Courage to be a Man

Greetings, my boys, it’s Papa 4 Da Boys, hammering my LPJ guitar through the fog of forgotten heroes. Today, I drag you to Korea, where Yi Sun-sin—call him Lee Sun Shin if you must—stands as a colossus, unbowed, unappreciated, in a land of bleating sheep. A REAL Man.

 

This man built turtle ships, crushed Japanese invaders, and turned a whirlpool into a weapon, yet his people shuffle past his statue like timid clerks dodging a scolding. For you lads learning to think like men, not lambs, here’s a tale of a lion, with a plea for Korea to roar with courage and honor, loud enough to shake East Asia.

 

Seven minutes, dripping with sarcasm sharper than a samurai’s blade. Let’s sail.

 

Picture Yi Sun-sin, born 1545, a Seoul scholar who’d rather wield a sword than a brush, much to his parents’ dismay.  Yi forged order in a Joseon court of squabbling cowards. Appointed admiral of Jeolla’s navy in 1591, he found a fleet of rickety boats and spineless men.

 

But Yi? He’s no sheep. He builds the turtle ship—a wooden beast, spiked with iron, bristling with 20 cannons, sneering at Japan’s flimsy vessels.  The Japanese, led by that upstart Hideyoshi, thought they’d waltz through Korea to China, boarding ships like pirates at a picnic. Yi’s turtles laughed, ramming and blasting, untouchable as my privates are invisible to me beneath my Big Belly.

 

The Imjin War, 1592–1598, was Yi’s stage. Japan’s armada—hundreds of ships, thousands of samurai—poured across the Tsushima Strait, dreaming of conquest. Yi, with a handful of panokseons and a few turtles, sank them like stones. Battles like Sacheon, Dangpo, Hansando: 23 victories, not a single loss. 

 

Outnumbered ten to one, low on rice, betrayed by jealous courtiers who jailed him twice, Yi still prevailed. His masterpiece? The Battle of Myeongnyang, 1597. With 13 ships against 133 Japanese, he lured them into the Uldolmok whirlpool—a churning strait where tides twist like my temper. His turtles and panokseons circled, cannons roaring, using the vortex to trap and sink the enemy.

 

A whirlpool as a weapon!  And they call me mad for droning my ancient opinions.

 

Yet Korea, oh Korea, treats Yi like a dusty heirloom. Shrines at Gwanghwamun and Yeosu, his Nanjung Ilgi diary in UNESCO’s vault—fine, but where’s the fire?  His people, skittish as sheep, bow to harmony, whispering “peace” while Yi’s ghost begs for a roar. He died in 1598 at Noryang, felled by a stray bullet, shielding his wound to keep his men fighting, yet Korea mumbled his name like a chore.  Even Japan’s Admiral Togo, who crushed Russia in 1905, called Yi peerless, while Koreans clutched their perenial victim manners like a lifeline. A land of sheep, I say, content to graze while Yi’s legacy gathers cobwebs.

 

Here’s my plea, lads: let Korea “come out” with a lion’s voice. Yi wasn’t just a hero; he was courage incarnate, honor forged in cannon smoke, a man who turned a whirlpool into a fist.  East Asia—China’s swagger, Japan’s precision—drowns out Korea’s whimper. But Yi’s spirit screams for boldness: stand tall, honor his sacrifice, shout his name until Beijing and Tokyo flinch. No more sheepish nods to Confucian harmony – it’s become the Coward’s way out of standing up for himself; Korea must roar, a nation fierce as Yi’s turtles, proud as his crane-wing formation.  I’d play a great Anthem for that, if only to wake the flock.

 

Young thinkers, learn from Yi: genius thrives in defiance, not deference. In a world of sheep, be the lion—build your turtle, master your whirlpool, and let no cowardice dim your fire.  I tried defying the world once; it didn’t bow, but my howls never stopped. Korea, take note: roar, or fade.

 

And so, Papa 4 Da Boys slinks off, crooning for Yi Sun-sin’s unsung glory. Young men, kindle your courage, honor your heroes, and make your voice a lion’s. It’s IN You.