Wendy Tougher

WENDY TUYET TOUGHER

Wendy Tuyet Tougher left Vietnam by fishing boat in May 1975 when she was eleven years old.  After Operation New Life, she was adopted by an American military family in Guam, though she later reunited with her birth family in high school.  She is married to her high school sweetheart whom she met in Guam, retired Colonel Michael Tougher, and they have three children who are all serving in the US military.  She currently lives in Jacksonville, Florida.  In the photo above, Wendy Tuyet Tougher (right) is with her older sister, Kelley Phuong Miller (left) in Guam, about six months after they left Vietnam and were adopted.

"As my eyes scanned the sparkling vast ocean, I felt the blazing sun sting my skin. Thoughts of the war hung over me. The war between North and South Vietnam came to an end in early May of 1975. The villages south of Saigon were bombed. The bombs pierced our ears with mighty booms. The ground shook violently, buildings crumbled all around and civilians were being shot at. The cries and screams of the victims of war, mostly women and children, forced me to take my eyes from the sea back to the land we just left. My mom told me not to look back yet, but I was compelled to look over my shoulder. Though I was not physically wounded like many others, I too began to scream and cry. When the tears were gone, my heart wept. The faces I saw, twisted in agony, painted with blood, streaked by tears; sketched an ageless image in my mind.

The tragedy of war was upon us all. Every cell in my body shook with fright. Every organ in my body ached for us, the victims of war. At the age of 11, I looked in the faces of my people and saw a history of human suffering. The sound of sorrow was recorded in my mind. The deepest feeling of hopelessness, loneliness, and despair pressed heavily on me as I became separated from my family. The weaving of people in and out of our path caused my mom to look back to check on us. Looking up at her panicked-stricken face, fear took hold of me. Within the blink of an eye, my family scattered into the crowd. Amid the chaos and all the panicked people, I recognized a face. Spontaneously, my sister and I extended our hands towards each other. I gripped her fingers around mine. I was not going to let her go. With our eyes focused on a fishing boat, we pushed our way forward.

It was a clear, hot, sunny day in May when I left Vietnam on a small fishing boat. The boat, about 20 feet long and 9 feet wide, was shelter for the fortunate 30 or more of us aboard. Sitting on the deck of the boat, I felt a new danger hovering over me. The ocean did not seem peaceful and safe as it had appeared when I stood on the shore and gazed out. The ocean had become the new enemy I had to fight for survival. Its power greater than I had ever imagined was possible. The realization of being swallowed up and capsized by the next wave became increasingly clear when the powerless boat nosedived into wave after wave. Gripping the edge of the boat to keep from being flung into the ocean, a feeling of total insignificance washed over me. Would the ocean shed her tears for us if we were pulled under today? Or would she continue with her fierce and violent rhythm without regard for our fate? If we disappeared, nothing would change, nothing at all. The sun would not flinch. The sky would not weep. The sea would not be still in sorrow for us. The massive and continuous waves seemed to gain more and more strength with each rise and fall. The ocean’s endless energy left me desperate and without hope for survival.

Death would have been the easiest way out. Deep within me, behind the physical and emotional pain, underneath my drowning hopes, my soul begged for a chance to live. As my second day on the boat began, my body convulsed. Slumped over, I began to shake uncontrollably. While the relentless sun berated me, I drifted in and out of consciousness. The thrusting and hurling of the boat made my head dizzy and stomach turn. My stomach muscles contracted into a single hard knot every time I lean over the rail to throw-up. The movement of my body combined with the sickness and pain reminded me I was still alive.

I prayed for life, I prayed for the waves to calm, and I prayed for food. What I prayed for most on that third day of my journey was water. By the end of the second day, our boat was out of drinking water. The nauseating cramps and pain of not eating were a luxury compared to how I felt when my body could not have the water it needed. The unquenchable craving for the taste of water was so powerful, it began to consume my sanity. Reaching down to the salty ocean water, I wanted to dip my body in it and allow myself the dangerous and yet enticing comfort of letting go of life. Looking into the vast, never-ending ocean, I thought I saw a happier existence underneath its surface. I closed my eyes and felt myself fading into the dark blue water. For the first time on my journey, I felt nothing. No pain, no sorrow, no weight on my body. The feeling of nothingness lured me to let go and end this misery. Letting out what I thought was my last breath, I felt my body going limp. At last, my 11 years of existence were coming to an end. What happens to me when I die? I wondered about heaven. I wanted to go to heaven. Relatives had told me my dad was in heaven and he watches over us. Can you really see us, dad? Can you ask God to help us?

I searched my mind for peaceful closure. Looking again at my mom, two sisters, and three brothers, I felt their sufferings and hopelessness. Seeing my family struggle to survive in this most dreadful state brings about another layer of heartache. My sadness plunged to a deeper level yet. It had been a rough, bumpy life with war, death, and famine but my family always stuck together and surrounded each other with love and protection. The thoughts of my family caused a reaction in me. My eyes shot open. No, I will not close my eyes and slip away. I must fight to stay alive for them, for me. I do not want to die. I wanted more from my life. I wanted to hold my mom’s hand. I wanted to go to school someday and learn to read and write. I wanted to play and laugh. I wanted just a little bit of something to eat and a glass of water to drink. I wanted to get off this forsaken boat. I wanted to live.

Slowly, the horizon lit up with colorful layers of peach, pink, and light blue. A new day arrived with assurance of another scorching day. There was nothing to do but watch for shadows as the sun took its time crossing the sky. At last, a gray cloud crossed our path. As it approached the boat, a rush of excitement descended on us. Adults yelled instructions to the kids on how to catch the raindrops. Shouts of, “Open your mouth!”, “Cup your hands!”, “Pull out your shirt to catch the rain!” pierced the otherwise silent sky. The raindrops fell, so did the shouting. Everyone concentrated on catching the most raindrops. All too soon, the gray cloud moved away, leaving us behind to lick away each raindrop. The moment of satisfaction and hope drifted out of our reach again. With a burdened heart, I helplessly watched the gray cloud leave.

The boat drifted aimlessly with the splash of each wave. First, there was no food, then no water, and then there was no fuel. Nobody prepared for a long journey. Having our backs to the ocean and facing the approaching army, we took shelter where we could. A small fishing boat had become our promise for survival. Not realizing we would be chased into the sea; we took no provisions with us. Now there was nothing for us to do but pray and wait for gray clouds to come our way.

Like a risen sun with all the glory, a ship rose from the horizon. My heart stirred with joy and hope. I cried, for my heart needed to shed the pain and misery. At last, I smiled, then joined the people in waving and yelling. As the ship closed in on us, I could not believe a boat of this size and strength existed. There were times, in my disbelief, I feared the approaching ship. I feared the ship was simply my imagination playing tricks on me. I feared the ship would turn away from us. I feared the ship would harm us. What if the ship did not want us? Again and again, I looked up and studied the expressions of the adults to reassure myself the ship was real and coming to rescue us.

Soon the gigantic ship hovered over us. The big black letters read, US Navy. A man in uniform stood on the deck and spoke to us through a megaphone. I did not understand him, but I knew he had come to help us. A man swooped me up and helped me up a net of ropes onto the ship. Days later, we arrived at Apra Harbor on the island of Guam, a territory of the United States of America."