Before the sea…

I still remember those mornings carrying baskets with my mother to the harbor to select fish for the boat owners. Women wearing conical hats and carrying baskets awaited each boat that docked. We children were always excited about the fresh fish, the shrimp that jumped and wriggled as they came ashore, and the soft squid that wriggled constantly.

After each fishing trip, the boat owner would reward us with a few small fish, which we would then grill and share among ourselves amidst bursts of laughter. The sun stretched across the hot sand, and we would rush back to the sea to swim, then compete to see who could dive the longest and swim the fastest—to prove ourselves worthy of being called children of the island. The older people who have lived on the island for a long time often joke, "These children learn to swim before they learn to talk." Thanks to this, the adults in the family can rest assured and continue their work at sea, mending nets and drying them.

The sandcastles crumbled in the waves, leaving behind a sense of regret, but soon another was built in its place. Fairytale dreams were rekindled in the fading afternoon sun. I often lay on the sand, gazing up at the seagulls soaring against the azure sky. In that moment, I wondered where those birds would go in the vast, boundless ocean. We children began to dream of other horizons.

Mai Nha Island. Photo: Gia Nguyen

After each boat trip, the bare-chested men would sit together over a bottle of strong rice wine, their eyes gazing out at the distant sea. Traditional folk songs soared amidst the endless waves, and Uncle Ba and Uncle Tu would slap their thighs together whenever someone finished their meal. All weariness seemed to vanish with the waves. When I was little, I often sat on my father's lap, listening to the uncles tell stories about the vast ocean. Even after the drinking session ended, the stories of the sea would continue to lull me to sleep.

The sea was calm in the evening, and my mother carried the fish home on her calloused bare feet. My father went out to sea in his boat, drifting in the dim light of the dark night. Countless times I begged to go to sea with him, but he would only pat my head and smile, saying, "Stay home and help your mother." Our small house on the hillside listened to the sea breeze throughout the night. My mother sat gently by the fire, her eyes still gazing at the vast night sky. I leaned against her shoulder, inhaling the intoxicating scent of the sea beneath her clothes. Suddenly, tears fell without me realizing it.

The day I left the island to study in the city, my parents couldn't sleep. The sea roared with waves, like a farewell from the island. The ship sailed far away, but my parents still stood on the pier watching it go, while I didn't dare look back. My first belongings on the mainland included a bottle of anchovy fish sauce that my mother had painstakingly fermented, and a bag of sun-dried fish that my father had brought back from the sea. My small backpack was overflowing with gifts from the island, as if I were carrying the entire sea with me.

The children of the island from yesteryear have now drifted through life's struggles. Some have left to become city dwellers, others have followed in their family's footsteps as fishermen, and some have returned to their old school to teach children to read and write. I too have returned to being my mother's child, listening to the crackling fire in the hearth. Sitting at the dinner table, there's a shared bowl of fish sauce, a fish carefully caught from the sea, and pristine white rice, the result of the hard work of many. My father tells me about his distant sea voyages. Now he no longer goes to sea, but his eyes are always fixed on those ships carrying the aspiration to reach further afield.

The sea breeze still rustles through the cool green casuarina trees. Sparkling sunlight drifts across the calm sea. I hear what sounds like my mother's lullaby echoing in the waves crashing against the shore. And this morning, on the boat that just set sail, I see familiar figures still silently making their way to the sea.

Source: https://baodaklak.vn/xa-hoi/202601/truoc-bien-d070613/