By Lee Sang-mook,
Professor of Earth and Environmental Sciences, Seoul National University
SEOUL: When Christmas comes to mind, one story that immediately feels familiar to many of us is Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol (1843). The novel tells the story of Ebenezer Scrooge, a notorious miser who undergoes a profound transformation after encountering three spirits on Christmas Eve who reveal his past, present, and future. Confronted with the image of his own death, Scrooge becomes an entirely different person.
A turning point in life, as seen through the story of Scrooge
In many ways, Scrooge resembles the modern head of a household struggling fiercely to survive. I mention A Christmas Carol again because I, too, was reborn as a different person through an experience not unlike Scrooge’s. Let me begin with my own story.
I have spent my life fascinated by basic science, far removed from money or material pursuits. After completing my PhD at MIT and the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, I returned to Korea in 1998 and worked for more than six years at a government-funded research institute, freely exploring the open seas.
On December 24, 2003, I became a professor at my alma mater, Seoul National University. Since then, I progressed from assistant professor to associate professor and, now, full professor, with only two years remaining before retirement. From the outside, one might say I achieved my lifelong dream.
From Basic Scientist to Seoul National University Professor… The Challenge of Teaching About the Living, Moving Earth
Within earth sciences, my specialty is plate tectonics—the study of regions where earthquakes and volcanoes occur constantly. I sometimes joke by asking people if they know who Korea’s first geophysicist was. I suggest that it might have been Dangun, the legendary founder of Korea. Without an understanding of plate tectonics, how could one have chosen to establish a nation on such a remarkably stable landmass, largely free of earthquakes and volcanoes? The Earth is always in motion, and the Korean Peninsula has not always been stable. Two hundred million years ago, a major seismic and volcanic belt passed directly through what is now Korea before shifting downward to where Japan and Taiwan lie today.
One of my greatest challenges as a professor has been how to teach students about a living, dynamic Earth. Korea’s rocks are mostly very old, and because the peninsula lies on the western edge of the Pacific Ocean, high humidity and dense vegetation make it difficult to observe clean rock exposures.
By chance, I shared this concern with Professor Joann Stock, my senior colleague from my MIT days. She suggested that I bring Seoul National University students to join her annual 10-day field survey across California, including the San Andreas Fault, which she conducted every summer with Caltech students.
California, with its young crust and desert environment, was ideal for rock observation. After thorough preparation, in late June 2006, I traveled to Los Angeles with 12 SNU students to join Caltech faculty and students.
California Field Research and the Beginning of a New Path
It was an invaluable field experience—one that students might encounter only once in a lifetime—learning not only geology but also desert survival skills. California Highway 1, connecting Los Angeles and San Francisco, is famous worldwide for its stunning coastal scenery.
Although I had traveled there with my family before, it was only through field exploration that I realized how geologically unique the area is, filled with textbook-perfect structures. For a geologist like me, it felt like a pilgrimage. As the expedition neared its end, we planned to pass through Death Valley and conclude the journey in Las Vegas on July 4, watching fireworks on Independence Day.
A life turned upside down in an instant: an accident in the desert
Then fate intervened. On July 2, seven vehicles departed in a caravan along an unpaved road. I was driving the second-to-last car, and dust from the vehicles ahead obscured my view.
Suddenly, my vehicle’s wheel slipped into a ditch, and the car rolled one and a half times before flipping over. The roof collapsed, but I never let go of the steering wheel. As a result, I suffered complete paralysis below the neck.
I immediately lost consciousness. An American student pulled me out of the overturned vehicle, administered CPR in the scorching July heat, and used a satellite phone to call for emergency rescue.
Forty-five minutes later, a helicopter arrived in the middle of the desert. One student who had been riding with me was critically injured. The paramedics said the student was unlikely to survive but that I might, so only I was airlifted to a hospital. I was taken to Bakersfield, a place I never imagined people even lived.
Though I reached a hospital, I feared that survival might still be unlikely, as it was not a major city hospital. However, Kern Medical Center turned out to be a specialized trauma center established by the California government for people injured during outdoor activities in remote areas. Each year, about 600 patients like me are airlifted there.
