Once in a while people ask me some version of the question, “Do you write about your adventures anywhere I can follow?”, and I tell them no. I feel I lack something important and cohesive enough to say to the Public (as I imagine my audience here). I certainly lack the time to say it. But I do often record things.
In February 2017, midsummer in Parque Nacional Lanín, Argentina, my new friend, Jim, asked if anyone knew the Parable of the Starfish. The fireplace simmered and glowed on the floor next to him. Four of us – a chef, a bagpiper, Jim (a chess player), and I – sat in the living room of a ranch house turned restaurant and occasional hotel. What is the parable of the starfish?
A little girl (Jim’s words) and her father are walking along the beach after a big storm. The sand is littered with thousands of living starfish that the waves tossed up and stranded to dry out under the sun. As they walk, the girl picks up starfish and hurls each one back into the ocean. Kerplunck.
‘Why are you doing that? You can’t save these starfish. It doesn’t matter how many you throw back. Almost all of them will still die.’
‘It mattered to that one.’
Kerplinck!
I liked this story, and I told Jim so. I still like it. I think it is a cutting and scenic way to share a bit of knowledge that is useful and, more urgently, true. Our conversation moved on to quantum physics and the Metaphor of the Elephant and the Blind Men, following this man who followed summer around the planet, seeking chess partners and maybe a change of world. The fire popped and crumbled. Outside the farmhouse, things were chilled and rainy. (Memory deceives me kindly. If you’re from the Northern Hemisphere, this scene falls in the equivalent of August.)
Kersplunk. Welcome home, reader.
