For awhile I lived on a remote island in Canada, north of Vancouver Island. It did not face the open Pacific but was where many storms crossed the ocean to meet the coast. Winters were windy and wet, some snow and not much sunshine.
The one town had been founded mostly by hopeful Finn immigrants. A co-op store and numerous saunas remained. Fishing and logging were the historic mainstays. While I was there both were in decline.
People were friendly nonetheless and free with advice of where to hike, to pick berries or try for fish. Usually these were places close to the harbor and south facing coves. Nice, friendly places.
One woman told me to try the back side f the island. "Korea," she said. "Try back in Korea. It's got some good beachcombing."
"Korea?"
"Korea. Wear a raincoat."
The paved roads ended before the north side of the island. Most of it had recently been clear cut so it was a rugged patch of brush, stumps, and muddy log roads. The crows were loud and sassy, and it was raining hard. I found a copse of woods that was uncut because so many trees were blown over.
I heard the ocean before I saw it. The beach was rocky and strewn with logs and branches. To walk along it was to stoop, hunker, climb, sidestep continually. A wild place. The wind blasted my face and I felt entirely alone.
Korea, the called it.
No reason why.