On a mid-sized cruising vessel, at dusk along the Rhône River in the south of France, two men sit facing each other, speaking slowly through an interpreter. One is Carlos Arredondo, a hero of the Boston Marathon bombings last April. He's the man in the photo—the photo—the one in which Arredondo, wearing a cowboy hat, helps rush victim Jeff Bauman, whose legs were blown away at the knees, away from the scene. The other is Lu Jun, a quiet man whose daughter, Lingzi, a Boston University graduate student, was one of the three people killed that day.

The journey here has been an especially hard one for Jun and his wife, Ling. They have been in their native China since the bombings, and have had little contact with survivors or other victims' families. They accepted an invitation to join 114 survivors, first responders, and family members on this all-expenses-paid "Boston's Heroes" cruise through French wine country, but once aboard they quickly became overwhelmed by the sudden immersion into this group of walking wounded. At dinner on the first night—as Bill White, a seventy-one-year-old Vietnam veteran, ambled across the far end of the dining room on crutches and a prosthetic leg, and Jeff Bauman tooled around in his wheelchair with his trademark knit cap atop his head—the Lus could hardly muster a smile or even a nod. They withdrew deep into themselves, seeing only reminders of the bombs that took their daughter's life.

They felt a responsibility to the survivors, and especially their friend. Hence, the heroes cruise.

On that first night, Carlos noticed Jun picking at his food, and recognized the look on the man's face. It was a look he's seen every day in the mirror. His son Alex, a Marine, was killed in Iraq on August 25, 2004, on Carlos's forty-fourth birthday. And his other son, Brian, unable to cope with the loss of his brother, committed suicide on December 19, 2011. If there's one thing Carlos knows, it's loss. So he did what he always does: He walked across the room and reached out. He smiled. He took the man's hand.

The cruise, which took place in December, was organized by Vantage Deluxe World Travel, a Boston-based company owned by a man named Hank Lewis. Several months before the bombings, Lewis had hosted Carlos on a Vantage cruise for wounded American soldiers and the families of the fallen. They became friends. When Lewis and his wife, Tricia, saw him on television following the attacks, they wanted to do something. They felt a responsibility to the survivors, and especially their friend. Hence, the heroes cruise.

The group started out in Mâcon, a city of 35,000 in central France that sits on the Saône River, a narrow, meandering waterway that feeds into the Rhône. On the first night aboard the ms River Discovery II, the travelers—some walking on crutches, some in wheelchairs, and others limping slightly from shrapnel wounds—are milling about, sipping cocktails, and making small talk. They're uncertain of what to say, whom to sit with, and whether it's even okay to smile and laugh. Some already know each other from support groups, or public events honoring survivors, or even from the day itself. ("I'm not sure but I think she was standing close to me in front of Marathon Sports," one victim whispers to her boyfriend as another woman passes by.) A number of them were ambivalent about taking the trip, fearful of spending eleven days aboard a small cruise ship surrounded by constant reminders of the bombings. Some victims chose not to go for that very reason.

Lu Jun and Carlos Arredondo

The self-consciousness falls away, as survivors share seafood, steaks, and fine French wines in the ship's dining room. They swap marathon survival stories, sometimes trying to find answers, and other times seeking to provide some. "So, which bombing were you at?" is a common question. And the answer often reveals a grim serendipity: Most of them were just steps from one another.

After dinner, Michelle L'Heureux, a vivacious thirty-eight-year-old brunette originally from Maine, sets out to explore Macôn with some of the others. It's cool and foggy, and the group marvels at the city's ancient architecture, which in some places dates back to the 10th century. They settle into a pub called La Traboule hidden away in a brick alley, and as Michelle grows more comfortable with her new companions, she opens up.

"See this?" she says, pulling her yoga pants tight around her knee and upper thigh. A deep indentation appears in the back of her leg. "All the fatty tissue behind my knee—it was all blown off."

Just minutes before the blasts, she had posted on Facebook a picture of herself and her friends in front of the LensCrafters shop where the first pressure-cooker bomb would detonate, spraying small nails and BBs through the crowd, shredding skin and tearing limbs. "I looked down and I saw that my arm was ripped open," she says. "I was lying on the floor of Marathon Sports. My dad is a firefighter. I had someone call him."

Three people came to her aid and began tearing off pieces of T-shirts and Michelle's own scarf to make tourniquets. They cranked one hard around her shoulder and pulled at least three others tight around her upper thigh. She believes they saved her life. Someone handed her a phone. On the other end was her father.

