For a thousand years, there has been a romanticism associated with wooden sailing ships. The organic creaks and groans of the timbers as they strained against the wind and sea. For one to see those adventures through the eyes of a child is pure magic. Many remember the first time they placed an ear to a conch shell and heard the sounds of wind and sea, setting them adrift on adventures of their own imagination. As a child, my days were spent in the woods and fields of my Grandfathers farm, where imagined battles, great safaris and giant beast were courageously stalked, the cows never seemed to mind being classified as giant beasts, contentedly chewing their cud while we struggled in life and death dramas of our own minds. One of our favorite past times was scouting the edges of the stream that ran through the pasture, catching snakes, frogs, crayfish and salamanders. These fearsome creatures would then be taken home in jars, or shoe boxes with holes punched in their lids, then interned in the bedroom terrarium until such time as the warden (my mother) decided the poor creature had paid their debt to society and should be released. Mom especially enjoyed checking my pants pockets only to find handfuls of slithering frog food (worms) therein. I always enjoyed hearing her tell the stories to her friends and in later years, back to me. Recently, I’ve pondered these childhood wonders as I worked, always amazed that so many of us eight year olds survived, alone in the woods and not a one with a cell phone in the pockets of their jeans.