I long to write something profound, something worthy of a life so richly woven with history as my father’s—a tapestry I know my words alone cannot fully capture. When I try to focus, memories come not as a single, cohesive story but as a cascade of vivid vignettes, each a flash of color, a brushstroke on the canvas of his life. Perhaps, then, by threading these glimpses together, I might offer a window into the splendor and depth of his extraordinary journey.

My thoughts drifted back, and suddenly, like an unexpected gift, a memory from childhood surfaced. I was five years old, held close by my father’s strong arms as he taught me to swim for the first time in the rolling waves at Cap St. Jacques in Vietnam. His hand rested firmly against my belly, a steady anchor amidst the rhythm of the sea. “Shape your legs like the letters O, V, I,” he instructed, his voice gentle yet steady, “and let your arms move in harmony.” Though fear bubbled up as I struggled, his calm, reassuring voice washed over me, grounding me. With each stroke, I knew I’d be safe—as long as he was by my side…..

……Fast forward slightly, I was eleven years old, crouched on the floor of a military airplane, leaving Vietnam behind. The scent of fear clung to the cramped space, though perhaps it wasn’t a smell at all but rather the tremor in everyone’s eyes, the silent dread shadowing each face. I stared, puzzled, at the bare floor—no seats, no familiar sense of a journey. Just a hollow metal belly ferrying us away. My father stood nearby, determined yet silent. He hadn’t told us he wouldn’t be coming with us. Then, as we waited, he leaned toward my mother, murmuring that he needed to speak to the pilot. He opened the door and stepped out, leaving her—leaving us—on the plane. I realized, even as I clutched her hand, that he knew: if he had told her the truth—that this plane was meant for women and children only—she would never have boarded without him. A raw, anguished cry escaped her, a sound I’d never heard—a deep, wounded animal’s howl. My father’s sacrifice hung heavy in the air, an invisible weight binding us to him even as we ascended, his final act securing our chance at safety…..

…….The thick, humid heat of Bahrain softened as dusk settled over us. My dad held out a wriggling, pink, glistening worm, urging it toward me with a grin. “Go on,” he said, “if you want to call yourself a fisherman, you’ve got to put it on the hook yourself.” “It’s creepy, Daddy! You do it for me,” I protested, shuddering. He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re fifteen, you know. You asked me if you could go to the school dance, told me you’re mature enough for it, but you can’t even handle putting a worm on a hook?” He sighed, still smiling. “All right, I’ll do it.” Relieved, I happily cast my fishing rod out over the water, while behind us, cars roared across the causeway. I glanced over at him—my hero—and we shared a quiet smile, content in the peaceful silence.

There are so many moments, each etched in flashes of memory: the way he looked over at me, a glimmer of tears brimming in the corners of his eyes, as I walked down the aisle; the proud smile he wore while holding Alex close, saying, “You know, I was there in the birthing room when you came into this world”; or the quiet companionship of him seated beside me, gazing out the car window. By then, his hearing and vision had grown weak, yet he turned to me and spoke, his voice soft and thoughtful, “Yen, you’ve always been a go-getter, always working yourself to the bone, carrying so much stress. But remember this—try to enjoy the simple things. Life doesn’t have to be grand to be meaningful. It can be like this moment here: I look at a pretty tree, or feel the wind on my face, and think, ‘That’s enough, that’s happiness.’ Remember that.”

And then, fast forward to our last moment together in the hospital. His voice, faint and halting, managed only the same words, over and over: “Have a good life, don’t worry, okay?” Each phrase lingered between us, a fragile thread of strength in his fading voice. I stumbled through my own words, my heart breaking as I tried to make him hear, “I do have a good life. I’ve seen so much of the world, and I’ve learned so much from you. You gave me a good life… thank you for giving me life.”

Thank you Daddy.