The Hammer is Not For Fighting With Your Darling

Woke in the dark and saw the crew squid fishing. They shone a spotlight into the water and dipped a baited stick up and down. The squid were visible. Very tiny and giving off bioluminescent flashes of sudden green and instant red.

I watched the sun rise over the rocks and heard the oars of distant fishermen. My room had a balcony, and I read a few dozen pages of It Can't Happen Here and closed my eyes in the cool air.

Several of my shipmates had stayed up late drinking Tiger Beer, so they were a little groggy at breakfast. Meals were served communally, which meant they brought a giant plate of nonsense to the table, and you all take turns trying to get your portion.

Most folks were locked in "Oh, no, you first" mode. I was seated with the American-Vietnamese family I met yesterday. The ingredients were there to make your own spring rolls, and they took great pleasure in showing me how they've done it all their lives.

While we ate, Lics reminded us our room was equipped with a hammer.

"It is not for fighting with your darling, ok, but for breaking out window if ship sinks, something like this."

There was a demonstration where a dude cut a single apple to look like an enormous pair of swans. Seeing the wings extend was surprising and thrilling. His tiny cuts made them the thin slices expand and climb.

They also showed us how to flash-boil shrimp. There was a lot of steam and then there was a lot to eat.

It was time to go kayaking, but I declined. It had been several days of go go go, and I was behind on my writing. I waved good-sailing to the tender and wrote pleasantly on the balcony for a few hours.

Shortly before we set sail, I learned I didn't get a job I'd interviewed for. A shame, since I thought it had gone well. The financial circumstances of the last few years have made it that this isn't a crisis, but I have conflicting emotions. Like, the job wasn't going to be fun, but everybody wants to get what they go for, and it felt bad not to get it.

Being laid off and then not getting this gig means I'll have free time to develop the discipline to be a novelist, I suppose. Half the time I'm filled with the thrill of liberty! And the other half I'm scared.

And this was on my mind as I watched the tender of wealthy kayakers returning. Would I be their peers next year? Would I become bitter and resent the easy life of the Finn?

While they dried off, Lics invited us to the common deck for a game.

He placed about twelve toothpicks down in the rough, boxy shape of a cow. The cow had four legs, two horns, and a tail. Our task was to move two toothpicks to transform the cow into two cows.

"Only two move, ok! And no break toothpick! And both cow must have tail, four leg, and two horn!"

So, some Canadians and some Germans and I went to work while the others at their tables went to theirs.

The head was triangular (I recognize this is difficult without pictures, but Lics made us all swear not to take them), and I felt that maybe removing the tail and making another triangle elsewhere was the key. I was reluctant to dismantle the head.

Like with the food, everyone was hesitant to take over, but you could tell a few of the dudes had some ideas. I let them go with it, but when they tried to undo the triangle, I would repeat, "I am reluctant to dismantle the head."

Frankly, I thought some good old-fashioned German engineering would get us through, but they couldn't get it. Nobody could. Lics drifted between the tables cackling and repeating:

"Tail! Four leg! Two horn! Two cow!"

Despite a noble effort by the Quebecois to make it look as if two cows were retreating, it failed the tails test. 

Eventually, Lics sensed our frustration and said, "Here is a hint, ok. The cow has been with its darling, something like this."

Then he came over and lowered the two "stomach" toothpicks to make the cow look like it had a pregnant belly. 

"Two cow! One is inside mother!"

I was like, "Ours has twins, so we made three cows, so we win." 

He didn't agree. Anyway, it was cute but ultimately a trick. It was interesting to see how a group of strangers worked on an unsolvable toothpick problem together. 

It helped us bond, anyway. The Canadians gave me a map of Sapa, my next destination. They had just been there and promised it was wonderful. 

And that was essentially it. A diverting day and a half in a surreal, natural environment. Sea air and sublime rocks.

We sailed back and got back on the bus. I tore off great chunks of It Can't Happen Here and underlined sentences I loved. The plot is a little exaggerated, but the wisdom and humor made the author seem very much like a genius to me. 

Also, everything that was a problem in the 1930s is a problem today. 

All of the news back home is about "conservative" candidates and governors wanting to restrict the number of Syrian immigrants the US accepts, and several of my friends are posting pictures of the first Thanksgiving in response.

It shows a chilly pilgrim being shown how to feed itself by a noble Indian and says, "What if the Indians hadn't accepted these religious refugees?"

And I'm sure my friend's mean, "There wouldn't be an America if we didn't allow refugees. It's how the country was built."

But, of course, the Pilgrims hated the Indians and slaughtered them. So, it's quite possibly the worst possible analogy for my well-meaning friends to use. 

I'm sure I'm not the first to make this observation. 

We arrived in Hanoi in one piece and were taken to our respective hotels. Eternal friendships forged on the boat were discarded. 

I traded the humorous Mr. Lics for the familiar comfort of Misters Tong and Tung. They were happy to see me. 

Mr. Tong asked me if I was going back out. I was, I said, to eat. "Do not eat any pineapple," he said. I had had pineapple on the ship, so I was like, "Uh oh." I thought he was warning me about e-coli or something. 

"What's wrong with the pineapple?"

"A lady this morning was charged ten dollars for one, so be careful."

I was careful. Followed a stray cat to a noodle shop and ate pho with fish sauce. The cat ran up and down the stairs. Like the rest of us, she was dodging motorcycles and trying to keep cool.