”
And that time, I meant it.
After dinner, despite the early March chill, we walked from the Annex to the Main Gate rather than take a taxi. We talked and held hands the entire way. I walked her to the bus stop so she could return to Seoul before busses stopped running. We made plans for the next day — I would go to Seoul and she would show me where she lived.
Then we kissed our first kiss before she boarded the bus.
THURSDAY 3 MARCH 1983
I took the bus to Yongsan — about an hour and 10 minutes north. We met outside Gate 5 and brought me to her home in Dongdaemun.
We spent the day exploring Seoul beyond my limited prior exposure to Yongsan, Itaewon and the Naeja Hotel — the military R&R hotel before Dragon Hill Lodge existed.
At that time, I didn’t realize the Cheonggyecheon Stream nearby would later become one of my favorite places in Seoul — now beautifully revived. That day, it was simply a small part of the landscape hidden within a vast city. Every time I visit Seoul, I would seek out Cheonggyecheon and the waterfall and reflect on that early day with her in March of 1983 and realize how much of my life flowed from it.
There’s something poetic about water. It moves forward even when you don’t notice it.
That day in Seoul, I was being carried forward, whether I realized it or not.
Before I returned to Osan, she offered to come to Songtan the next day to help me purchase furniture.
She knew I would overpay.
She was right.
FRIDAY 4 MARCH 1983
Until now, I was sleeping on a cheap foam futon and eating on the floor. That was about to change.
Like a seasoned businesswoman, she negotiated furniture purchases. Matching black laquer pieces with mother-of-pearl inlay. A brass bed I had wanted since the mid ‘70s. Delivery. Setup. Two months, no interest. All on an $813.42 monthly paycheck.
I knew intelligence work.
She knew negotiation.
She wasn’t just beautiful.
She was capable. Strategic.
She wasn’t just helping. She was investing.
That evening I asked her to move in.
She said, “Yes.”
Immediately.
SATURDAY 5 MARCH 1983
This morning, I understood something had shifted in me.
I had spent years convincing myself that independence was enough. I had known disappointment in relationships. Somewhere along the way, without ever formally deciding it, I had quietly lowered my expectations for my life. I still yearned for love — but I had begun to doubt that it was meant for me. My confidence had eroded in ways I rarely admitted.
I thought back to women I had loved — what I felt at the time, and how those relationships eventually ended. I wondered whether I truly wished any of them had lasted, or whether I was simply grateful that I avoided deeper disappointment.
And I wondered whether the woman now standing before me would become just another lesson in caution.
But when I looked more deeply at Kum-Sun…
With her, the pattern didn't hold.
A steady unraveling of the conclusions I had so carefully constructed began to take place. She was intelligent without arrogance, graceful without pretense, strong without ever needing to announce it. There was a quiet dignity about her that made me want to rise to meet it.
I understood something that could no longer be postponed.
June was approaching. My tour was ending. Three months. Ninety days. Military time accelerates at the end. Papers move. Assignments change. Farewells begin before you’re ready. I knew how this worked. I’ve been there before.
If I hestitated — even for a couple weeks — bureaucracy alone could prevent her from accompanying me.
The paperwork for marrying a foreign national. The security clearance approvals. The passport processing. The command notifications. None of that operated on romantic timelines.
Marriage is not poetic. It is a daily commitment. Shared burdens. Repetition of choice.
I weighed everything. My career. The distance between our countries. The responsibility of guiding her through a new life in America. The reality that she would be leaving everything familiar.
This was not simply about what I wanted. It was about what I was asking her to give up.
And for whom?
Me? Was I worth it?
That question sobered me — and strengthened my resolve.
If I was going to do this, I would do it fully.
I wasn’t just asking, “Do I love her?”
I was asking, “Am I willing to stake the rest of my life on a decision made in less than a week?”
Not dramatic. Not staged. Just plainly.
“Kum-Sun, would you marry me?”
Her expression shifted in that instant — joy, relief, perhaps even validation that she had not misread my heart.
“Yes.”
Simple.
Immediate.
Certain.
Commitment does not trap you.
It anchors you.
SUNDAY 6 MARCH 1983
I wore a hanbok. On a public bus.
This is proof of commitment.
I have mixed feelings that no photographic evidence exists.
We arrived at her brother’s home in Suwon where the entire family gathered. We performed the traditional sebae bow. I survived it. She says I did it well.
There was food — more dishes than I have ever seen on one table. Beer and soju flowed. I smiled while Kum-Sun did most of the talking.
