The Don of the Southern Boundary
A story for the True Fiction Project podcast by Annemarie Evans
Marine Commander Don Bishop stood on the forward deck of the police launch. He mopped his large billiard ball of a head with a white cloth, as the droplets of sweat channelled their way down his hard and weathered face. He looked out at the pinkish dawn that stretched out along Hong Kong’s southern sea boundary — the invisible line of latitude that separates Hong Kong territorial waters from the vast South China Sea. He was at his most content here, if indeed Don Bishop was ever truly content. Don was a restless soul, whose rage would, on occasion, erupt out of nowhere. Last night he’d polished off a bottle of single malt whisky and now, as the pangs of hunger began to play tricks with his mood, he paced the deck, trying to clear his thoughts. He needed a pot of hot coffee and a good fried breakfast to settle things. Bishop turned towards the wheelhouse, “Get Mr Chan up here to take my breakfast order, I’m famished,” he shouted, at anyone that was listening. The duty sergeant stopped what he was doing. “Mr Chan is not on duty this trip, sir,” replied the sergeant, ‘we only have the crew’s cook, Ah Chung. Shall I call him?”
Don rubbed his aching head once more, “He’s no use. What idiot gave Chan time off?” The sergeant coughed and looked at his feet.
“I think it was you that signed the leave chit, sir.”
“Damn,” muttered Don, looking back out towards the horizon. It was the beginning of their third day at sea, out on patrol, looking for incoming refugee vessels from war-torn Vietnam. Don wondered how many ramshackle craft would arrive this day. Just recently they had been arriving in their hundreds. Boat after boat filled with desperate parents, grandparents with young children clinging to them. Most arrived in flimsy wooden hulks, river boats built with flat keels best suited for crossing the Mekong, vessels that became floating coffins on the open seas. God knows how many hadn’t made it since these refugees first began arriving in Hong Kong, poor blighters.
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‘Sir,’ it was the sergeant again, this time calling from the wheelhouse, “we have a target on the radar, five miles to the south, heading due north, five knots. It looks big.” Don huffed his way to the bridge, and peered down at the moving dot on the dark radar screen.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he jumped into action. “Let’s go, full speed.” Don hit the emergency button, the deafening alarm bell sounded and the whole launch exploded into life. Immediately officers appeared from every direction, running, scrambling, carrying all manner of survival gear. Everyone on board knew their role in a rescue.
Don picked up a set of binoculars and scanned the horizon to the south. “There, there she is. Sail, orange.” He pointed forward. Once out in the open ocean the big launch rolled, then pitched and tossed as the crew struggled to hold a firm line. Don took control of the wheel and manoeuvred the vessel skilfully up wind, allowing the now large rolling waves to propel the battered wooden junk towards the waiting police launch. From where he stood Don could see that the overcrowded junk was taking in water and looked about to capsize. As the two vessels closed Don ordered his men forward. Some threw lines and grappling nets across, others scrambled over the gap between the two boats and onto the crowded deck of the junk. In no more than a few minutes Don’s men had carried, dragged and hauled the bedraggled refugees onto their patrol launch. There wasn’t a moment to lose. Don was screaming orders left and right. As the last man and child was helped across, and the last of Don’s men made a jump back onto the police launch, the junk capsized and sank in a matter of seconds. One moment it was there, the next it was gone. Don and his crew had saved the lives of 148 people.
“Sir, I found one of the refugees that speaks good English,” said Don’s senior sergeant. “He asked to speak to you.”
A hundred and forty eight people sat huddled together on the large open stern deck. Don’s crew were edging between them, offering water to the weakest looking amongst them. A young Vietnamese man dressed in a dirty blue t-shirt and torn shorts stood up as they approached. “Him,” said the sergeant.
“You want to speak to me, what is it?” fired Don.
“Sir,” began the man, “my name is Chien Vu, I was an officer, a lieutenant, in the ARVN, the South Vietnamese Army, I worked with the Americans. I need to speak to an American official. Can you help me, please?”
“War’s been over for four years,” replied Don, “how come you managed to stay out of prison? The Vietcong would be interested in you for sure. How come you are still alive?”
“From April 75, I hid in plain sight, in Saigon,” Vu smiled, “but now the new government is coming after us ethnic Chinese in the south, taking our property and possessions. Throwing people into prison. The army have been searching for me. If they find me,” he looked down, “I must escape now.”
Don knew Vu was telling the truth. He had heard about the persecution from many others. He also knew that tens of thousands more were now trying to leave Vietnam in whatever boats they could find.
“We have been at sea for two weeks,” said Vu. “The last six days have been without food. We survive only on rainwater. Two children and an old woman died on the journey, we dropped their bodies overboard.”
“I’ll see what I can do for you at the refugee reception centre,” said Don. “We are heading there now.” Don turned and walked away.
The Government Dockyard, Hong Kong’s makeshift refugee reception centre, was in its usual state of chaos. Hundreds of wooden refugee vessels were lashed together with ropes in one huge raft-like rotting pontoon. Thousands of Vietnamese refugees sat in the burning noonday sun on top of this floating contraption and waited. Officials with clipboards, medical teams and immigration officers scrambled in between. Don grabbed Chien Vu from the stern. “You come with me.” With that, Don pushed his way through the crowd towards the quay.
“Hey, you, go back, get back over there,” it was an officious looking dockyard security guard, he was pointing directly at Don and Vu. “You get back, NOW.”
Without a word, Don thrust out a hand and grabbed the security guard by his throat. The guard gasped for breath, his toes barely touching the ground, his hands thrashing at thin air. Don pulled the man close to his chest, so that their faces were just inches apart. “Now, listen to me, sport,” Don began in a whisper, ‘I’m Chief Inspector Donald Bishop of the Royal Hong Kong Marine Police, and so far I have had a bad day.” Don flicked a thumb towards Vu, “And this is my friend. And we are going this way.” Don nodded toward the offices to the rear of the dockyard.
The guard’s eyes were almost popping out of their sockets, his face a river of sweat. “And you’re going to sit here and say nothing. Nod if you agree,” said Don. The guard did his best to comply. “Good,” said Don dropping the man to the ground in a crumpled heap. He turned to Vu. ‘You, follow me.”
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