The Boat is an autobiographical account of Bùi Đức Tinh's meticulously planned departure by boat from South Vietnam, the very harrowing crossing of the South China Sea and his subsequent rescue to Bidong Island, off the Malaysian coast. What makes this account special, apart from the compelling narrative, is Bùi's very expressive writing—which is punctuated with his own poetry, fitting quotations, maps, and his drawing and painting of the titular boat. This book was first published in Vietnamese in 2022. The English edition, translated by the author, was published in 2025. In the first half of the story, Bùi narrates his personal history—from his return from a re-education camp following the end of the Vietnam War, to meeting his friend Vu and planning their escape by sea, and then organizing and surreptitiously strengthening a river-going boat to carry legitimate cargo up and down the Mekong River delta for two years so as to avoid suspicion or arrest. This segment focuses on the daily challenges of being on the river and transporting fresh shrimp one way and ice blocks on the return trip, and it sets the stage by explaining the varieties of boat design found along the Mekong River. Throughout, we learn about the "new" (and deplorable) way of doing things under the repressive communist regime, along with the ever-present policing of South Vietnamese speech and art.
Bùi describes well the tension between the authorities who want to show that everything is fine, on one hand, and on the other, the evident hemorrhaging of the country's human capital, as the Vietnamese took to boats to flee their country. The book's title, The Boat, is really apt, as the vessel, which was registered with the Vietnamese authorities as 'boat #3392', is a full partner in this story—initially, as a means to earn money during the time in service up and down the Mekong River, and later, as a symbol of hope for the author, his friends and the many passengers who were planning their escape from Vietnam. Finally, the vessel was the instrument in which all involved had placed their trust as they eventually made their irreversible departure into international waters.
The second half picks up the pace significantly, and I moved through this part much faster and with rapt attention—as so much happened very quickly. If it had been fiction, it would have been a fascinating drama; instead, as it was the author's lived experience, I could only feel sympathy, anger and relief in turn. Bùi convincingly brought me along in his boat, with an over-full passenger complement, as they made their run to freedom from Vietnam's communist rule. Their attempt to avoid police detection at the mouth of the delta initially failed. After a harrowing time with the police boat on their tail, they eventually managed to outrun it. They then experienced a very powerful rainstorm, which nearly capsized their boat— which Bùi admitted was ill-equipped for the strong ocean waves. Boat #3392 had the rounded bow and low sides that suited river transport, instead of a sharply pointed bow that could cut through the waves. It also lacked the higher sides that might have prevented the South China Sea's destructive waves from slapping down on them.
The perils continued with protracted battles—first with a single and then with two coordinated Thai pirate ships, who chased them and eventually capsized their boat and threw the author and others— including La Giang Thanh (see photo of Thanh and the author), into the sea. Bùi did not know the fate of the other passengers for some time, but he learned later that some were picked up by other boats at sea and taken to Malaysia, captured and killed by the pirates, or were immediately drowned as the boat was destroyed. Bùi's voyage continued alone with Thanh, the two afloat and clinging to a large hatch cover that the author had managed to wrest from the vessel.
"The infinite sea stretches into the sky. All is black. Waves roll endlessly. We remind each other to hold onto the float and kick our legs. We need to move our legs and arms to keep our bodies warm and to avoid falling asleep, lest we let go of the board and the waves sweep it away. As we float, I frequently feel the slippery brush of some creature against my bare chest and stomach. It reminds me of the constant threat of sharks. Thanh and I become more experienced at turning our faces to avoid being hit directly by the waves. However, we both feel colder, thirstier and weaker. We look out into the dark night, not knowing where we're drifting or what might happen. We just pray we'll survive until morning. Only then can we hope those on passing vessels will see us. " (Bùi 2025, 184)
After several days of trying to propel themselves towards any shore and being completely exhausted and injured, they were eventually rescued by Malaysian fishers who took them onto land and into the care of the Malaysian authorities. They received care for their weak conditions and the authorities took them to the Pulau Bidong refugee camp. Bùi then wraps up the narrative by recounting the Malaysian police's efforts to document the piracy, and being taken back to that site, where their capsized boat could still be seen in the water. He notes that of the 73 people who originally left Vietnam on boat #3392, 56 were missing because of the pirate attacks. Bùi's narrative ends with an account of his trip to Thailand in May 2006, where he reflected on the many painful memories of many family members and friends who attempted to flee Vietnam but were unsuccessful in their efforts and are considered now to be missing or dead.
"...the painful psychological wounds of the Vietnamese boat people have not healed. Our losses are irreplaceable, and time can never move our sorrow to the past....The Vietnamese only left their homeland because they were cornered with no way out....If it wasn't for the communist tragedy, the Vietnamese people would not have had to traverse jungles and seas to escape, leaving their beloved country. " (Bùi 2025, 217-218)
As an aid to the reader, the close-to-last segment of this book includes maps, photographs and illustrations. They show the route taken, some of the equipment used to make boat #3392 more seaworthy, and paintings by the author of that boat. Bùi also includes "The Closing Chapter", an essay by Professor Phan Dam. Phan Dam lives in the Toronto area and taught at Centennial College. The essay covers his first meeting with Bùi, his own family's departure from North to South Vietnam in 1954 and then includes his own thoughts after reading Bui's book.
The Boat touches on key developments of Vietnamese history, but as an autobiography, it naturally cannot encompass its entire scope. Instead, it is a contemplative and poetic reflection of Bùi's personal spiritual and physical voyage—from a post-war re-education camp survivor to a refugee in a camp at Pulau Bidong, Malaysia. It contributes to a growing collection of memoirs that testify to this historic movement of refugees. Bùi eloquently explains the extent of careful and lengthy preparation—both material and psychological—needed to undertake the perilous sea journey from communist Vietnam. Even with such meticulous planning, he also carefully shows us how they handled unanticipated events that compromised their plans. This book piqued my interest in other accounts of Vietnam's "boat people", many of whom now call Canada home. Overall, I would recommend this book to readers interested in the human aspect of a refugee movement from Vietnam that impacted so many within our lifetime.
Diane Burrows
Former volunteer editor of the CIHS's Bulletin and a member of the CIHS board of directors. (CIHS: Canadian Immigation Historical Society)