Then her father and I discovered we shared Japanese as a common language — his learned under Korea occupation by Japan, mine from years stationed in Japan. Suddenly, what could have been awkward become meaningful.
Up until that moment, I had been smiling — respectfully, cautiously — unsure how much was being understood on either side.
But when he spoke in Japanese, and I answered comfortably, I saw his posture change. Not dramatically — but noticeably. There was a very meaningful smile on his face.
We spoke. Man to man. Father to future son-in-law. He was concerned. Of course he was. I was taking his youngest daughter out of the country.
He asked about my job. Stability. My family.
And then he asked the question no father avoids:
“You will take her far.”
It wasn’t an accusation. It was a statement. I answered honestly.
“I will care for her. Family will not be severed. We will return. Often.”
And we did.
Kum-Sun later traveled back to Korea from Japan with our sons, Ricky and Brad, for their 100-Day (Baek-il) celebrations — a significant Korean tradition. During my assignment in Key West years later, my former Flight Operations Officer, Captain Bob White, became Director of Operations there. Whenever opportunities arose for travel to Korea — such as Ulchi Focus Lens exercises — he would always select me, knowing how much I love Korea and valued visiting my in-laws.
Family remained family.
Her father then said something I will never forget:
“In Korea, daughter leaves family when she marries. But she does not leave heart.”
I assured him she wouldn’t.
When all was finished that Sunday, Kum-Sun told me, “They liked your smile.” I suppose sometimes sincerity shows before vocabulary does.
MONDAY 7 MARCH 1983
We began the official background investigation for someone with a Top Secret clearance to marry a foreign national.
Routine.
Until it wasn’t.
Security Police: “Do you have relatives in North Korea?”
Kum-Sun: “Yes.”
“Do you have contact with them?” “Yes.”
“Have you traveled to North Korea?” “Yes.”
“Do you support the overthrow of South Korea?” “Yes.”
My eyes nearly exited my skull.
I leapt up. “Do you understand what they’re asking you?”
“No.”
I looked at the officer conducting the interview. I didn’t know whether it was all over or whether to laugh at the absurdity of him actually taking her seriously.
“It’s apparent that she never understood the questions. Is there a way to have an interpreter present?” He just laughed, “Oh, yes!!!”
An interpreter arrived in a few minutes. The questions were repeated.
But even in that moment of alarm, I saw something endearing:
She wasn’t trying to deceive anyone. She was trying to please.
“Yes.”
When all was said and done, she must have done well…
In retrospect, we always laugh at that moment.
“Yes.” “Yes.” “Yes.” “Yes.”
APRIL 1983
Everything came back approved on Friday, 22 April. And we were married at Seoul City Hall the following Monday, 25 April 1983.
Forty-three years and five sons later…
Still together.
EPILOGUE
When I look back now, I do not see a dramatic love story.
I see something steadier.
I see a man who doubted himself — choosing differently.
I see a woman brave enough to leave her homeland.
I see a hanbok.
I see a nod of trust from a father.
But, in truth, Korea had captured my attention long before that assignment officially began.
My first exposure to Korea was in October 1981. At that time, I was stationed at Misawa Air Base in Japan with the 6920thElectronic Security Group, serving as the Advisory Support Manager. One of my responsibilities was attending monthly PARPRO (Peacetime Aerial Reconnaissance Program) conferences throughout the Pacific theater to coordinate reconnaissance mission scheduling, involving aircraft like the SR-71, U-2, RC-135, and Navy P-3.
Whoever scheduled these conferences was a genius: Hawaii in December; Philippines in February and November; Korea in April and October; Tokyo in May, June and August; Okinawa in March and September; Alaska in July. No matter the location — perfect weather. There were no conferences in January because the higher-ranking commanders preferred Hawaii, and December’s budget rarely survived intact.
In October 1981, the conference was held in Korea.
Important meetings. Serious business.
I arrived professionally prepared.
I left personally changed.
When I landed in Korea, I wasn’t prepared for how alive I felt stepping into Songtan.
Korea was vibrant. There was an energy everywhere. I was a 27-year-old single Air Force NCO who thought he had life reasonably mapped out. Yet I suddenly felt like a kid turned loose in a place I hadn’t known existed. The color, sound, culture, movement — and, yes, the beauty of the women — all struck me at once. And I realized my future assignment preferences needed adjustment.
