When I was about nine, my family went to Vung Tau, a seaside town a couple of hours from Ho Chi Minh City where I grew up. We went there almost every summer for three or four years, but the first trip is the one I remember most clearly.
I went with my parents, my little brother and my grandparents, all squeezed into my uncle's van. My grandmother brought enough food for a whole village, so we never ate in restaurants. We stayed in a cheap guesthouse a few minutes' walk from the beach, and all six of us slept in one big room.
During the day we basically lived in the sea. My father taught me to float on my back, and my brother and I spent hours building sandcastles and then watching the waves destroy them. In the evenings we walked along the seafront eating grilled squid and sweetcorn from the street stalls, and my grandfather would tell us stories about when he used to work on a fishing boat.
I think the reason it stays with me is that it was the first time I saw my whole family relaxed together. At home my parents worked long hours in their shop, and we rarely did anything as a group. At the beach nobody was in a hurry. I also remember the feeling of seeing the sea for the first time, how huge and loud it was, and how small I felt. My grandfather passed away a few years later, so those evenings listening to his stories have become even more precious to me.