I had my passport, I had my visa; I was feeling as if I had my act together for the first time in a while. It was a good feeling, so I headed over to Tu Do Street to celebrate with a beer. I saw a bar I hadn’t been to before and looked through the window to check it out; I did a double take. Inside, sitting on a bar stool like it was old home week, was Johnny Jackson (not his real name), a merchant mariner from New Jersey with whom I’d sailed before. I always loved hanging out with him because he knew the great places in all the ports. He was older than I was and had seen it all.
I went in and slapped him on the back.
“Let me see your ID, sailor!” I shouted.
Johnny actually started to reach into his pocket, and then he looked up at me, and his eyes bugged.
“Chickie!?!” He laughed and shook his head.
“Johnny! How are ya, man?”
“What ship are you on, Chick?”
“I’m on the beach,” I said.
“You’re on the beach in Saigon?!”
“Well, it’s a long story to tell, and I’m a bit thirsty.”
We sat there for a couple of hours, trading tales. Johnny was on the SS Limon, delivering a huge cargo of frozen food to the military, everything from steaks to blueberries.
“Hey, Johnny,” I said. “Why don’t we pay the Limon a visit?”
The white-hulled refrigerator ship, built in 1945 as World War II neared its end, loomed above the sampans in the Saigon River like a giant Frigidaire, capable of chilling seven thousand tons of perishables on the long, slow journey across the Pacific. The Limon, part of the United Fruit Company’s Great White Fleet used during peacetime to bring bananas and other produce to the United States from Central America, was now sailing for the US Navy as part of the Military Sea Transportation Service.
Vietnamese port security personnel let me onto the pier, and the MPs on the boat let me board the Limon with Johnny after I showed my seaman’s documents. Johnny brought me right down to the freezer and opened it wide.
It had everything: lobster, hamburgers, strawberry ice cream, you name it. Any food that could be frozen, they had it. I don’t know who it was all headed for—not just officers, I hoped. Johnny invited me to join the other seamen for dinner, which was prepared from the delicacies they were delivering. Johnny told them my situation, and when it was time to go, they gave me some fresh clothes and $100 they had quietly collected. They were in my union and they treated me like a brother. I’ll never forget it. The beer and lobster would have been enough.
Johnny took me aside and said, “Listen, man, look up.”
“What?” I said. “The Southern Cross?”—the constellation that sailors long ago took as a blessing on their voyage.
“No, the moon, man! Up there!” he said, pointing.
“It’s only a pale sliver,” I said.
“Exactly. And tomorrow, it’ll be gone. You know what that means now in ’Nam?”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s New Year’s Eve! It’s like in Chinatown back home: they base it on the first new moon—no moon—when the night is darkest. They honor their great-great-great-grandparents and make wishes for the coming year. They call it Tet. They’ve called a truce! It’s party time, man!
“Listen,” he went on, “I’ve got a girlfriend here who I see each time I’m in port. She runs a little dance hall south of here. I’m gonna go see her tonight; why don’t you come along? The place is a blast. I can ask one of the guys to lend you some nice clothes.” I didn’t want to blow my flight in the morning. But I felt buoyed by the feed we’d had and the extra cash. I felt I could handle it all, so I said, “Why not? I’ll be able to make some Vietnamese New Year’s resolutions.”