"Dad, I am really, really hurt," she said.

"Michelle, you need to stay calm and stay awake," said her father, a firefighter in Auburn, Maine. "Stay awake."

As she was being rushed to Massachusetts General Hospital, Michelle remembers, the ambulance hit some craters in the asphalt, painfully jostling her wounds. "Fucking Massachusetts potholes," Michelle cried, sparking a grin from the EMT trying to hold her leg together.

"People—survivors—getting to know one another, helping each other out, having fun."

Doctors took a patch of skin from her upper thigh and used it to rebuild her bicep. They closed her rear leg wound, which would later require several skin grafts, and removed a roughly eight-inch-long sliver of metal embedded in her thigh. The following morning, when a nurse helped clean her up, BBs fell out of Michelle's hair. She lost hearing in her left ear, and has since had three surgeries to repair her eardrum; she needs at least one more.

She didn't walk for two weeks and was unable to shower for thirty-six days. A relations manager at John Hancock, she still hasn't returned to work. She doesn't sleep much. She has vivid nightmares, many of which involve her being covered in blood. She wakes up soaked in sweat.

Sitting next to her at La Traboule is Sabrina Dello Russo. The two hadn't met before the trip, but they got acquainted at dinner and became instant friends, sharing cigarettes, champagne, and stories.

Sabrina, a native of Boston's Italian North End, was at the finish line, enjoying a cocktail with a group of friends on the patio of the restaurant Forum, when the second bomb detonated. The blast knocked her to the ground, leaving her dazed. It blew her cell phone out of her hand. Her ears rang. She didn't know exactly what had happened, but she did know people were dead. As she looked around, she saw limbs strewn about. One, she discovered soon after, belonged to one of her closest friends, Roseann Sdoia, who lost her leg above the knee.

Michelle L'Heureux and Sabrina Della Russo, in Lyon

Sabrina suffered hearing loss and a traumatic brain injury; she's racked by survivor's guilt, knowing how much worse her injuries could have been. Since the bombings, she's undergone gone hours of therapy. She had to leave her job at Liberty Mutual for a few months, and has cut her workload in half. She cries more than she used to. Like Michelle, she has nightmares.

Sabrina has looked at lots of pictures from the bombings. She has one, taken before the explosions. In it, she stands just feet away from both Roseann, Martin Richard, the eight-year-old Dorchester boy who would be killed in the second blast, and the bomber, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev.

"I look at it every day," she says.

So, which bombing were you at?

Michelle was at the first one. She was right next to Jeff Bauman. She knows this because she's seen pictures of the two of them standing together—just seconds before the blasts, and, gruesomely, after. She's met him in passing a few times, but she wants to muster the courage to go over and have a quiet conversation. It's late, everyone's back on the ship, and Jeff, a twenty-eight-year-old double amputee who loved to play hockey and ski, is sitting in his wheelchair a few tables over—wearing a broad smile and chatting with other survivors.

"If I could've taken the blast for everyone, I would have," he whispers.

The hours pass. The back of Michelle's left leg is sore. She massages her scar gently, but it doesn't take away the pain. At around 3 a.m. she stands, using her good leg for support, and makes her way over to Jeff, who's now spinning in his wheelchair on the dance floor. They embrace. Michelle, who generally doesn't let anyone touch the scar, holds her breath as Jeff's hand instinctively begins rubbing her wound. His touch startles her, but she doesn't move away.

"If I could've taken the blast for everyone, I would have," he whispers.

"You went through enough, Jeff," she says.

He looks up at Michelle and smiles. "Keep working on those legs," he says. "You're gonna be all right."

She can't speak. Instead, she moves in and hugs him tightly. After a few seconds, she lets go and, without a word, walks out of the lounge. Moments later, she's back in her cabin, weeping uncontrollably.

Jeff Bauman and Rodney Alston, at 3 a.m.

Jeff Bauman is used to these sorts of interactions. They've become as much a part of his life as his daily efforts to walk on his titanium legs. He's feeling loose from slugging cocktails. He's happy. So much so that he and a friend make their way to the piano player churning out lounge versions of Maroon 5 and Kool and the Gang tunes, and commandeer the microphone. While his friend Rodney Alston beat-boxes, Jeff starts freestyling. A small crowd of younger survivors gathers on the dance floor, watching, dancing, and smiling.

