Come to Khanh Hoa and hear the call of the sea.

The sea in Khanh Hoa murmured with waves. Splashes of water lapped against the boat's sides. The shouts of fellow fishermen from the round basket drifted through the gaps in the green nets drying in front of the house. Uncle Tam was checking the catch, while Auntie was pickling cabbage on the porch. "This dish is homemade for the crew to eat as a side dish; it's a bit more work, but it costs less than half the price of buying it outside," she muttered.

From the breezy sea breeze, I gazed out at the red flags with yellow stars on the closely moored boats. Suddenly, a flood of memories from my childhood, when I cried in Mr. Nhi's kindergarten class, rushed back. It had been more than twenty years since I last returned to Khanh Hoa , a land of generous people but overflowing with sweet childhood memories.

Photo: GC

It was as if by fate, I think, when my parents chose Khanh Hoa as their place of residence. Arriving in this land at the age of six, the initial bewilderment quickly faded thanks to the playful and forgetful nature of a child. My home was a wooden house right by the sea, surrounded by other dilapidated houses, with a sandy beach path that sank underfoot and stretches of salty water churned by the noisy waves. Uncle Tam and Uncle Muoi's houses were also built right next door. The three of us brothers would help each other brave the fierce waves to bring back nets overflowing with fish and shrimp.

Back then, this place was very desolate. Every time we went to visit my grandparents, we had to wait for the bus for over an hour. Sometimes my mother would tell me to wait while she went home to get more things. That day the bus arrived early, but my mother hadn't returned yet. I fumbled around, then ran off to look for her, tearfully. When I came back, the belongings were still there, untouched. The driver was chatting about the fresh fish he'd caught that morning, or about the pumpkins the traders had brought to sell at wholesale prices in front of the market. No one complained about the long wait. They were used to the rough seas and the constant chatter, but they never made us immigrants feel alone. The warmth of the people here was as sweet as the way they seasoned their food, so even though things were tough back then, my parents never considered leaving this land. It's just that sometimes life chooses paths that force us to move forward.

This time, returning to Khanh Hoa, I visited Uncle Tam, the only one of the three brothers still clinging to the waves crashing against the shore, just two days before my father's death anniversary, and also marking the 100th day since Uncle Muoi's passing. Time flies so fast, like the flapping wings of dragonflies heralding rain along the sand dunes.

Twenty years is enough to transform a once-crying little girl into a quiet, rarely-crying young woman. Twenty years is enough to turn simple, makeshift wooden houses into spacious multi-story buildings, shifting stretches of quicksand into paved roads, and transforming the once pungent, fishy coastal land into a wide, bustling thoroughfare. I stand bewildered on this familiar land, suddenly a stranger in the eyes of the neighborhood children. A touch of wistful nostalgia washes over me. How many times in a lifetime does one get twenty years?

Khanh Hoa is developing day by day, not only in the fishing sector but also shifting towards tourism . I was very surprised to see many famous, large-scale resorts along the way to my uncle's house. The sea is being exploited in many ways, so the face of the land and people here is gradually changing. The same vibrant spirit of the past remains, but the hardship is lessened, and there's more laughter and joy when people see their children and grandchildren going to school. Many families in the village have bought cars. The roads have been widened, making it easier for goods to travel and transport. There are no more waiting times for vehicles like before. Besides a touch of distant nostalgia, I am genuinely happy for the strong transformation of this lovely land.

My return was unexpected, yet my aunt still managed to prepare food, with the local specialty, scad fish salad, and various hot pot dishes. We still maintained our habit of spreading mats on the floor to eat. Everyone sat together, sipping on spicy rice wine and sharing stories about their daily lives. The initial awkwardness gradually gave way to smiles. I eagerly listened to stories about their long sea voyages, or jumped in fright when I heard about their emergency anchoring of boats to avoid storms.

After years of saving, Uncle Tam had bought himself a boat and hired crew members, making things less difficult than before. His hair was streaked with gray, his skin tanned by the sun. He asked me about my plans, his eyes fixed on the sea. His voice grew hoarse, then choked with emotion, as if urging me on: “Your father and Uncle Muoi are both gone, now only I remain. You need to find a safe harbor quickly, while I’m still healthy, so I can take care of you.” He paused there. Suddenly, my eyes welled up with tears, feeling sorry for those shoulders burdened with so much weight, still struggling to support their entire families, like my father, Uncle Muoi, and Uncle Tam. The sea provided us with a means of livelihood, but it also took away the most precious things from us. My father died on a distant voyage…

After a moment of contemplation, I put my arm around his thin, protruding shoulder. We sat there, watching the boats busily preparing for the expenses, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves in the distance, like the call of the sea from twenty years ago...

NGUYEN TRAN THANH TRUC

Source: https://baokhanhhoa.vn/van-hoa/202604/ve-khanh-hoa-nghe-bien-goi-55e497d/