Tool-Time, Revisited: A Riveting Column
This is Part 4 in a series. Your ship was lost with all hands…except you. After washing ashore you built a fire and made it through the first long, tropical night. You’ve built a hut and made fire. You’ve cut down coconuts and speared a lobster. And thoughout the ordeal you thought about ‘her’ and what went wrong. Now, it’s time to escape from the island and find your way back to her again.
Drifting off into cool, dark bliss with closed eyes, hearing the soft crackle of the remaining fire like a boyscout lullaby. You smile and remember What Dreams May Come, with your favorite actor, Robin Williams. You remember watching it with her. Snuggling together on the couch. The feel of her, her scent, her hair. You recall her reactions to the movie sending vibrations into you with arms, legs, hands, and feet intertwined like a Celtic knot in a jiu-jitsu dojo.
She pretended she wanted to escape — and tried during commercials — but you held her close. You knew she didn’t want to leave you, and she knew it, too. It was just a test — the sweet feminine—masculine tango.
Photo by Preillumination SeTh.
You remember the tragedy and loss of life in the film. It showcased the unwavering commitment of a man who’s life on earth had been cut short, but who’s consciousness and presence lived on in a different place. It was not only survive, but to reconcile his shortcomings and mistakes, to reconnect and save what was most dear and precious.
It’s time to go. It. Is. Time. To. Go! Come hell or high water, you are getting off this island today. No matter what.
Photo by Graham Holtshausen
You’ve realized what needs to change in your life, and you’ve made the commitment. You may perish on your way out through the coral-laced breakers that pulped your ship. You may survive. But you know that camping out at the crossroad, which being on this island represents, only produces doubt and doubt kills the warrior. There will be a passing ship, you’re sure, because the island is in a shipping lane.
All available combustible wood and materials were piled into the basecamp fire pit and set ablaze. Additional tree branches were cut, and a raft was created to support you and the tool kit. There was no turning back and you knew it. This is what MDI prepared you for, and now the rubber was meeting the road — or more correctly, my toes, leaking through ripped boots, are meeting the sand.
Photo by Tsuyoshi Kozu
Wait. Holy shit… there’s a ship! In the tool kit, you remember, you’d added a small mirror. This had come in handy many times when you needed to see things that were underneath or behind something. It’s a trick of the locksmith’s trade but now, given the circumstances, you can use it for another purpose entirely: signals.
Use the sun to signal the ship. The fire is burning like a bondire in the desert at Burning Man, and you’re desperately moving the mirror up and down, firing off unmistakable morse-code-like blasts of light.
Hurray! You see a flash, then another, and yet more. Someone on the ship is signaling back. Ever so slowly, the boat begins to come about, wake frothing alongside.
Photo by Tucker M. Yates.
As it comes closer, and eventually anchors outside the lagoon, you see the lettering on the bow: the U.S.S. MDI. The sailors drop a ladder from the deck to the waterline, but they can’t help you off the beach, help you push through the incoming waves, and help you paddle to the ladder. That you must do yourself.
It’s fuck it! time again. The raft isn’t as good as you thought it was but, with tool kit in tow, off you go down the beach and into the water, wading as far as you can until the moment comes to sink or swim. Fuck the raft. Swim you do, with as much effort as you can muster because you know there is no turning back. This is real commitment and survival.
The ship is in sight. The ladder is in sight. The men are in sight. The ladder is within reach. Keep going. The men on deck are yelling for you not to quit. They want you on deck. The ladder is finally in your grasp, you climb, make it on deck, and you’ve made it off the island. Well done lad!
Welcome aboard!
About the Author
Matt Coddington is an award-winning commercial locksmith. He currently works and writes in San Diego. He is a former paperboy; a former avid collector of baseball cards, and a former musician and Drum Corps International world champion. He is sixty-three, single, and has no children. His next chapter—whatever it may be—is set to commence soon.