By the time I returned to Misawa, I didn’t go back to my dorm room first. I made a beeline to CBPO — the Consolidated Base Personnel Office — and updated my ‘Dream Sheet’. Osan Air Base: Number One.
About a month later, I received the notice.
Approved.
Sometimes destiny begins not with a lightning bolt — but with paperwork.
At Skivvy Nine, I was assigned to Charlie Flight in the Surveillance & Warning Center inside the HTACC — the Hardened Theater Air Control Center. It sounds imposing because it was. Long hours. Shift work. Intensity.
Three mids. Twenty-four hours off. Three days. Twenty-four hours off. Three swings. Seventy-two hours off. Repeat.
It was a rhythm that distorted time and disoriented sleep — but it also created strong bonds. The people I worked with were some of the finest I’ve known — professionally and personally.
And when we weren’t underground in the HTACC monitoring sensitive operations, we were above ground in ‘the Ville’. Songtan’s Ville offered its own version of diplomacy: The Honeymoon Club, Stereo Club, Penthouse Club, Hilltop Club, UN Club, OB House, Utopia, Golden Gate.
Songtan had its own rhythm.
I became close friends with a coworker, Debra — ‘DJ’. We both had an individual desire to move out of the dorms and explore life off-base. Having recognized this like desire, we eventually discussed getting a place together. I was certainly receptive because, quite honestly, I had become increasingly attracted to her.
We searched for houses for weeks. She liked ones I didn’t. I liked ones she didn’t. It was a study in compromise — without resolution. It became almost comical.
Then, on Sunday, 27 February 1983, a group of us met at the Stereo Club. OB Beer. Peach and Grape Oscar. Soju. Laughter. Music.
In the middle of dancing, she said:
“If we can’t find a place by tomorrow, I’m staying in the dorm.”
It landed heavier than she likely intended.
I did not want to stay in the dorm. Not just practically — but psychologically. Moving off-base meant freedom. Independence. Growth. A step forward.
So, I did what any rational man would do: while the others continued enjoying themselves, I left early, slept two hours, and began house-hunting at 3:00 a.m. all over Songtan in the freezing Korean darkness.
East to west. North to south. Narrow streets. Locked gates. It sounds reckless in hindsight — but at the time, it felt urgent. Necessary.
By morning, I had narrowed it to a few.
I revisited my favorites in daylight and chose one. It was large. Not perfect — but promising.
I believed it would meet DJ’s standards.
I brought DJ to proudly show it to her.
She didn’t like it.
“The second bedroom is too small.”
It was small — but workable. I would have been fine using it and offering the large master bedroom to her. In fact, being attracted to her, if things progressed the way I hoped… perhaps that second room wouldn’t matter much anyway.
She was firm. “No.”
She walked away.
In that moment, I faced a choice.
Wait — or move forward.
I told the landlady I still wanted it — with or without her.
That decision — that moment of “fine, I’ll fly solo” — set into motion a week that would change everything.
TUESDAY 1 MARCH 1983
I moved in alone.
The landlady watched me sign the lease and said, half teasing:
“Are you sure you can take care of this big house all by yourself?”
I bristled internally, “Do I look incompetent?”
Then she smiled and added, “What you need is a nice Korean woman to take care of the house… and take care of you. Your girlfriend just left you. Now, I have a friend…”
I laughed.
What the heck? I had no intention of turning down destiny disguised as matchmaking. “Sure,” I said. “Why not? At worst, I gain another friend.”
That night, after moving most of my belongings in from the dormitory, there was a knock.
When I opened the door, I was met by one of the most beautiful Korean women I had ever seen.
She introduced herself as Yu Kum-Sun — nickname Sun-Hui.
We talked for hours in broken English and in broken Korean — stitched together by effort and patience. It wasn’t smooth. But it was most certainly real. It felt less like small talk and more like an interview for life. Dreams. Goals. Values. Family. Expectations.
She learned what made me tick — including why my focus had shifted toward Asian women — shaped in part by an experience on my 25th birthday in Japan in 1980. Confusion. Mixed messages. A “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” experience that left me cautious. Observant. Quiet once again.
The quietness protected me.
It also held me back.
Sitting there in that house in Songtan, conversing with Kum-Sun, I sensed something different. She said what she meant. She allowed me to say what I meant — without ridicule, without games.
Before she left, I asked her out for the next evening.
No hesitation.
WEDNESDAY 2 MARCH 1983
We met at Osan’s Main Gate and took a taxi to the NCO Club Annex. Though technically an annex, it offered better service and more privacy than the main club. We dined in a quiet room. I had my usual bulgogi — they made the best.
