Yesterday, I took the final steps of my pilgrimage and now I’m working my way home. I’m back in Hanoi, same hotel, same room. I purchased another ditty bag that’s filled with gifts for family and friends, so I’m moving a little slower in the airports, but I don’t seem to be in a hurry. I sat in a nice outdoor restaurant last night, ate delicious onion soup, a tuna salad, and a plate of lasagne, Hoi An style. All of this while pouring down 3 banana fruit drinks…and my stomach took it without so much as a rumble. Thank you, God.
There’s a lot running through my mind. It started as I boarded the boat for the ride back to Hoi An. I think I’ll let a lot of it work itself out overnight and share more reflections tomorrow. My flight home begins 10 minutes after midnight tomorrow, so I have the whole day to ponder. The self-talk’s okay.
I arranged to rent a big boat this time with an engine and all. My confidence grew as I boarded successfully. Then we were putt-putting our way west. The helmsman and I didn’t understand a word we said to each other, yet we chatted continuously for the first hour. Just in case, I wore the bare minimum and carried only floatable items.
Scenes touched the memory bank after about an hour and a half into the trip. I could see the tall mountains of Operation Independence and Missippi backgrounding the lower hills of An Hoa. There were lots of operations, but I can’t remember their names. I saw them listed once on a copied page from my service record in my VA claims folder, but nothing clicked. But floating along, I remembered those two. We had long passed the bridges of highway one and under the rail bridge about 10 K further on. Then, it just felt right.
I pointed to a bank and the skipper understood and nodded. He steered me close enough to jump in and wade ashore. He anchored the boat and brought me my chair and pipe. Then he walked away, understand my need to be alone. Up on a rise by the bank, there was a pile of stones,…a perfect shrine. I began lighting one incense stick at a time, placing them together, between the stones. With a slight breeze, Fred’s moved a little to the right, joined, but aside. Each stick represented Marines who died; events shared; disappointments; regrets; my parents; the walking dead; brothers gone from Menlo; another from Boise; one for Ron; one for Victor; one for Ooga; one for Fish; and one for me. As I sat there remembering days and nights, I smoked the pipe to all.
It was quiet on the trip back to Hoi An. It was getting toward dusk and we still had a ways to go. I saw some smoke along the shore and smiled. As it got darker, I saw a continuous flash from a hooch to the right. I smiled. For a long time, these settings and surprises would bring panic, sweats, rapid pulse and retreat. I smiled because they didn’t. I know now that the war here, is over. The smoke was a farmer’s brush burn and the flash from home-welding. All along the river bank, children played, waved and hollered out, “Hello!” Cattle munched their supper, and the ducks quacked. I will always carry my wounds, that’s how it is, but I’m not dead. It was very dark when we finally pulled up to Hoi An’s dock.
I woke up slowly today, knowing that all I had to do is catch a two ö’clock flight out of Da Nang back to Hanoi. The driver took me to the airport in an A/C van and I just sat for an hour and relaxed. It’s only an hour flight to Hanoi and the hotel boys were waving when I came out of Hanoi’s terminal. I’m going to go eat now, stroll back to the room, and sleep.
S’lan,
Tom