Vows By The Sea
Steven Corbin
©
Copyright 2025 by Steven Corbin
|
Photo courtesy of the author. |
Between
the sea and the city line, our taxi held the four of us—Vy in
front, my parents in back—from Da Nang toward Hoi An. The
dashboard shrine glowed red and gold, a bobbing lucky cat keeping
time with the potholes. Outside, resorts and palms slipped by; the
Marble Mountains rose like quiet sentinels as we headed south.
I’d
packed stress the way other people pack ties—too many, all the
wrong colors. I checked the rings in my pocket twice, then a third
time, pressing the pocket lining to feel their shape. The taxi
smelled faintly of pine cleaner and gasoline. My knee kept a
drummer’s beat on the floor mat.
From
the front seat—she gets carsick—Vy reached back and took
my hand.
The
driver threaded us through swarms of scooters moving like schools of
fish. My father watched this choreography with the soft grin he
reserves for the sights of travel. My mother leaned forward and, in
English edged with French, asked how far it was. The driver replied
in Vietnamese, adding the few English words he knew. My mother nodded
at his friendly tone and settled back, content with the music if not
the translation.
Lanterns
began to appear—first in a roadside shop, then in a cluster
over a quán cà phê—until the road
felt strung with their light. We pulled into a pharmacy; the two of
us needed help with our stomachs. Inside, the air was cool and clean.
A clerk slid a couple of foil packets across the counter, and we were
back on the road.
I
had driven this route during planning, but something felt off. I
pulled out my phone—its reception blinking in and out—and
entered the venue’s coordinates. No signal. The farther we
went, the deeper the pit grew in my stomach. I told myself it was
wedding nerves and watched my breath.
At
last, the GPS pin found a signal—our destination was twenty
minutes behind us. My heart lurched; I was about to be late to my own
wedding.
I
urged the driver to turn around. With a flurry of apologies, he
yanked the wheel and made a swift U-turn, heading back up the coast.
I leaned on my Stoic training: focus on what you can control. I
concentrated on my breathing, my tone, and any small actions I could
take. And I tried to let go of what I couldn’t control—the
traffic, the clock, the minutes already lost.
When
we finally stepped out of the taxi, the beachfront venue was mostly
empty. We were the first to arrive. Relief washed over me—somehow,
those lost minutes had been returned to us. But that relief was
quickly replaced by a new, sharper thrum of anticipation. Now it
began.
Salt
hung in the air, the surf’s hush rising from below. On the
terrace, staff moved with efficient calm, setting out glasses and
linens; down on the beach, the wedding arch waited, draped in white.
The coordinator met me with a smile and pointed me toward check-in.
Everyone spoke with a practiced serenity that said I was in good
hands. Vy squeezed my hand, then slipped away with the makeup artist
and stylist to get ready.
I
ducked into the restroom to steady myself, splashing water on my
face. Back outside, I glanced at the bar—cold bottles beaded
with condensation, bright cocktails swirling in a blender. I took a
few steps toward it, then stopped.
No,
I wanted to be fully present for every moment of this day.
Instead,
I positioned myself at the entrance to greet our guests—palms
pressed and smiles exchanged—with my best xin chào
and chúc mừng in imperfect Vietnamese.
My
soon-to-be in-laws arrived, all warmth and welcome, faces I’d
seen on several occasions but now carrying a different weight. From
this day forward, they would be ba and má
to
me—a small change in address, but one with deep meaning.
As
the sun tilted lower, the last of our guests arrived. Photo sessions
were well underway—an album in the making. My parents even
video-called my brother and his girlfriend, and my sister at 5 a.m.
back in Canada. For a few minutes, it felt as if the beach here
expanded to include their living room there—frost feathering
their windows, blankets draped over chair backs.
Then
it began.
From
the terrace above the beach, I walked down the stairs to the sand.
Below me, chairs sat in tidy rows, and an arch stood draped in white
fabric and bursts of color. My parents sat in the front row, their
hands linked—it was as if they had carried a touch of Canadian
winter with them and set it down gently in the coastal heat.
I
took my place under the arch, and every gaze tilted toward the
terrace. A hush fell over the rows of guests; even the surf seemed to
pause. Then Vy appeared at the top of the stairs, radiant in her
white dress. A soft gasp rippled through the crowd—my own
breath caught in my throat. She was beautiful. When her fingers found
mine at last, everything about the day aligned.
|
Photo by Andres M. Gomez at Wikimedia Commons.
|
We
exchanged vows—promises meant to carry us through all the
ordinary days to come. I may have slipped in a milk-tea clause. The
ocean breathed its ancient reply in the background. We slid the rings
home.
After
hugs and photos, we followed a lantern-lit path back up to the venue
for dinner. The set menu arrived course by course: sesame-crusted
tuna bruschetta alongside deep-fried spring rolls; green mango salad
bright with lime; a light, peppery soup; smoky-sweet satay squid;
lemongrass beef charred at the edges; pan-fried chicken with fragrant
black rice; and crème caramel beneath a thin cap of burnt
sugar. It was excellent, but I only managed a few bites of each
dish—the first dance waited in my stomach.
My
wife and I had rehearsed our first dance a dozen times—across
several countries, even—but part of me still wished for one
more practice run. Whatever my nerves wanted, the schedule didn’t
allow it.
As
dessert plates were cleared and the lights dimmed, the room itself
seemed to narrow. The coordinator raised a hand, and conversation
hushed into silence. Heat gathered under my jacket, and sweat ran
between my shoulder blades. The ring on my finger felt heavy, and my
mouth had gone dry. Vy’s fingers laced through mine—steadying
me, though I could feel a tiny tremor in her touch that matched my
own. We stepped onto the dance floor. In my mind, the counts clicked
into place. For one heartbeat, the speakers gave only a low
electrical hum—the whole night poised on the edge of silence.
Then the first beat of “Die with a Smile” hit, and we
moved.
I
took her hand, drew a deep breath—
—and
felt the stress finally let go.
All
our rehearsals fused into one seamless motion. The beach in the
Philippines, a nightclub in Thailand, our apartment in Da Nang—every
place we’d practiced became part of the dance now. Each step
flowed from muscle memory more than conscious thought.
I
moved in perfect sync with my dance partner—my beautiful
wife—as the world narrowed to the gentle pressure of her
fingers counting us in and the slow pulse of the lights overhead.
Beyond our little circle, faces blurred; inside it, everything was
sharp and exact. On the downbeat—as if the night had
choreographed itself to our song—fireworks shot up: first a
white spear into the dark, then a burst, then another, quick flowers
blooming over the water. A breath of gunpowder lingered in the air.
We turned, dipped, rose. The song ended. Applause broke around us
like surf.
The
dance floor never emptied after that. My mom and Vy’s father
shared a gentle dance under the lanterns, laughing as their hands
found each other and they carefully counted through a turn. Around
them, friends spun, sisters clapped, and children zigzagged between
feet. Our parents embraced. Someone whooped; someone else dabbed at
happy tears. In the end, our two families hadn’t just met
halfway—they had braided into one. Joy shone as bright as the
lantern-lit night, with the faint salt of the sea on our skin.
I’m
a writer from Trois-Rivières, Québec, with a bachelor’s
in human resources and a diploma in psychology. I travel often and
write about small, telling moments—shared tables, missed turns,
brief kindnesses—that reveal how people and places meet. On the
page I aim for clean, intimate prose: precise images, quiet emotion,
connection over spectacle. I keep field notes, collect textures and
scents, and revise until the heartbeat of a scene is clear. When I’m
home in Canada, I’m usually at my desk editing, planning the
next journey, and gathering details that become stories.
(Unless
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