Born in Quanzhou, a coastal village once at the heart of China’s maritime trade during the Song and Yuan dynasties, I often hear the sea whisper its stories. The ebb and flow of the tides shaped my childhood, weaving the land and sea together into a quiet rhythm of memory.

　　I met my grandfather only once, when he returned from Taiwan after forty years. We walked to the shore together, looking for the bay where he once chased waves as a child. As we gazed at the horizon, he said, "There used to be thousands of sails, heading to the ends of the earth with tea, porcelain, and silk." He paused, then added, "Once a path is chosen, there’s no turning back."

　　Those words, like the relentless waves, stayed with me. After the Opium War, Fujian’s maritime trade faded, and many villagers, including my grandfather’s brother, Wang Wanhua, had no choice but to migrate to Southeast Asia. Wang Wanhua was lost in a bombing over the Irrawaddy River.

　　My great-grandmother, a pillar of resilience, supported the family with remittances from their uncle in Rangoon, after losing her husband and son. In the rugged villages of Southern Fujian, where land was scarce, many men had no option but to venture far. "Ten ships set sail, and only one returns," she would say. Those who made it back worked to support their families, honor their ancestors, and raise the next generation. This survival wisdom, passed down through the years, became the unspoken bond in the bloodline of Southern Fujian people.

　　As a child, my grandfather was mischievous, often sneaking into the sea, only to be caught by his mother with a bamboo pole. It wasn’t until his years in Taiwan that he understood the love behind her sternness. Survival in turbulent times often meant no luxury for dreams or the future.

　　My great-grandmother had arranged my grandfather’s marriage early, bringing his bride to Taiwan in 1947. They returned to the village the next year, only to be separated for forty years. When my grandfather finally came home, my grandmother simply said, "Your father is home." He was puzzled—how could she remain so calm when the Strait was so turbulent?

　　She never complained about her fate. Perhaps this serenity was the wisdom of Southern Fujian women—resilience in the face of change. "Endurance" and "waiting" are virtues etched deeply into their lives.

　　When I reached a crossroads after university, my father’s advice was simple: "Don’t lose your way." My grandmother would say, "A blade of grass, a drop of dew." "Determination" and "endurance" are the core values of those who live by the Southern Fujian coast. From older generations, we learn to face storms with steadfast resolve.

　　Today, I often take overseas Chinese youth on tours of Quanzhou, telling them the stories of our ancestors. At the Song-Yuan Maritime Trade Exhibition Hall, standing in front of the remnants of the Fuchuan ship, I think of my grandparents. My grandmother waited forty years for our family to reunite. In my childhood, I remember her sweet potato porridge on mornings when the rice jar was empty, her face lit by the flickering flames of the clay pot. The sea breeze seemed to pass over the red-brick house, and the distant tides whispered in my ears.

　　The land, bathed in the salty sea mist, carved the motto "Love to fight, dare to win" into the hearts of Southern Fujian people. As our ancestors sailed, the last thing they saw was the Gusao Tower, leaving their homeland with earth from ancestral wells, planting roots far from home. They built ancestral halls, inscribed with hopes for good winds, bountiful harvests, and peace.

　　Now, following their path, we return. At Wulin Overseas Chinese Village, standing before the unfinished ancestral halls, we honor those who sacrificed everything to preserve our nation’s survival. When young people gather at the Wudianshi ancestral house, they do more than offer incense. They are capturing moments from their journey. Armed with TikTok, they share sunsets over Anping Bridge and showcase traditional dishes on Instagram. The ancient routes once followed by the Fuchuan ships have now morphed into digital paths on Chinese-language television. Roots are no longer confined to one place but spread far and wide, like new branches reaching across the globe. Quanzhou Port’s lighthouse, once a beacon for returning ships, now lights the way for those embarking on new journeys.

　　True cultural inheritance isn’t about staying put—it’s about letting the spirit move through generations, constantly renewing itself. When Chinese youth set up live-streaming equipment in Fan Ke Lou, when Nanyang Nyonya blends Southern Fujian flavors into their dishes, we witness a cross-temporal cultural narrative flourishing, growing, and thriving in a world constantly evolving.