US Navy Rescues Vietnamese Refugees on South China Sea

On March 20, 1981, some of the 138 Vietnamese boat people wave at a US Navy rescue helicopter hovering over the unseaworthy wooden boat on South China Sea during a rescue operation.

Inset:  Lan's mother, Cam Quy Ton peers out the port hole taking a glimpse of her rescuers.

Photo courtesy of the US Navy

Story by Lan Dalat


The bright Southeast Asian sun had not broken the still of the night when my mother, my three siblings and I crept along the edge of the Saigon River. My father remained behind to ensure our safe passage. We left everything behind for a perilous journey searching for freedom and opportunities.

In tense silence we waited at a prearranged spot on the bank of the river. After what seemed like forever, we slipped unnoticed into a fisher- man’s canoe.

As the sun began to break the horizon and illuminate the gray water, we crept smoothly along the river, flowing past the bank like a big bamboo reed pulled along with the slow moving current. It was a dull, monotonous trip. A few days later, our canoe reached the pickup point.

Out of the fog-shrouded darkness, a fishing boat eased to a crawl. Once again we slipped through the twilight, climbed out of the small canoe and onto a larger boat that was packed with others.

At that moment my family and I unknowingly joined a new and growing demographic called “boat people.” We were among thousands of Vietnamese who crammed onto small wooden fishing boats and fled Vietnam. Not knowing the actual outcome or destination we set off in an unseaworthy wooden boat hoping to land on a peaceful shore somewhere in the world.

From the relatively still river we pushed off into the sea. It was rough going.  Day and night, the waves lifted the tiny boat and crashed it down again and again. The engine sputtered and the boat shuddered with each wave it survived. Day after day, the sea seemed determined to end our journey. Yet we plowed forward—our past certain, our destination unknown.

After enduring five days of the pounding waves, the small boat’s engine protested one last time and stopped. We were without power and adrift on the open sea.

Soon the food and water supply ran low. In cloistered circles people began quietly, seriously discussing the implications of cannibalism for our ultimate survival. The remaining water was rationed down to one soft drink capful a day. Even with this severe rationing the water supply ran out two days later. Dehydration and severe hunger caused massive hallucinations among the boat people.

“Mommy, can you buy me some water? I’m so thirsty,” my little brother desperately asked my mom. “Son, I will buy you all the water you want when we get to shore. Don’t worry, we will be there soon,” my mother said, attempting to comfort my little brother.

It was here on the boat that I first learned about line-of- sight communications from my mother’s compact mirror.

It wasn’t clear if she actually saw an airplane flying above or was just hallucinating. Nonetheless, she said she saw something and pulled out her mirror attempting to communicate with the plane using the reflection of the sunlight. Nothing happened.

For the next seven days, the boat carrying 138 people remained adrift on the South China Sea. Hope for survival dwindled. Now there was no wind, no waves and no land anywhere around our boat. Fear was palpable throughout the boat. It was the dread of a painfully slow death that everyone wanted to avoid. Facing a critical juncture, some openly discussed suicide as a better alternative to dying of starvation and exposure.

Early on the morning of March 20, 1981, we were awakened by a deafening noise.

Two low-flying jets roused everyone from our miserable sleep.

Those who could speak uttered the questions aloud that some were too weak to muster. Was it a mass hallucination? From what country are those jets? Are they Russian or Chinese?

Suddenly three shots rang out from the boat’s bow. A defecting soldier had fired three rounds into the sky from his rifle. He attempted to signal the aircraft to return with his SOS message.

“They are definitely real,” a man shouted confidently. “Those are Americans and we are saved!” The pronouncement sparked a wild excited cheer. The hidden energy from being near death suddenly emerged and triggered the impulse for survival.

The jets disappeared over the horizon and never returned. Anxiety quickly set in as everyone waited for the jets to return.

I forgot about the hunger. I forgot about the thirst. I was so excited about the possibility of being rescued. On that very hot and dry day on the surface of the calm sea, I vigorously scanned the horizon for any sign of the planes. The sun began to lower toward the horizon. The adrenalin rush was consumed. Our hopes for rescue faded and our morale diminished. Most of us stared blankly toward the horizon with disbelief and disappointment.

One by one we sank lower into a deep pit of hopelessness. Suddenly, a voice cried out “I can see the ships. Over there! Over there!” It was on the opposite side from where I sat. I could not see what was causing the commotion. Everyone craned their necks trying to spot the ships. Noise inside the boat began to increase as excitement once again filled the air. In the port hole across from me I was able to see for a brief second a fleet of ships sailing slowly on the horizon. Pure excitement rushed through my body as I screamed out while looking at my mother and siblings. “I can see the ships!”

Early that evening, U.S. Navy Captain Dan A. Pedersen, USS Ranger CV-61 commanding officer, ordered his crew to rescue all 138 of us from the dilapidated wooden boat drifting on the South China Sea.

USS Ranger CV-61 prepares to receive 138 refugees on March 20, 1981

Photo courtesy of the US Navy

This is an excerpt from the original published article from the Army Communicator.  READ MORE  The Next 150 Years, 2010 Vol35 No3.