Day 77--Enroute to Hong Kong

8 November. 13 degress N, 110 degrees E. Course= 040. Speed= 15 knots.

I don’t know where to start in describing the stop in Vietnam. So I won’t start there. Instead, I’ll make fast work of the trip from Chennai to Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon).

Chennai to Ho Ch Minh (Saigon) (28 October-2 November)

The crossing from the east coast of India to the entrance to the straits of Mallaca was uneventful: smooth seas, very warm temperatures. The 28th was a “reading day,” meaning a day off to recover from India before starting in on the next 5 days of classes. It was also photo day, when we were summoned one-by-one up to the 7th deck for a windblown photo to dispatch back to hometown newspapers. This voyage is undersubscribed by almost 200 students, and the spring voyage is, I understand, even lower. SAS is even offering discounts to lifelong learners just to get people onboard and some revenue coming in during these tight economic times. Even the affluent are holding back. Perhaps that’s how they became affluent in the first place.

After running the straits—a very anticlimactic event at normal speed and not a sign of pirates—we anchored off Singapore to take on fuel. “Bunkering,” it’s called, after the bunker-type diesel they pour into our hull.

We were in Singapore harbor all day 31 October and didn’t pull out until the morning of the 1st, so many of us were concerned about making it to Vietnam by our scheduled Tuesday-morning arrival. But Captain Kingston put pedal to the metal, and we steamed at 22+ knots across the South China Sea toward the entrance to the Saigon River.

During those two days—1 and 2 November—I participated on a panel of faculty, staff, and students who have experienced Vietnam over the past 40 years. The panel was commissioned by Brian Winchester, course director for “Global Studies,” the one course all students are required to take. Dan Duran and Bob McGowan, both from the faculty, also participated, as did several students who, through their, fathers, had indirect connections to Vietnam. Dan, a student at UC Berkeley in 1970, told his draft board that he was a conscientious objector and was assigned alternative service in Richmond and Oakland CA—youth service projects. Bob, a business professor from University of Denver, talked about the economy of Vietnam today. And I, of course, was the voice of those who served in the military. Interesting that I’m the only faculty, staff, or lifelong learner who had feet on the ground during the war.

I told the story of the events that took me to Vietnam in 1970. “I dodged the draft by joining the Air Force and entering pilot training. In 1968, I was sure the war would be over by the time I was ready to go. America always won and won quickly.” I then talked briefly about the nature of my role in the war. And, finally, I talked about the impact the war had on me. Thinking about my contribution gave me a chance to reflect on the war and how dramatically it affected the direction my life has taken. The decisions that led me to where I am today—sitting on a ship steaming toward Hong Kong—all stem from that war and that time. So the two days leading to our arrival at the port of Saigon were days of reflection. I said to the classes that, while my actual time in Vietnam was one of the most exciting, even exhilarating, of my life—“like a year of bungee jumping and shark-cage diving”—my cathartic moments were seeing the POWs step off the freedom birds in 1973 and walking for the first time through the Vietnam Memorial in Washington. No person who lived through those years can walk along that wall and not be moved . . . to tears, in most cases.

Ho Chi Minh City arrival.

I woke about 0700 (7am) Tuesday 3 November and opened the curtains of my room to see the slightly hazy shore of Vietnam. It was a cloudy morning, the remnants of typhoon Mirinae, which hit the Philippines hard late last week then sped across the South China Sea and ran aground in Vietnam passing almost directly overhead my old base on the coast in Tuy Hoa. In fact, we were concerned that Mirinae might delay our arrival, but the typhoon had already broken apart into small storms that were spreading out over Cambodia.

I was looking out my window trying to make out details as a small boat appeared a mile or so away coming toward the starboard (my) side of the ship. I recognized it as a typical pilot’s boat—small 25-footer or so, with a topside cabin and large back deck—like a large fishing boat or small tug. But this one was different. As it got closer, I saw flying from the mast a red flag with a bright yellow star in the middle. Today, it’s the flag of the Socialist People’s Republic of Vietnam. Forty years ago it would have been a battle trophy: the flag of North Vietnam. The winners were coming out to guide the vanquished into the former capital.

