America is a beautiful thing…
In the Army, I was a reconnaissance specialist assigned to the 1/1 Cavalry Squadron at O’Brien Barracks in Schwabach, West Germany. We spent several months of the year in the field and I needed a knife, a heavy, general purpose knife for all the cutting, prying, slicing, scraping, tasks living in the field and sleeping on the ground and in jeeps and tracks and eating out of a mess kit required. I bought one at the PX, probably in 1976.
I got out of the Army in Europe and hitchhiked south; I used that knife to slice cheese and bread in small towns in France and shuck oysters on a dock in Spain (of course I cut myself, have you ever tried to shuck oysters?).
It was on my belt when I was attacked on a beach in Morocco (I used a rock from our fire pit to crush a man’s shoulder, it didn’t occur to me to reach for the knife). Later I used it to slice and crumble hashish as I wandered through the markets of Tangier, Fez, Rabat and Casablanca with stitches and a broken arm.
I used it to scrape the head gasket off my brother’s Triumph Bonneville in a campground in San Luis Obispo, cut choke cable housings to make a throttle cable for a Moto Guzzi Eldorado in Daytona Beach.
It was in my luggage when I moved to Tokyo and on my hip every day for 13 months as I rode a Honda XL250 through 21 countries across three continents; a sailors tool on a rented sailboat in Thailand, a camping tool in Australia, a backpacking tool in Nepal, a tool for cleaning chickens bought live in Zaire markets.
It was there when Eli (my son) and I rode to Prudhoe Bay and when Coco (my daughter) and I camped at the Grand Canyon and when Jane (my wife ) and I stared in amazement at the VLA (Very Large Array, a radio telescope in New Mexico). It opens freeze-dried packets and baked beans in a can with equal facility.
It’s here with me now, an odd and fitting talisman for my wondering, wandering life. And it’s sharp.