Sounds from the Brink of Death
Although I lost consciousness immediately after the accident, it is said that hearing remains even when awareness fades. I could hear voices around me and piece together my situation. I distinctly remember being on the helicopter.
Coincidentally, the night before the accident, I had noticed a distant glow in the darkness and asked an American professor whether it was Las Vegas. He said it was probably Bakersfield. I never imagined I would end up there the next day.
Upon arrival, my vital signs were too weak for immediate surgery. Three days later, once stabilized, surgeons performed what they described as a procedure to “reconnect my head and body.”
While unconscious, I could hear doctors and nurses discussing my condition. I tried desperately to think of a way out, but none existed. I accepted that I was trapped in an inescapable pit and prepared for death- an experience akin to confession.
Three deaths and three resurrections
While unconscious, I had three vivid dreams, each ending with my death, followed by resurrection. I died twice and lived three times. Strangely, death did not feel frightening. Everything unfolded naturally, step by step.
Through this near-death experience, I realized that death was not terrifying—perhaps even manageable. I am not religious, nor had I previously reflected deeply on death. Yet this experience completely transformed my worldview.
Death may be humanity’s greatest mystery. Modern science offers uniform results and experiences, yet it provides no answers to the fundamental questions we truly seek—such as whether destiny exists or whether good and evil are real. I believe I reached the threshold of death, and to my surprise, it was not frightening.
The words I was holding back in front of my mother, and the life I had to live
When my mother heard of the accident, she flew from Korea to Los Angeles and traveled hours by taxi to Bakersfield. After my neck surgery, I regained consciousness and was able to see her.
Unable to speak due to a breathing tube, I tried desperately to tell her about the world I had seen. The more I tried, the more frustrated I became. I became convinced that heaven had installed a “backup system” to prevent such revelations.
Later, my father asked about my condition, and my mother reportedly replied that while my life might be saved, my intelligence seemed impaired. Looking back, it is a humorous remark. This story appears in my 2008 book 0.1 Grams of Hope.
After returning to Korea, I openly shared my experience with visitors—often leaving them more confused than comforted. Yet this experience made me remarkably resilient. I have never once pitied myself or shed tears over my condition.
A journalist once asked a high school friend whether I had always been this optimistic. “No,” my friend replied. “Not in college, either.” Pressed for an explanation, he joked that perhaps the part of my brain responsible for negative thoughts had been damaged.
Montaigne and the Experience From 450 Years Ago
Near-death experiences vary widely, which once made me worry I might be mistaken. But I was astonished to read Sarah Bakewell’s book on Michel de Montaigne, How to Live. Montaigne’s experience mirrored mine almost exactly.
Montaigne, a 16th-century French philosopher, survived a near-fatal riding accident and later concluded that death appears horrifying to observers, yet offers inner peace to the one experiencing it.
Afterward, he abandoned political ambitions and devoted himself to writing essays—creating a new literary genre centered on everyday life. Readers found his personal reflections deeply relatable. I feel a profound connection to Montaigne across time and space.
Life is only visible when we remember death.
Returning to A Christmas Carol, what transformed Scrooge was witnessing his own death. Humans suppress thoughts of death to function, yet as Ernest Becker argued in The Denial of Death, confronting mortality can enrich life. Scrooge, Montaigne, and I are examples of this truth.
This Christmas, as we reflect on Scrooge’s transformation, I hope we may return more fully to our human essence. I wish everyone a joyful Christmas.
Professor Lee Sang-Mook (born October 18, 1962) is a distinguished marine geophysicist and professor at Seoul National University. He earned his bachelor’s degree in oceanography from Seoul National University in 1985, followed by a PhD in marine geophysics from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) in 1995. After completing postdoctoral research at Durham University in the United Kingdom (1996–1998), he served as a Principal Research Scientist at the Korea Ocean Research Institute in 2003. Since December 2003, Professor Lee has been a faculty member at Seoul National University, where he continues his academic and research career.
