Dream of Dongsha: A Summons of Passing, Parting, and the Rebirth of a Soul

There are places in this world you may never reach in an entire lifetime, yet they will seek you out in the deep of night.

A few nights ago, I dreamed of Little Hsiang. He stood beside an unfamiliar wooden pier, backed by a vast, lead-gray sea. The wind was utterly silent, and the gentle lapping of waves sounded like someone softly turning the gossamer pages of an ancient book. I saw Little Hsiang clutching a stack of books in his arms. In a rushed tone, as if running slightly late, he smiled and said to me: “I’m heading off to class.”

Before I could form words to reply, he stepped aboard a waiting boat, slipping soundlessly into the dense morning mist.

The Coordinates of Memory: Dongsha Atoll

Little Hsiang (Hsieh Tsung-hsiang) was my brother and fellow traveler of many years. In 2010, he deployed to the southernmost maritime frontier of the Republic of China 🇹🇼—the isolated coral atoll of Dongsha (Pratas)—to execute an electrical engineering mission. It was a realm detached from mundane civilization, a restricted nature reserve inaccessible to ordinary travelers. Information was sparse back then, consisting only of hazy geographical coordinates and a few coarse meteorological satellite images, resembling a solitary silver ring overturned upon the South China Sea.

In his final text message before communications went dark, he transmitted merely two words: “Departing.” Soon afterward, at thirty-one years of age, a tragic drowning accident claimed his life, leaving him forever cradled in that deep blue abyss.

A Dream’s Cipher: The Island’s Memory

Over the past decade, he has frequently visited my dreams. Yet in this particular dream, the phrase “heading off to class” resonated with uncanny clarity. I remembered that under his pen name “The Hat-Wearing Traveler,” he once wrote:

“Some islands do not require human presence to be complete; some islands only materialize after certain people have vanished.”

Dongsha may well be precisely such an island.

Upon waking, I sat before Google Maps, zooming in and out repeatedly across the blue expanse. Dongsha’s sheltered lagoon and underwater sandbars appear eerily still and precious in geographical records.

Embraced by the circular reef, native terrestrial flora is sparse, yet it nurtures an extraordinarily fragile and precious marine ecosystem. They say green sea turtles crawl ashore at night to lay eggs in complete solitude—no tourists, no artificial glare, only moonlight and rhythmic tides. Others recount that along the western rim lies a sunken sandbar exposed only at low tide, resembling a tranquil threshold leading into a silent world.

As I absorbed these descriptions, the sound of Little Hsiang turning pages in my dream echoed softly in my mind. That was no longer merely his personal chronicle; it was the living memory of the island turning its own pages.

Writing It Down: A Traveler’s Duty

I have never set foot on Dongsha; military restrictions keep this remote atoll hermetically sealed from the world. Yet ever since that dream, I feel as though I have just returned from its quiet shores.

Dongsha is a lost geography, a sacred summons reserved exclusively for those who listen in stillness. Not everyone is destined to dream of it; but those who do inherit an unspoken duty.

Setting down these words is my way of remembering him. Little Hsiang never truly bade farewell; like all true wanderers, he simply moved ahead toward his next unfinished “class.”

If the day ever comes when I am permitted to step ashore on Dongsha, perhaps nothing will need to be spoken. I will simply stand in silence, listening until the tide has finished its song.