Type “Yangyang” into a Korean search bar in 2025 and you don’t just get surf photos and sunrise beaches—you get a whole mini-mythology of “Yangyang hunting,” the spicy, meme-fueled idea that this quiet stretch of Gangwon’s east coast has become South Korea’s easiest place for strangers to flirt, pair off, and sometimes behave badly.
On the map, Yangyang (양양) is a coastal county facing the East Sea (동해), and its modern glow-up is tightly tied to surfing. Local efforts to develop marine tourism picked up around the mid-2010s, and the place leaned into a “surf town” identity just as Korea’s own surfing boom gathered pace. Yangyang’s accessibility also changed the story: the Seoul–Yangyang Expressway opened the east coast to weekenders, making it far easier for young people in the capital region to treat the beach like a quick, impulsive escape.
Then came the vibe economy. Surf zones like Surfyy Beach—promoted explicitly as a surfing-only destination with rentals, lessons, and even chill-out “zones,” plus a pub & lounge—package the coast as a curated lifestyle, not just a shoreline. That matters because curated lifestyles attract curated audiences: twenty-somethings chasing waves by day and social heat by night, the kind of crowd that turns a place into a seasonal stage where everyone is slightly more open, slightly more performative, and a lot more online.
In Korean pop culture slang, “hunting” doesn’t mean deer. 헌팅 is the Konglish shorthand for approaching strangers to flirt—usually in nightlife settings—and Yangyang’s summer scene made it feel plausible that you could walk out of your guesthouse, step onto the sand, and stumble into a ready-made meet-cute. The rumor language is blunt, written like a dare. Posts circulated with lines like “여기는 헌팅 성공률 100%” (“Here the hunting success rate is 100%”) and “양양에 다녀온 사람은 걸러야 한다” (“Filter out anyone who’s been to Yangyang”), dressed up as “experience stories” from anonymous accounts. A major Korean newspaper even summarized the logic behind the nastiest meme—“If you’ve been to Yangyang, filter out the women”—as a jealousy-fueled fantasy that a partner sent there alone will be “tempted” and a breakup will follow.
But the more interesting question is how flirting actually happens in Korean beach nightlife, because it’s often less aggressive than the word “hunting” suggests. You’ll hear 번호 따다 (beonho ttada, “to get someone’s number”) used half-jokingly: “혹시 번호 좀…?” (“Could I maybe get your number…?”). You’ll see 썸 (sseom, from “something”) everywhere—“우리 썸 타는 거야?” (“Are we in that ‘something’ stage?”)—a way to name that ambiguous pre-dating zone without claiming commitment. And you’ll hear 플러팅 (peulleoting, “flirting”) as a self-aware label people apply to themselves: “지금 나 플러팅하는 거야?” (“Am I flirting right now?”), a wink that keeps things light while testing interest. On a beach, those lines often arrive wrapped in small practical gestures—offering sunscreen, asking about a surf spot, or a casual “어디서 왔어요?” (“Where are you from?”)—the soft openers that can become a 밤바다 (bambada, “night sea”) walk if both sides consent.
Then, inevitably, the backlash arrived—because viral reputations don’t stay cute. Yangyang County has publicly argued that a lot of the worst content is not organic beach gossip but repetitive, copy-pasted rumor campaigns. In July 2025, the county said “false posts with the same sentence structure” were repeatedly spreading online, with “abnormally” surging views and recommendations suggesting organized distribution, and it warned of criminal complaints for defamation and business obstruction. The county also tied the rumor spiral to real economic harm for residents who depend on tourism.
So is Yangyang a “heaven for hunting”? It’s more accurate to call it a case study in how a real youth travel trend—surf culture plus easy access plus party-friendly infrastructure—gets compressed into a single sensational label, then amplified into moral panic. Yangyang can be a surfer’s paradise, a rom-com backdrop, or a messy weekend, sometimes all in one Instagram story. The sea is still the sea; it’s the storytelling that turned the tide.
Ah yes. Yangyang again. The sea is blue, the surfboards are cute, the sunsets are cinematic—and somehow, miraculously, only the girls come back with a stain on their reputation.
Let’s be clear about how this story is told in Korea. When Yangyang is described as a “hunting ground,” men are framed as active, adventurous, virile. Hunters. Boys being boys. Having fun. When women go to the exact same place, drink the exact same soju, talk to the exact same strangers, suddenly they are no longer travelers or surfers or partygoers. They are 물 좋은 곳에 간 여자들 (“girls who went to a place with good ‘water’”), which is Korean code for “easy,” “available,” “not relationship material.” Funny how that works.
The viral phrases say it all. “양양 다녀온 여자는 걸러라” — “Filter out women who’ve been to Yangyang.” Not men. Not couples. Women. The same women who are supposedly being “hunted” are later blamed for being caught. Hunters earn stories; prey earns shame. Patriarchy 101, beach edition.
What irritates Auntie the most is not the flirting itself. Flirting is human. 썸 타기 (sseom tugi, that delicious ‘something-something’ stage) is not a crime. Asking for a number, sharing a drink, walking along the 밤바다 (night sea) — none of this is immoral. But the moral judgment is distributed very selectively. A man who flirts in Yangyang is “sociable.” A woman who flirts is “careless.” A man gains experience. A woman loses value. Same beach, same waves, completely different verdicts.
And don’t pretend this is about “concern.” This isn’t protection; it’s control. The panic around Yangyang isn’t about safety, drugs, or crime—those would require serious discussion and shared responsibility. No, this is about policing women’s mobility and sexuality. It’s about warning girlfriends not to go, testing women’s pasts like background checks, and reminding them that even a weekend trip can follow them forever in gossip form.
Notice how easily the label sticks to women who go alone or with friends. No one says, “Avoid men who went to Yangyang to hunt.” No one asks whether boys should reflect on their behavior, their consent practices, their respect. Accountability flows downhill, always landing on women’s bodies.
So here’s Auntie’s message to my sisters: go to Yangyang if you want. Surf, flirt, don’t flirt, drink iced americanos, fall in love for one night or none at all. Your worth does not dissolve in seawater.
And to the culture that keeps calling women prey—if you insist on using the word “hunting,” maybe it’s time to ask why you’re so comfortable excusing the hunters.
Same waves. Same sand. Same freedom. Or at least, it should be.