We lost track of time entirely. It simply dissolved. We were so absorbed in conversation, and each other, that we didn’t notice the dining room had closed.
When the waitress finally informed us, we looked up to find we were the only two left. Chairs were upside down. Floors were being vacuumed.
The world had quietly moved on.
We hadn’t.
The waitress — a Korean girl I knew well who sometimes brought me kimchi she personally made — had waited until the last possible moment to interrupt. I suspect she saw something happening long before we did.
Sitting next to Kum-Sun, listening to her speak plainly — even in broken English — I realized something:
She did not say one thing and mean another.
If she had concern, she voiced it. If she had curiosity, she asked it. If she disagreed, she did so respectfully.
There was no decoding required.
For a man who spent years decoding ambiguity, that felt like oxygen.
During dinner, she repeatedly ended sentences with, “I’m here.”
She would raise serious questions — about cultural differences, family and friend acceptance, interracial marriage — then conclude firmly, “I’m here.”
I remember thinking: I love that. I interpreted that as a commitment.
Months later, after her English improved, we discovered she had actually been saying, “I’m hear…” as in, “I heard.” As in: “Maybe American parents do not want sons marrying Korean women, I’m hear?”
We laughed hard at that newfound revelation.
I told her, “That’s okay. I’m here.”
And that time, I meant it.
After dinner, despite the early March chill, we walked from the Annex to the Main Gate rather than take a taxi. We talked and held hands the entire way. I walked her to the bus stop so she could return to Seoul before busses stopped running. We made plans for the next day — I would go to Seoul and she would show me where she lived.
Then we kissed our first kiss before she boarded the bus.
THURSDAY 3 MARCH 1983
I took the bus to Yongsan — about an hour and 10 minutes north. We met outside Gate 5 and brought me to her home in Dongdaemun.
We spent the day exploring Seoul beyond my limited prior exposure to Yongsan, Itaewon and the Naeja Hotel — the military R&R hotel before Dragon Hill Lodge existed.
At that time, I didn’t realize the Cheonggyecheon Stream nearby would later become one of my favorite places in Seoul — now beautifully revived. That day, it was simply a small part of the landscape hidden within a vast city. Every time I visit Seoul, I would seek out Cheonggyecheon and the waterfall and reflect on that early day with her in March of 1983 and realize how much of my life flowed from it.
There’s something poetic about water. It moves forward even when you don’t notice it.
That day in Seoul, I was being carried forward, whether I realized it or not.
Before I returned to Osan, she offered to come to Songtan the next day to help me purchase furniture.
She knew I would overpay.
She was right.
FRIDAY 4 MARCH 1983
Until now, I was sleeping on a cheap foam futon and eating on the floor. That was about to change.
Like a seasoned businesswoman, she negotiated furniture purchases. Matching black laquer pieces with mother-of-pearl inlay. A brass bed I had wanted since the mid ‘70s. Delivery. Setup. Two months, no interest. All on an $813.42 monthly paycheck.
I knew intelligence work.
She knew negotiation.
She wasn’t just beautiful.
She was capable. Strategic.
She wasn’t just helping. She was investing.
That evening I asked her to move in.
She said, “Yes.”
Immediately.
SATURDAY 5 MARCH 1983
This morning, I understood something had shifted in me.
I had spent years convincing myself that independence was enough. I had known disappointment in relationships. Somewhere along the way, without ever formally deciding it, I had quietly lowered my expectations for my life. I still yearned for love — but I had begun to doubt that it was meant for me. My confidence had eroded in ways I rarely admitted.
I thought back to women I had loved — what I felt at the time, and how those relationships eventually ended. I wondered whether I truly wished any of them had lasted, or whether I was simply grateful that I avoided deeper disappointment.
And I wondered whether the woman now standing before me would become just another lesson in caution.
But when I looked more deeply at Kum-Sun…
With her, the pattern didn't hold.
A steady unraveling of the conclusions I had so carefully constructed began to take place. She was intelligent without arrogance, graceful without pretense, strong without ever needing to announce it. There was a quiet dignity about her that made me want to rise to meet it.
I understood something that could no longer be postponed.
June was approaching. My tour was ending. Three months. Ninety days. Military time accelerates at the end. Papers move. Assignments change. Farewells begin before you’re ready. I knew how this worked. I’ve been there before.
If I hestitated — even for a couple weeks — bureaucracy alone could prevent her from accompanying me.
