In a thatched corner of Cẩm Thanh, where the nipa palms bend with the wind, Ông Bình—82 and wiry as dried bamboo—still wove thuyền thúng by hand. No signs, no fuss. Just the cốc cốc of his mallet, the smell of dầu rái resin, and the soft curses he muttered when a strip snapped. “Làm thuyền không vội được. Gấp là lật,” he’d say. You rush a boat, it flips.
Tourists came now, snapping photos. His sons had all left—some to Đà Nẵng, one to Korea.
But Ông Bình stayed, weaving boats round like full moons, sealed tight like secrets. One day, Linh came—twenty, curious, hands too soft. She stayed. Learned. Bled. Laughed. When she paddled her first basket boat, clumsy and crooked, he chuckled through missing teeth.
“Cũng được rồi. Có người nhớ nghề.”
It’s enough. Someone remembers.
