Reflections from Pearl Harbor
This page features creative works inspired by visits to Pearl Harbor. Through art, writing, and other forms of expression, creators of all ages share their personal reflections, emotions, and connections to this historic place.
Harbor of Memory and Grace: A Visit Remembered
Mark Dolan
The harbor lies like quiet glass,
a sunlit mirror that forgets the fire.
I step upon the monument,
above the Arizona’s sunken bones,
and feel eighty-four years folded into the harbor’s serenity.
On shore, Ranger Phil spoke,
each word a steady brush
across the canvas of flame and courage.
When he learned my father’s story,
he showed the attack from Vestal’s view—
how my father would have watched planes descend,
fire consume, chaos unfold that fateful day.
I felt his care for memory,
his honor for the men,
whose stories endure.
Dad’s captain, Cassin Young,
swept overboard, then rose again,
and with his men through smoke and ruin
beached the Vestal in the channel;
then returned to rescue the trapped,
repairing others’ ships while tending their own,
each act a quiet testament to resolve.
Steel bent, fire roared,
men trembled, courage held.
Each moment woven into a tapestry of endurance.
I was grateful for honor shown my father,
for history made vivid,
for bravery breathed to life.
Upon the monument,
a second ranger listened,
younger, yet attentive and gentle,
gathering fragments of the past.
He asked of my father,
and when I spoke,
brought out maps and notes,
showing the Vestal’s course,
the damage endured,
enemy planes in motion,
the Arizona burning beside her.
I walked the Memorial’s deck,
hands brushing cool railings,
letting past and present
fold together—
grief and awe mingling like crossing tides.
Voices that lived
and died in fire echoed around me—
voices I could not answer,
yet carried in silence.
I saw my father there—
ship aflame yet afloat,
fear pressing close,
yet courage rising above each blast.
Smoke and heat roared,
metal groaned and twisted,
the sea churned with fire and debris,
yet he moved with purpose—
each step, each action a testament
to endurance and faith amid chaos.
In that moment,
I felt him near,
his stories flowing back in waves—
each tale a seed that shaped him,
each recollection a gift
that still shapes me.
Pride swelled within my chest,
greater than in all my seventy-two years,
and my soul rose in gratitude to God,
who preserved my father while thousands perished,
who granted him life, family,
and left a witness to endure.
Afterward, the ranger walked me back to the boat,
paused to take my picture
where the Vestal had been moored—
a quiet act of remembrance and honor,
as Ranger Phil had done on shore.
The harbor rests serene—
boats drifting slowly,
mountains patient and green,
slopes alive with palms and ferns,
hibiscus bright, valleys deep with shadow,
waves whispering secrets to the sky,
gulls calling across sunlit blue.
Peace has returned,
yet memory ripples beneath the surface,
in every steel rib, every name etched in stone.
I leave with hands empty, yet heart full,
bearing a quiet torch of remembrance,
watching the harbor shimmer,
listening to the hush beneath the light,
a hymn to valor, to sacrifice,
to fathers, to sons, and to God’s mercy—
by whose benevolence we walk among the living,
memory gently entwined with grace.