When I think of the Scouts in the troop I led back in Minnesota, there is one that stands out from the rest. He was not gregarious, but he did make friends easily and was very bright. He liked science, liked the out-of-doors. He especially liked figuring out how things worked, and then making them work to his advantage. He tackled everything he came across with a kind of understated alacrity that was mirrored by a subtle shine in his eyes. Scouting became him.
Once, on a camping trip, he got separated from the rest of the group and went missing. We never found him.
He found us.
After wandering for some minutes and realizing that he was getting nowhere, he got out his pocketknife and set about constructing a hang glider using tree branches and various parts of his jacket. He then climbed to the top of a tall tree and launched himself from there. Within the hour, he spotted our camp and made, all things considered, a remarkably good landing, smiling brilliantly all the while. He came out completely unscathed but was much more proud of the fact that, in the course of his searching, he'd only had to relaunch the glider once.
I think about that kid a lot these days. I miss him, and in many ways, he's my inspiration as I go about working to make useful things with the island's somewhat limited resources—the proverbial silk purse from a sow's ear.
But on occasion, when my efforts in that area prove themselves to be insufficient, I see his shining eyes and easy smile in the fractured remains of the Minnow and find myself ruefully thinking, If only MacGyver were here, I bet he could build us a boat out of bamboo and coconuts…