I can’t remember how I felt fifteen years ago when I saw a body of water for the first time. What I do remember is that since then, Cửa Lò beach has become my second home – the place for my family to stay every summer. Like a mother, every time I visit, the ocean always stretches out her arms to welcome me with her fresh air and mild fish smell.
For fourteen years I believe the Cửa Lò has always been the same, although there are more hotels and spas and fewer houses and street shops. We always drive for more than seven long hours on highways, seeing nothing but immense tedious green fields. While my dad is driving, my brother and I usually fall asleep as the conversation between my dad and my mom goes on and on – it’s not like my mom is not sleepy; she wants to keep my dad awake by talking to him. Except for lunch time, I lie curled up on my seat and wallow in dreams until a smell hits me – the distinctive smell of her, the smell of fish and saltwater, the smell of peace and relaxation.
We always drive into the town from the same direction. Small houses appear first, far apart from each other. Dust and sands cover the air so we have to close the windows. But that doesn’t prevent me from leaning against the door, trying to look through the glass, dust and sands to see people walking, houses moving, leaves flying. This end of the town is almost silent, as if people are trying to make as little noise as possible to enjoy the waves’ usually melodious and peaceful sounds. We, too, become silent: my mom and dad stop talking; my brother and I sit up quietly and lean against the windows. Then the houses get bigger and closer to each other, followed by motels and the center of the town is now in sight. The biggest hotel, called Kim Liên, meaning Golden Lotus, located in the middle of the longest and most crowded street, dominates all nearby buildings. Its impressive golden-colored appearance even suppresses the natural femininity of the ocean a few hundred meters from his huge entrance.
Every year, like a tradition, we stay in a hotel close to one end of the town, where no building can stop the ocean from hugging the land and the waves embracing the trees. Our place is painted blue although its name is Green Hotel, and my brother and I always laugh at its ironic name every year we set foot in this place. Yet, we feel happier than ever if there are rooms available for us even for half a week during the summer since from the hotel’s big window, we can see the horizontal line far away and Hòn Ngư, a small island that looks like a giant yet obedient larva silently sleeping in the sea’s arms.
During those few days, we follow a special vacation schedule: we wake up at 5 A.M. instead of noon to pick up in time the first sunbeams of the day. Early in the morning, the ocean enters the show with her utmost imposing beauty: the sky is shiny light blue and layers of white clouds create a way to heaven right above our heads. The sun is still hiding somewhere; the skyline is looming in the distance and the sea color is slowly changing from grayish green to baby pink. The sand is still cold and wet so we run around freely and wildly without worrying that our feet can get burnt. The only place we do not want to run is the near-water sand, where thousands of sand-crabs try hopelessly to build their homes every day. Whether they are examples for diligence or stupidity we do not know, yet we can never help looking at those little creatures closely, and feel happy as the piles of sand next to their holes are expanding more and more. Sometimes we even lie down and let the sands rub against our cheek and fill our ears with the comforting crunching sound. Farther way, many fishermen have come back from their trips the night before, leaving their black sand-covered baskets on the sandbank. The smell of fish fills the air. I do not like it, the fishy smell that can make people feel dizzy, but I love it as an essential, irreplaceable part of Cửa Lò.
The beach in the afternoon puts on a different dress. The sun has already burnt the water and sand. The beach is full of people. Sometimes I have a funny thought that while people are trying to enjoy the last minutes of the day under the warm salt water, the sea is irritated, shouting “That’s enough! Go away!” and pushing her annoying guests closer to the shore with her rising tides. Perhaps that’s true, since when I sit and enjoy the sea late at night, it groans for some rest after a long tiring day just like we do. Although at night, I can no longer see the horizon, and the ocean becomes more unpredictable than ever, I can still hear the strong and heavy sounds of the waves and winds and smell the familiar fishy odor. Yet there is no time that I cannot see any beauty of Cua Lo. My eyes leave the sea level and rise up to see the sky, which no longer opens to the heaven’s door – it expands in all directions instead of moving up. I am embraced by its darkness and by stars which look like magically illuminating powders. And I always lose myself among those stars, falling asleep in the middle of the waves’ lullaby.