The paperwork for marrying a foreign national. The security clearance approvals. The passport processing. The command notifications. None of that operated on romantic timelines.
Marriage is not poetic. It is a daily commitment. Shared burdens. Repetition of choice.
I weighed everything. My career. The distance between our countries. The responsibility of guiding her through a new life in America. The reality that she would be leaving everything familiar.
This was not simply about what I wanted. It was about what I was asking her to give up.
And for whom?
Me? Was I worth it?
That question sobered me — and strengthened my resolve.
If I was going to do this, I would do it fully.
I wasn’t just asking, “Do I love her?”
I was asking, “Am I willing to stake the rest of my life on a decision made in less than a week?”
Not dramatic. Not staged. Just plainly.
“Kum-Sun, would you marry me?”
Her expression shifted in that instant — joy, relief, perhaps even validation that she had not misread my heart.
“Yes.”
Simple.
Immediate.
Certain.
Commitment does not trap you.
It anchors you.
SUNDAY 6 MARCH 1983
I wore a hanbok. On a public bus.
This is proof of commitment.
I have mixed feelings that no photographic evidence exists.
We arrived at her brother’s home in Suwon where the entire family gathered. We performed the traditional sebae bow. I survived it. She says I did it well.
There was food — more dishes than I have ever seen on one table. Beer and soju flowed. I smiled while Kum-Sun did most of the talking.
Then her father and I discovered we shared Japanese as a common language — his learned under Korea occupation by Japan, mine from years stationed in Japan. Suddenly, what could have been awkward become meaningful.
Up until that moment, I had been smiling — respectfully, cautiously — unsure how much was being understood on either side.
But when he spoke in Japanese, and I answered comfortably, I saw his posture change. Not dramatically — but noticeably. There was a very meaningful smile on his face.
We spoke. Man to man. Father to future son-in-law. He was concerned. Of course he was. I was taking his youngest daughter out of the country.
He asked about my job. Stability. My family.
And then he asked the question no father avoids:
“You will take her far.”
It wasn’t an accusation. It was a statement. I answered honestly.
“I will care for her. Family will not be severed. We will return. Often.”
And we did.
Kum-Sun later traveled back to Korea from Japan with our sons, Ricky and Brad, for their 100-Day (Baek-il) celebrations — a significant Korean tradition. During my assignment in Key West years later, my former Flight Operations Officer, Captain Bob White, became Director of Operations there. Whenever opportunities arose for travel to Korea — such as Ulchi Focus Lens exercises — he would always select me, knowing how much I love Korea and valued visiting my in-laws.
Family remained family.
Her father then said something I will never forget:
“In Korea, daughter leaves family when she marries. But she does not leave heart.”
I assured him she wouldn’t.
When all was finished that Sunday, Kum-Sun told me, “They liked your smile.” I suppose sometimes sincerity shows before vocabulary does.
MONDAY 7 MARCH 1983
We began the official background investigation for someone with a Top Secret clearance to marry a foreign national.
Routine.
Until it wasn’t.
Security Police: “Do you have relatives in North Korea?”
Kum-Sun: “Yes.”
“Do you have contact with them?” “Yes.”
“Have you traveled to North Korea?” “Yes.”
“Do you support the overthrow of South Korea?” “Yes.”
My eyes nearly exited my skull.
I leapt up. “Do you understand what they’re asking you?”
“No.”
I looked at the officer conducting the interview. I didn’t know whether it was all over or whether to laugh at the absurdity of him actually taking her seriously.
“It’s apparent that she never understood the questions. Is there a way to have an interpreter present?” He just laughed, “Oh, yes!!!”
An interpreter arrived in a few minutes. The questions were repeated.
But even in that moment of alarm, I saw something endearing:
She wasn’t trying to deceive anyone. She was trying to please.
“Yes.”
When all was said and done, she must have done well…
In retrospect, we always laugh at that moment.
“Yes.” “Yes.” “Yes.” “Yes.”
APRIL 1983
Everything came back approved on Friday, 22 April. And we were married at Seoul City Hall the following Monday, 25 April 1983.
Forty-three years and five sons later…
Still together.
EPILOGUE
When I look back now, I do not see a dramatic love story.
I see something steadier.
I see a man who doubted himself — choosing differently.
I see a woman brave enough to leave her homeland.
I see a hanbok.
I see a nod of trust from a father.
I see family remaining family.
The Time Had Come…
And I answered it.
Still together.
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