Tender is the night.

I have been meaning to write about these days in Vung Tau for forever now, but my words continually fail me. I don’t think that I can ever do justice to my time there, but if I waited until the day my words were satisfactory, these feelings and memories will surely have been lost forever. But I digress.

Throughout the trip I was entranced—utterly consumed—by a sense of grandiose mundanity, continually compelled by the escape and confinement the place offered.

This was taken when I watched the boys playing football with my sister the first night. The sunset on the field was even more beautiful in person.

At first, I was hesitant because last year I had gone on a similar trip with nlinh in Hoa Binh, which was less than enjoyable to say the least. But something had compelled me to try again this time, and even though the trip wasn’t supposed to be about me, the narcissism in me thought otherwise.

My little sister and the band of kids the trip was supposed to be for.

I met this boy that reminded me so much of someone I knew—or had desperately wanted to know. I remember thinking that my stolen glances were unrequited, until someone blurted out to me that they were anything but, and the shy and sweet serendipity that enveloped my heart afterwards.

We were delegated to sleep in the dorms on the provided campus, but we were also given the choice to sleep in the hall as well, which had air condiditioning. I had tried to tough it out on the first night, but afterwards I had to yield. We set up tents in the great hall and slept in a tent indoors, something I had only read about before in one of my favourite books when I was younger—Since You’ve Been Gone by Morgan Matson. It was wonderful and dreamy: the privacy of your own space, the comfort of knowing there are others around you, the pleasantness of the cool air on your back, and the sheer irony of it all. It was beautiful.

The stretch of sea we eventually moved to and that our tents nestled against was absolutely gorgeous. During my last night there, I snuck away from the banquet to sit by the sea. The waves’ alluring rhythmic chant had petrified me.

I was later joined by a friend. Sifting the sand through our fingers, we talked about everything that our clumsy and sleep deprived minds stumbled upon. He stayed until late, two in hesitant harmony, in both conversation and in silence.

I remained there long after he left, staring in awe at the violent and boundless ocean.

When I got back, we played cards (where their strange house rules inflated each round to last at least half an hour), and then I fell asleep on a beach chair next to them and the crackling fire out in the open: nothing between me and the vast and empty skyscape.

The sky there—a distant dream.

By morning, the sea had calmed. I woke up early enough to watch the sunrise, and it was glorious. Although the scene was more faint and pastel than the dramatic colours of this photograph suggests, I still adore how film captured the sunrise. Just as I had hoped, the roll beautifully captures the coy serenity that this trip imbued within me.

The sunrise on the last day.

With these photos, I etched this place into my heart. And then it was time to go home.