Chapter 1 — Summer Rescuer

At six twenty minutes in the morning, Bai Duong was still covered with a thin layer of mist on the sand, and Pham Thao Nhi was standing on the highest watchtower, leaning on the wooden railing with both hands, watching each wave roll to the shore. She always arrived forty-five minutes earlier than the official duty time, not because it was mandatory, but because she needed that quiet time to read the sign before it started to get crowded.

This summer, there is something different about Duong Xanh beach. Thao Nhi couldn't exactly name that feeling, she only knew that when she looked to the south, where the cliff of Mui Sa Den protruded like a dark arm in the blue water, there was an irregular wave break, an unusual silence between two white waves. Longtime beachgoers call it the "inlet" — a place where undercurrents pull water away from shore faster than anywhere else. She had learned to recognize such inlets since she was twelve years old, when her father, captain of Bai Duong's first rescue team, took her to the water's edge at dusk and pointed out to sea.

"The sea is not evil, Nhi," her father once said, his voice deep and slow like the sound of receding waves. "The sea just doesn't care. You have to be the one to care for the sea."

Eight years have passed since her father stopped returning to shore. Eight summers, eight times the tourist season opened, eight times she stood in this exact position, on the highest watchtower, looking towards Sa Den Cape with a feeling that was both familiar and aching.

The morning rally siren interrupted her thoughts. Bui Trong Nghi, captain of the rescue team, walked across the sand with a familiar steady gait, holding a frayed portable speaker. He is in his fifties, his hair is gray, but his shoulders are still as broad and strong as when he was a provincial swimmer.

"Thao Nhi, come down and gather!" he called out, his voice echoing across the empty sandy beach.

She jumped down from the guard tower with a familiar movement, her feet touching the sand smoothly, then ran to where the whole team was standing in a row in front of the rescue station - a row of wooden houses painted red and white, the corrugated iron roof faded from the sun and wind, with the words OCEAN BEACH RESCUE STATION in large letters above the door.

This season's Bai Duong rescue team has six people. In addition to Trong Nghi and Thao Nhi, there was also Ma Anh Kiet, a twenty-nine-year-old man with a muscular body and a hot temper, who was always the first to complain about any changes in the duty schedule; Diep Anh Thi, twenty-three years old, Thao Nhi's best friend on the team, has a lovely smile and sharp eyes that don't miss a single detail on the water; Thai Nhat Quynh, a twenty-one year old new soldier, joined the team early last summer, still has the excitement of a newbie; and another person, Do Gia Lam, thirty-two years old, quiet but a good swimmer, in charge of the northern beach area.

"Today officially opens the season," Trong Nghi said, his voice more serious than usual. "The district committee will hold the opening ceremony of the tourist season at nine o'clock, right in front of the main beach. It is expected to be three times more crowded than usual. I want everyone to check all equipment before seven thirty - life buoys, sirens, signal flags, and especially the rescue ropes at the two watchtowers near Sa Den Cape."

Mr. Kiet frowned. "Back to Mui Sa Den. Every year that area is empty, but now because of the new marina, the number of people flocking there to take photos is no less crowded than the main beach."

"That's why we have to check carefully," Trong Nghi replied, his eyes glanced at Thao Nhi for a moment, as if he knew what she was thinking. "Dismissed, everyone goes to their own business."

When everyone dispersed, Anh Thi walked closer to Thao Nhi and gently nudged her shoulder. "Are you standing on the hut again since early morning? What are you looking at so intently?"

"The waves are at Cape Sa Den," Thao Nhi replied, still not taking her eyes off the south. "The breakage is uneven. From the day the marina started pouring rocks to make embankments, I saw the flow change direction."

"You always pay attention to those things," Anh Thi smiled, but the smile was somewhat forced, because she clearly understood why her friend was more sensitive to the slightest fluctuation in the water surface than anyone else on the team. "Go check the buoy, it's about to get crowded."

Thao Nhi nodded, but before turning away, she took one more look at the construction site being built on the southern cliff - giant concrete piles going deep into the sea, barges carrying rocks moored all night, and a large advertising sign standing at the entrance with the words "DIAMOND BAY MARIN & SURFACES - CLASS RESORT". CENTRAL COAST" printed in ornate letters, below is the logo of the Gold Coast Group.

The project has been under construction for nearly four months, racing against time to open phase one right at the peak of summer. Rumor has it that the company skipped several survey steps to speed up the process, but that's just a rumor — no one in town dares to say it out loud, because the Gold Coast is creating hundreds of new jobs, from construction workers to service staff, and this small town has been waiting for such an economic boost for a long time.

The morning passed in a familiar rhythm: checking buoys, testing horns, re-tightening seat belts, clearing paths so ambulances could reach as quickly as possible in case of emergency. By nearly nine o'clock, the sandy beach began to be crowded with people. Tour buses lined up to drop passengers off at the parking lot, music emanated from a makeshift stage in front of the main gate, where the opening ceremony of the tourist season was about to begin.

