Now, that struck a chord.
It's been nearly 40 years since I first stepped on the deck of a training vessel.
Six months later, I would be in Lisbon with a different ship, and in a modest chandler's shop along the back streets of a small community -- almost a village of its own -- down from the wharfs, I selected a plain black handled rigging knife with a wide, thin, flat-ground sheepsfoot and a marlin spike. I fashioned a lanyard for it from some nylon cordage and a snap clasp.
I would have that knife for another ten years, both on sea and land.
When I flew back to London in 1983, I had to hand it over at security. They bagged it and tagged it with my name, told me to pick it up when we landed. Being occupied with my young daughter (as a single dad in those days), I completely forgot about the knife. It wasn't until much later that I realized I would never see it again.
It's one of two knives I've lost, both of which meant a great deal to me.
I'd like to think that knife found its way into the hands of someone else who needed it on the decks. It's a harmless dream.
What's real, though, is the ten years of use and the miles of rope it handled.
Thanks, Carl.