We entered the mouth of the Saigon River at about 0730 and began a 3+-hour cruise up the river, passing small villages, lines of fishing boats collectively stringing their long nets across the very muddy waters, miles of small jungle palms lining the banks, and occasional hydrofoils taking tourists from Saigon to the coastal resort of Vung Tau and back. The hydrofoils make the trip in 90 minutes. As I watched one pass, I remembered the pictures I’ve seen of the Navy patrol boats—like John Kerry’s swift boat—that cruised up and down this same river in the 60s and 70s, often running into ambushes by Viet Cong hidden on the banks. The only ambushes we ran into were vendors in small boats filled with bananas and coconuts.

After about 90 minutes in the river, we started passing more and more homes, warehouses, docks, and ships awaiting berths in the port. Finally, in the distance, we could see the buildings of Saigon, much larger and much newer than I had imagined. Several of the buildings were well over 10 to 15 stories tall and encased in shiny metal or glistening white stone. And the closer we came, the more crowded the banks, filled with newer homes and businesses. A couple miles south of the city, we crossed under a long suspension bridge, obviously very new and looking like the newest bridges that now span rivers in Europe—two tall towers with cables extending in either direction to support the highway spanning the river, making the bridge look like a massive ship crossing the water with only the skeletons of sails in the wind. I heard later it was built with help from Australia.

Finally, we rounded the last bend, and we saw the dock about a mile ahead. As we got closer, a bus pulled up, and out poured 30 to 40 very excited greeters: parents of students who had subscribed to the SAS-sponsored trip to join their sons and daughters during the 5-day stay in Vietnam. They stood on the dock holding greeting signs, jumping up and down, and squeeling with delight as they spotted a familiar face on one of the ship’s decks. The kids onboard were even more excited: “Good times ahead with mom and dad picking up the tab!”

Also on the dock was Anne Lloyd, who had decided a couple of weeks ago to take a well-deserved and long-delayed vacation by joining our shipmates and me for the stay in Vietnam and the 3-day voyage to Hong Kong. Anne was easy to spot: long black hair, white blouse, and trailing a black roll-aboard suitcase for the trip north with Bob, Jim, Shamim, and me.

The dock was portside. Ho Chi Minh City was around the bend on starboard. The city looked very clean and very bustling as the MV Explorer tied up to berth #1 at the Nha Rung docks. And on the street I could see the unbroken stream of motorscooters that has become a sort-of trademark of Vietnam, just as it was when we Americans were there in large numbers. Today, though, the scooters have to vey with Fords, Hyundais, Hondas, and Toyotas as well as BMWs and Mercedes. So the streets are crowded.

After a very quick briefing by a representative of the US consulate—saying watch for petty theft, among other things; a prescient warning, as it turned out—Bob, Jim, Shamim, and I lugged golf clubs and suitcases down the 5th-deck gangway and onto the Saigon dock, my first footing on Vietnamese soil in 39 years. Anne joined us after we passed through the Vietnamese immigration booth, and the 5 of us boarded a van for the ride to Tan Son Nhat airport for the flight to Hanoi.

Though I merely passed through Saigon 40 years ago on my way to Tuy Hoa AB-by-the-sea, I think I can say without much doubt that the city has changed considerably. Many of the 3- and 4-story buildings characteristic of the French colonial period have been replaced with modern office buildings and upscale storefronts. The wide boulevards, very clean and packed with scooters, cars, vans, and busses, go past landscaped parks and sparkling buildings. The streets are lined with signs advertising cars, soft drinks, clothing, every type of consumer good. And the sidewalks are jammed with well-dressed business people on their way to meetings, lunch, or maybe a cocktail on the roof of the Rex Hotel. This does not look like your father’s communist city.

After a 30-minute ride from the docks, we arrived at the airport, the same airport where I deplaned from the C-141 that had carried me there from Clark AB, Philippines, in February, 1970. We checked in with Vietnam Airlines—a very easy process—and went through a cursory security screening where even my full-metal knee didn’t trigger a wanding. The 90-minute flight to Hanoi was comfortable, smooth, and even included a box-lunch meal: fruit and a sandwich. Our capitalist airlines might take a lesson from their communist-run brethren, at least in the area of service.

We landed in Hanoi—“downtown” during the war—about 3:30pm on 3 November, the day before my 65th birthday.

(I’ll continue soon, but I need to post this and get back to my primary job: prepping for and teaching classes.)