Thao Nhi was assigned to be on duty at watchtower number two, right in the middle of the main beach, with a view that covered the most crowded area. From that position, she could see the stage, where the Chairman of the District Committee was giving the opening speech, and further south was the tall figure of Mr. Cung Nghia Phat, Chairman of the Gold Coast Group, standing next to the row of honor in a white suit, smiling brightly for local television cameras.

She didn't have time to think about him for long, because the siren in her head—an instinct that eight years of work had honed—suddenly sounded as her eyes glanced over a group of three teenagers swimming farther than allowed, right near the area where the yellow warning flag was posted.

She raised her binoculars. Three boys, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old, were competing to swim to an orange buoy about fifty meters from the shore — the distance was still within control, but the water there, she knew, was different than usual. Since the breakwater began to form, the water reflected from the concrete blocks has created a much stronger flow parallel to the shore, and if someone accidentally falls into that right angle of reflection, they will be swept away much faster than normally predicted.

Thao Nhi blew three short whistle blasts, a signal to return to shore, and at the same time waved a red flag towards the group of teenagers. Two boys turned back immediately, but the third boy, perhaps because he was busy playing, swam a few more strokes before realizing that his friend had moved away.

That's when she saw it — an unusually flat patch of water between two waves, extending from the outer edge of the breakwater straight into the area where the teenager was swimming. Not everyone recognizes that sign, but to Thao Nhi, it is as clear as a warning shouted across the sea.

"Rip current!" she shouted loudly, at the same time pressing the main siren button, the signal to call the entire team. She rushed from the watchtower, the red lifebuoy hugged her waist, her feet kicked off the sand and sprinted down to the edge of the wave.

The teenager sensed something was wrong — his body was being yanked away with a force that he couldn't resist, no matter how well he swam. He began to panic, struggling against the current, a classic mistake that made him exhausted even faster.

Thao Nhi dove into the water, not swimming straight against the current as her instincts outside the profession would tell her, but swimming at an angle, cutting across the offshore current according to a technique she had practiced thousands of times. Salty seawater poured into her mouth as she parted the waves, her arms and legs coordinated, her eyes never taking her eyes off the floating head in front of her.

"Don't swim against the current! Relax!" she shouted when she was about ten meters away from the teenager, her voice loud enough to be heard over the sound of the waves.

The boy, already pale with fear and choking on water, tried to follow, but his body still trembled against instinct. Thao Nhi approached, wrapped her arms around the lifebuoy across his chest, and used the buoyancy of the buoy to pull them both out of the swirling water.

"Where is Kiet?" She heard Trong Nghi shout from the shore, and just a few seconds later, another figure rushed into the water to help - Anh Kiet, despite his constant complaints, never delayed a second when the real rescue signal came.

They brought the teenager to shore safely, although he had to lie panting on the sand for several minutes, having his pulse checked by Anh Thi and medical staff, while the crowd of spectators attending the opening ceremony gathered around to watch, the whispers spreading quickly.

In the stands, Mr. Cung Nghia Phat was still smiling at the camera, seemingly unaware - or deliberately not paying attention - to the incident that had just happened less than a hundred meters away.

Thao Nhi sat down on the sand, panting, sea water still dripping from her hair to her shoulders. She looked towards Cape Sa Den, where the concrete blocks of the breakwater were still being lowered one by one by crane, and in her heart, an old, painfully familiar premonition arose again.

"It's saved," Trong Nghi said, placing his hand on her shoulder, his voice a bit relieved but also a bit heavy. "Good job, Nhi."

"That's not a natural flow, Uncle Nghi," Thao Nhi said, her voice hoarse from the seawater and from a feeling greater than physical fatigue. "I've been monitoring this area for a week now. Since they poured rocks into the embankment, the flow has completely changed direction."

Trong Nghi looked at her for a long time, his eyes complicated, then turned his head to look towards the construction site, where the large Gold Coast billboard still proudly stood in the morning sunlight.

"The summer is still long, Nhi," he said softly, almost in a whisper. "I will watch closely."

Thao Nhi did not respond. She just looked out at the sea, where the water had returned to its usual artificial calm after each time a violent rip current swallowed a victim and then spit it back out, as if nothing had ever happened. But she knows. She learned to read the sea from her deceased father, and today the sea is telling her something she doesn't want to hear: this summer will not be peaceful.

At noon, when the shift stopped, she sat alone on the wooden steps in front of the rescue station, holding the cup of coconut water her mother sent her, her eyes still glued to the horizon towards Sa Den Cape. The sea breeze blew through a few strands of her still wet hair, bringing with it the familiar salty smell and, mixed in with it, the constant whine of construction site machinery — a sound she knew she would have to hear all summer, whether she wanted it or not.