If you grew up by Yantai’s seaside, you would never want to leave [Eye on Shandong series]
For Meilin, a native of Shandong, childhood is filled with salty breezes — days spent exploring the shore and fields, and taking part in ganhai (赶海), where the sea reveals its treasures at low tide.
(All photographs are courtesy of the author unless otherwise indicated)
As a six-year-old growing up in the coastal city of Yantai, my idea of what made a “good father” was always a little different from that of children who grew up inland.
... among us children, there was always a playful competition: whose father could offer the most fun, the most unusual adventures?
In 2005, my family moved into the new condominiums near the Golden Sands tourist area, where I spent some of the happiest years of my childhood. Living by the sea meant more than enjoying nice views or being part of a young, lively community. Back then, shopping malls were modest compared to the gigantic multi-purpose complexes we have today, and Disneyland was a three-hour flight away. Thus, the sea and the beach became the heart of leisure life for seaside residents — a playground and an escape.
For children who grew up nearby, the sea was a familiar companion. For young parents, it was the perfect place to take their children — the kids could burn off endless energy while they enjoyed a precious moment of tranquillity after a day of work and chaos.
The champion of fathers
Looking back, I can’t remember who first started it, but among us children, there was always a playful competition: whose father could offer the most fun, the most unusual adventures? The undisputed champion was usually Lola’s (pseudonym) dad. A spirited man with a successful career, it remains a mystery even today how he always found time to accompany Lola and create unforgettable experiences.
His claim to the championship was unchallenged for one simple reason. Back then, as the economy was just starting to grow rapidly, most people’s lives still looked very much the same, with few ways to stand out from the crowd. While the rest of the families and children were content spending time at the public beach, collecting seashells and building sandcastles, Lola’s dad co-invested in an aquatic farm. That meant Lola could go fishing with him in a boat, pick her own seafood straight from the water and enjoy access to the farm’s private beach. The top spot in our little ranking game was definitely his to keep.
The thrill of ganhai
Not long after Lola’s dad started co-managing the aquatic farm, summer holiday was around the corner. When the farm setup was nearly complete, he invited all of us over to the farm for a visit. Compared to the public beach — where at best you’d find a few clams or tiny crabs — the farm offered a far richer variety of marine life. This is what we call ganhai (赶海) in Chinese — beachcombing and low-tide coastal foraging and harvesting.
The day of our visit was bright and hot, in the height of summer. Low tide comes twice a day, and the first that morning was around 10am. I arrived at the farm already wearing my beach boots, brimming with anticipation for the adventure ahead. As the waves receded and hidden rocks emerged from beneath the water, our hunt began. In one hand, we clutched little buckets to hold our finds and in the other, long tongs for prying up any feisty shellfish that threatened to bite back.
The crabs we caught were the same size as those sold in local seafood markets — an unusual find on the beach, since crabs that large are normally only caught by fishing boats that go out to the sea.
The absence of crowds left this part of the beach rather untouched and hence rich in marine life. Within an hour, we had found eight wild crabs, plus some small fish and mussels. The crabs we caught were the same size as those sold in local seafood markets — an unusual find on the beach, since crabs that large are normally only caught by fishing boats that go out to the sea. The low tide was almost over by 11.15am and waves started advancing their boundaries, so we moved on to the next adventure.
Octopus in a bottle
Catching seafood from the farm’s pond would have been too easy and un-challenging, so we decided to venture out on a fishing boat, chasing octopus and mantis shrimp.
I still remember the special method used to catch octopus. Unlike ordinary fish, octopuses are highly intelligent — with a genetic quirk also found in humans — making them far too clever for nets and rods to work. The special tool was ingenious in its simplicity: a fishing line strung with empty milk bottles, each covered by a small piece of aluminium foil on the inside.
Underwater, the foil caught the sunlight, flashing bright reflections in all directions. Octopus, drawn to shiny objects and tiny spaces, would squeeze themselves inside for shelter. The bottles had narrow necks, so slipping out would take some time, even for flexible animals like octopus. Once they crawled in, we hauled the line up quickly before they could escape.
In the evening, our catch — seafood and seaweed alike — became the freshest, most satisfying meal I had ever eaten. It was the first time I tasted something I had helped gather with my own hands.
That afternoon we spent hours floating on water under the hot sun until our skin turned brown. On the way back, the farm workers showed us wild seaweed beds and we harvested sea vegetables by hand. In the evening, our catch — seafood and seaweed alike — became the freshest, most satisfying meal I had ever eaten. It was the first time I tasted something I had helped gather with my own hands.
The adventurous father and the pragmatic father
After the farm trip, the beach games I once loved felt a little dull in comparison. I begged my father to take me back to Lola’s dad’s farm, but arranging visits became more difficult as the peak fishing season set in. My father, however, had his own solution in mind — he bought me a different kind of seafood from the fish market every day to try. He firmly believed that enjoying the seafood served on the dining table was better than having to catch your own.
This highlighted the greatest difference between my dad and Lola’s dad. While Lola’s father had a natural passion for adventure and did not mind dirtying his own hands, mine was more pragmatic and preferred to enjoy the convenience of buying things ready-made.
But even my dad’s approach had its own kind of charm. Visiting the seaside market with him was our most loved activity together.
But even my dad’s approach had its own kind of charm. Visiting the seaside market with him was our most loved activity together. Hawker licensing wasn’t as strict back in the days, so vendors could sell home-cooked seafood from motorbikes and carts that were pushed around. We would sample everything without hesitation, and our favourite seafood snacks were grilled octopus skewers, steamed oysters with vinegar and marinated sea snails, which we call “bolou” in the local dialect.
In restaurants, the same dishes would cost three times as much, but on the street, it was affordable, fresh and authentic. For locals, these small bites were casual, comforting snacks that carried the true flavours of the sea.
The memories of street hawkers
Although restaurants seemed to guarantee better service quality and hygiene, street hawkers carried a unique appeal — a homely feeling that was hard to find elsewhere. They also embodied the city’s passion and generosity. Whenever we stopped by those frequented street food places, whether to buy something or just to glance at what they were selling, they would eagerly offer us something to taste. Even if we politely declined, saying we were only peeking at the food, they would smile and insist we try a sample anyway. Despite needing to earn a living from their business, sharing and caring were of equal importance to these hawkers.
A recurring signature dish is the city’s famous seafood buns or dumplings, stuffed with anything from a single type of seafood to a mix of as many as eight varieties in one.
Nowadays, roadside stalls are rarely found in Yantai, as stricter regulations on hygiene and cleanliness in public spaces have changed the city’s landscape for street food. Yet the spirit of hospitality and generosity they embodied continues to be an integral part of the culture at large.
Yantai today
While some food traditions have faded over time, new ones have risen in their place. In Yantai’s latest ranking of must-try restaurants, eight of the top ten specialise in seafood. A recurring signature dish is the city’s famous seafood buns or dumplings, stuffed with anything from a single type of seafood to a mix of as many as eight varieties in one.
By the age of 12, I had moved to Singapore to continue my education away from home. Though Singapore is also an island city surrounded by the sea, its beaches and coastal development felt very different from those in Yantai. With land scarcity, the city constantly balances leisure and residential spaces against rising demands for office towers and expressways.
Lying on the sandy shore of East Coast Park, I often found myself thinking of Yantai’s wide, open waters, which seemed far more boundless. Perhaps that is why the saying resonates so deeply with me: “Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to go back.”
As I grew older, I visited many other famous coastal cities across Asia and beyond. Each had its own charm, but none quite matched my experiences in Yantai. Its people, its laid-back lifestyle and my childhood memories will always reserve a special place for it in my heart.
