I served in the military for 23 years. As an infantryman, I witnessed the horrific nature of war firsthand. Mankind can be hellbent on destroying itself. The repeated deployments, the memorials for fallen brothers and sisters, and the constant state of fight or flight took a toll on both my mind and body.
So, what does any of this have to do with fly fishing?
There came a point when the military consumed my entire being. Every day revolved around the mission: wake up, train young men and women for combat, deploy, repeat. On good days, I was preparing others. On the worst, I was leading squads, platoons, or companies into the unknown. That endless cycle left no room for hobbies or space for myself.
Fly fishing changed that. It pulled me from the darkness, gave me stillness where there had only been chaos, and offered purpose when I’d lost my sense of it.
I was six years old when my family immigrated from Vietnam to the United States. We lived in a refugee camp called Pulau Bidong, an island off the coast of Terengganu that operated from 1978 to 1991. At its peak in 1979, it housed nearly 40,000 people, making it one of the most densely populated places on Earth. That island was hell on earth, and it was my home for 18 months.
The United States was the only country that accepted my family as political refugees. Through the help of a Mennonite family in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, we arrived with a new sense of hope. Fast forward 21 years to September 11, 2001, the horrific attack that changed everything. I felt it was my obligation to repay the country that gave my family a second chance by serving in its defense.
Before I joined the military, I loved to fish, paint, travel, and spend time with friends, the usual hobbies of someone in their twenties. But once I put on the uniform, all of that faded away. Taking care of my Soldiers became my priority. Nothing else mattered, not even my own well-being.
My Soldiers viewed me as a rock-steady leader. No matter the situation, I was always there to help and guide them through it. But underneath that armor, my psyche was crumbling.
Then came an assignment where I had no Soldiers to lead, just time alone with my thoughts. The demons I had buried for years began to surface. I started waking up screaming in the middle of the night. Anxiety ruled my days. Crowded places triggered memories of suicide bombings in Iraq. Loud noises felt like incoming gunfire or roadside bombs. A car tailgating me sent my heart racing. I’d seen too many vehicle-borne explosives take out friends. Everyday life became a battle.
Again, what does this have to do with fly fishing?
I hadn’t slept soundly in what felt like years. But that first day on the water, with a fly rod in hand, brought back memories of childhood—when life was simple and all I needed was a fishing rod to feel free. That night, I slept. No nightmares. No medication. No alcohol. Just peace.
Since that day, I’ve discovered something deeper. Through helping other veterans learn to fly fish, I’m healing with them. The water has become our meeting place, where service continues in the form of compassion, patience, and shared recovery.
When I stand beside another veteran on the river, I see myself in their eyes, the same pain, the same distance, the same need for peace. Watching them make their first cast, seeing the tension fade from their shoulders as they find rhythm in the current, reminds me why I’m here. It’s not about catching fish. It’s about reconnecting with nature, with one another, and with the parts of ourselves we thought were lost forever.
While we make that roll or backcast, our brains are forced to focus. Otherwise, that line may get wrapped up in a tree, bush, or around your body. That singular focus helps block out the noise. That busy brain that is always in a state of alert begins to wane. It begins to relax. That is when the healing begins.
Every retreat, every conversation on the bank, every shared silence between casts reminds me that healing doesn’t happen alone. It happens together. The river has become a place of renewal, a space where we trade stories, share laughter, and rediscover hope.
Through helping others heal, I’ve found healing myself. This is my continual service, a mission that didn’t end when I hung up the uniform but simply changed form.
When I look back now, I realize that service doesn’t end when the uniform comes off. It just takes on a new form. The river has become my new duty station, and my mission is no longer about combat. It’s about connection. Healing through others has given me purpose again. Every time I watch a veteran find peace in the rhythm of the cast or smile at the sound of rushing water, I’m reminded that we’re all still serving—just in a different way, and together.
About the Author
Son Tao is a retired U.S. Army veteran who served 23 years in uniform. Today, he continues his mission of service by helping veterans find peace and purpose through fly fishing. Whether mentoring on the water or organizing retreats, Son believes the river is more than a place to fish—it’s a place to heal, connect, and rediscover hope.
son@feather-craft.com