"I know I'm a symbol of the bombings for everyone," he says later. "Still, I feel lucky. I only had to undergo three surgeries after I was hit. So many people here are in for the long haul."

In Saône-et-Loire, Sabrina and Michelle pose together in Cluny Abbey, which was established by Benedictine monks in 910. The Catholic day of prayer for the dead, All Souls Day, was first established here—something that is not lost on the two women and the rest of their group. The imposing church is made up of several large rooms, each separated by a heavy wooden door. When a door closes abruptly during the tour, the loud noise startles many survivors.

"Ever since the bombing, I can't take loud noises," says one, who asked that her name not be used. The others exchange knowing glances, compose themselves, and turn their attention back to the tour guide, the soaring architecture.

In Lyon, France's third largest city, Christmas lights line the streets. James "Bim" Costello and his girlfriend, Krista D'Agostino, are riding a giant Ferris wheel in Place Bellecour, just yards away from a magnificent statue of King Louis XIV mounted on a horse.

Costello became one of the public faces of the bombings when a photo of him wandering out of the carnage in a daze, his clothes singed and tattered, went global. He suffered shrapnel wounds and severe burns, and spent two weeks recovering in Spaulding Rehabilitation Hospital. There he met D'Agostino, a nurse. They started dating. By the time they flew to France, they'd been together for seven months.

Atop the Ferris wheel, Costello proposes. D'Agostino accepts. He slips onto her finger a diamond ring that J.P. and Paul Norden, two brothers who each lost a leg in the bombings, helped him smuggle onto the trip without her knowing. She holds the diamond up against the glittering lights. He snaps a photo with his iPhone and posts it on Facebook. The couple returns to the ship and retires for the night.

Krista D'Agostino and James Costello

The next morning, they awake to buzzing smartphones. Their photo has gone viral. Media outlets from Boston to Paris have picked up their story, and the couple are being bombarded with interview requests. At dinner, the crew brings out a cake with a huge sparkler candle for them, and everyone cheers their engagement. They keep mostly to themselves over the next couple of days, walking the chilly streets of the small villages and cities hand in hand, until they cut their trip short to travel to New York for an appearance on the Today show.

In Lyon, Michelle and Sabrina find a darkened lounge and sit with friends sipping mojitos, taking selfies, laughing, and swapping stories about, yes, the marathon, but about other things too. They feel good. They want to dance. They ask the bartender if he can recommend a place.

"There's a club called Boston Café," he tells them.

Silence.

"I looked down and I saw that my arm was ripped open," she says.

But there's no question they'll go. They walk the three or four blocks to the bar, located in the opulent Place des Terreaux. It's a familiar Irish pub–type setting, with twenty-somethings drinking cheap beer and listening to Michael Jackson's "Beat It." It's packed, and hot—not unlike Faneuil Hall pubs back home. Michelle, who struggles with large crowds, gets anxious and hustles to a corner where she can sit, breathe, relax, and have a cold drink. Some of the others dance.

Someone asks the manager about the name. Are the owners from Boston? No, he says, they "just love Boston-style pubs." The manager asks why the travelers are in Lyon. They tell him.

"Hold on," he says, hurrying away. He returns a few minutes later with an armful of swag—a few sweatshirts and several hats, all with the Boston Café logo. The group tries to give him some money, but he refuses.

"You are our guests," he says. "Thank you for coming in."

Carlos is charismatic, persistent, a natural healer, and as he sticks with Jun, a relationship begins to jell. The men come to speak as friends, as mourning fathers. "Sometimes I don't need to say anything to him," Carlos says. "I give him a hug, or touch his shoulders, or shake hands. We sit on the bus together. Hopefully that makes him feel comfort."

Five days into the cruise, Carlos and his wife, Melida, accompany Jun to a concert—two violinists and a cellist—in the lounge. Jun says his daughter played the cello, which is why his wife isn't there: It's too painful a reminder. As the music fills the room, he closes his eyes. "My daughter's happiness was her music," he tells Carlos. "This makes me feel close to her." Afterward, he is finally able to smile at the memory of Lingzi.

Down the river, in Viviers, Jeff Bauman decides it's time for him to get off the boat for a while. He calls for Carlos, and his friend pushes him down the gangplank, and along cobblestone streets in the shadow of rows of leafless plane trees, similar to sycamores, which were planted by Napoleon's army throughout France. A few others come along, and the group ducks into a tiny café just as the owner is about to close to run a few errands.

