If you’re searching for a South Korea travel oddity with real folklore underneath the giggles, Haesindang Park (해신당 공원)—better known abroad as “Penis Park”—is a surprisingly layered place: part seaside sculpture garden, part fishing-village memory, part folk religion, and part very Korean talent for turning the awkward into public art. Perched on a coastal hill near Sinnam in Samcheok, Gangwon Province, the park looks out over the Donghae (동해, “East Sea”), where pine trees, cliff paths, and an observatory share space with dozens of phallic statues carved in wood, stone, and metal.
The origin story is older and darker than the name suggests. Local tradition ties Haesindang to a tragic tale often summarized as the “Legend of Aebawi and Haesindang”: a young woman is stranded on a rock offshore and dies in a storm, after which the village’s fishing fortunes collapse. The sea becomes stingy, nets come up light, and anxiety spreads through the community. In one of those mythic turns that can sound crude if you tell it too quickly, the story says the curse lifts only after a fisherman urinates into the sea—an accidental “offering” that supposedly appeases the restless spirit. The implication is not romance but ritual logic: the drowned woman becomes a cheonyeo gwishin (처녀귀신, “virgin ghost”), and the village needs a symbolic act strong enough to calm her and restore balance.
From there, the community response slides into what Korea has long called folk practice—the kind of local religion that sits beside formal Buddhism and Confucian family ethics. The tale connects to a shrine or hall known as Haesindang (해신당, roughly “Sea God Hall/Shrine”), and sources describing the site note that a traditional ceremony is held twice a year. In coastal communities, that rhythm echoes broader village rites such as dangje (당제, “village shrine ritual”) and pung-eoje (풍어제, “ritual for a bountiful catch”), where offerings, prayers, and community gathering are aimed at making the sea predictable enough to survive.
The park you visit today is modern—deliberately curated as tourism and outdoor art—yet it keeps pointing back to the working-life reality behind the legend: a fishing village living on weather, tides, and luck. The official Korean tourism description frames Haesindang Park as a place “inspired by Korean phallic folklore,” built above a fishing harbor, with sculptures, viewpoints, and a museum space that explains local village life.
The park features dozens of penis sculptures — from artistic, abstract, and humorous forms to larger-than-life wooden, stone, and metal pieces. Some include fun features like benches or Chinese zodiac animals incorporated into phallic shapes. The Village Folk Museum offers displays on sexual iconography in Asian and global cultures, local fishing traditions, and shamanistic rituals tied to the park’s legend.
What makes it especially Haesindang, though, is that the phallic imagery is treated less as pornography than as apotropaic symbolism—a protective, luck-bringing sign that can scare off misfortune, invite fertility, or restore prosperity. That kind of symbolism isn’t unique to Korea, but Korea is unusually comfortable putting it outdoors in daylight, in a family sightseeing format that still leaves adults snickering into their sleeves.
Walk the paths and you’ll see why the park functions as both punchline and gallery. Some statues are straightforward, others playful or abstract; a few fold into benches or whimsical forms. Several works are linked to local art events and contests—often described as a phallus sculpture contest whose winners became part of the park’s collection—so the space doubles as a record of contemporary Korean craft and cheeky design as much as it does folklore. Nearby, interpretive exhibits (sometimes described as a village folk museum) situate the place in a wider story of maritime life and ritual imagination, nudging visitors to read the jokes and the grief together rather than choosing one.
In the end, Haesindang’s odd power is its tone: it’s scenic, a little absurd, and—if you listen past the laughter—also a reminder that communities invent symbols to negotiate fear, loss, and survival. The statues are loud; the subtext is quiet. And that combination is exactly why Haesindang Park keeps getting photographed, reposted, and remembered long after most theme-park gimmicks fade.
Oh please. If you can’t handle a forest of carved wooden penises without clutching your pearls, maybe Haesindang isn’t for you. For the rest of us—curious adults with a pulse—South Korea’s most famously cheeky park is an invitation to enjoy, relax, giggle, and have a little fun. Life is already hard enough. The sea is rough, patriarchy is relentless, and Google Maps still lies. If a coastal village wants to honor an old legend with a few dozen unapologetic phallic sculptures, Auntie says: good for them.
Let’s be honest. Most visitors arrive snickering. Phones out, eyebrows up, group chats buzzing. And that’s fine. Laughter is part of the ritual now. These sculptures aren’t porn, they’re not instructions, and they’re definitely not a threat to civilization. They’re folk art with a wink—symbols of luck, fertility, survival, and yes, very human anxiety about desire and loss. You can admire the craftsmanship, take the photo, make the joke, and still respect the story underneath. Koreans are very good at holding contradiction like that.
And here’s the thing Auntie loves most: Haesindang reminds us that sex doesn’t have to be solemn or secret to be meaningful. It can be playful. It can be symbolic. It can live in public space without immediately turning into something grubby or shameful. Imagine that. A society where adults can laugh at a penis sculpture and still go home to cook dinner, help with homework, and pay their bills. Revolutionary, I know.
So stroll the paths. Breathe the sea air. Point, laugh, roll your eyes, take selfies. Let the inner teenager have her moment. And then—this is important—leave the park where it belongs, on the cliff by the sea. Because the real magic doesn’t happen between the pine trees.
Back in the hotel room, Auntie suggests something radical: experiment with new ideas. Not instructions, not expectations, not performances borrowed from the internet. Just curiosity. Conversation. Maybe a little bravery. Talk about what made you laugh. What surprised you. What you’ve never tried because it felt silly or embarrassing. Sometimes it takes a ridiculous statue to remind grown adults that pleasure starts with imagination, not perfection.
Haesindang doesn’t tell you what to do. It just whispers: lighten up. Bodies are strange, desire is human, and joy doesn’t need permission. Giggle first. Think later. And if a quirky park by the East Sea sends you home a little more relaxed and a little more curious—well, Auntie calls that excellent tourism.