This, Carlos determines, will not stand. He charms the owner, smilingly convinces the man that the café will be in good hands while he's gone, and promises to pay for each drink they take. The owner, who speaks little English, obliges, and nods to the only French regular in the place to keep an eye on things. He then points to a cooler where a few twelve-packs of Heineken are being chilled, and gives a thumbs up to Carlos, who takes over bartending duties. Members of the group hoist their bottles in a toast to him. He returns the salute. "This is what this trip is supposed to be all about," Carlos says. "People—survivors—getting to know one another, helping each other out, having fun." He gives Jeff a pat on the back and hands him a Heineken.

The other survivors marvel at the relationship between Carlos and Jeff, at how Carlos took the younger man under his wing, as a surrogate son of sorts, after saving his life. Every time Jeff leaves the ship, it's with Carlos pushing him. When Jeff goes to bed, Carlos helps him. They eat every meal together. They are inseparable. They've even traveled to Costa Rica, and are frequently at events together back in Boston.

But it's not just Jeff. The entire group owes a debt to Carlos. He acts as their shield when they need protection. He's usually the first one to step up to the microphones to give the media the sound bites they need so the others don't have to. When they need to talk, he listens intently and looks them deep in the eyes, often holding their hands or putting an arm around their shoulders. Because of his heroism that day, they feel safe around him. He gives them comfort. And in return, they give him comfort.

"So, which bombing were you at?" is a common question. And the answer often reveals a grim serendipity: Most of them were just steps from one another.

The trip provides many of them with that rarest of opportunities: a chance to talk openly and freely about what's been haunting them for months. There is no judgment aboard the ship. No filters. Just catharsis. Just relief. And Carlos is an agent of this.

"Now we can talk to each other like we've known each other a long time," he says. "There's been a few moments where I shared my experience with some of them, and they help me out, to get it off my chest. And I've been listening to a few stories myself. I hope I help out as well. Like family. Like an old friend. It's amazing how this works."

Bill White, in the village of Châteauneuf-du-Pape

The trip ends in Tarascon, but before everyone parts, one of the French tour guides addresses the group. "This has been the most memorable cruise we've ever been a part of," she says. "It has been such a sobering experience for our staff. We look at each of you and we see tremendous strength. Your strength has lifted each other, and it has lifted us as well."

Examples of that strength have abounded through the journey.

In Vienne, Bill White walked gingerly up narrow cobblestone streets on his prosthetic leg and crutches to visit an 11th-century cathedral, accompanied by his wife, Mary Jo, who was also injured in the bombings.

Rebekah Gregory, a twenty-six-year-old Texas mom who has had fifteen surgeries to repair severe damage to her leg and ankle, walked on crutches and in a cast from her latest surgery as she toured medieval castles and ancient churches with relatives, several of whom were also injured in the first explosion.

Michelle shrugged off the chafing and stinging of her skin grafts as they rubbed against the fabric of her clothes as she toured King Louis II of Anjou's castle in Tarascon.

Victoria McGrath, a twenty-year-old Northeastern student originally from France who has had several surgeries to repair major leg injuries, left her wheelchair behind and embarked on daily excursions, hiking steep streets without aid, and touring wine country with her friends.

In Viviers, Eric and Ann Whalley, a British couple in their mid-60s whose stroll from their home in Charlestown to the finish line on Marathon Monday landed them in the hospital with excruciating leg injuries and more than a dozen surgeries between them, carefully negotiated dirt paths and stone walkways to reach the top of a scenic plateau. There, the couple stood holding hands, gazing down over the countryside below.

The group, together in Lyon

Sabrina and Michelle hug as they prepare to board separate buses to Marseille Airport for their flights home. They pledge to get together in Boston, and each knows that the other means it. Carlos and Jeff, the Whites, and the Whalleys all say heartfelt goodbyes. Phone numbers and email addresses are exchanged; plans are made.

Jun Lu and his wife are going home to China, alone. But before they leave the ship, Jun seeks out Carlos, and they embrace once more. "Please come visit us," Jun says. "Please come to China." Carlos accepts the offer without hesitation.

Dave Wedge, a former top investigative reporter for the Boston Herald, and national best-selling author Casey Sherman, are writing a book on the Marathon bombings titled Boston Strong, due later this year on University Press of New England.

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