Something smacked me upside the head at a certain establishment this afternoon. (Can’t say where because Annette’s birthday is Wednesday, and I was at said establishment to buy one of her many very expensive birthday presents).

There was a man at the counter as I was getting ready to check out. He was an older gentleman with Santa-white hair and a neatly groomed beard, and he wore a short-sleeved plaid shirt tucked neatly into Duck Head khakis.

He handed the cashier two copies of the same magazine.

She took them, paused, and then asked. “Sir, did you know you had two copies?”

He smiled and said, “I like to read things twice.”

She grinned and chuckled that awkward chuckle that comes out when you’re a little confused and afraid you just embarrassed someone.

The transaction continued as he thumbed through his wallet.

The cashier laid one copy of the magazine in front of the gentleman as she quoted the total. He paused, dropped his hands and wallet down to the countertop and said, “You just charged me for one of them.”

Clumsy moment not yet averted: “Oh, um. I’m sorry. I thought…”

“No, I really did want both copies,” he said politely.

“I’m…I’m sorry.” Pause. “I’m so confused! I’m sorry.” She rang up and began to pass him the second magazine as he passed her a twenty-dollar bill.

The cashier made change as the man thumbed through one of the magazines. She passed him his change and receipt and thanked him for his purchase. As she turned her head up to smile at him, he finally redeemed the moment by trying to explain.

He said it ever so humbly (which explained the joke that started the confusion), “That’s me.” He held his finger to something—I didn’t catch what—on a page in the magazine.

The cashier sighed, relieved that he wasn’t crazy and that she hadn’t really embarrassed him. “Aahhhh! It makes so much sense now!”

He wished her a nice day, and walked toward the door.

As I stepped toward the counter, I followed one of the magazines with my eyes, trying to catch the title. They were swinging with his arms, so all I could register was a light blue cover and a photo of something. A triangle. Pale white. But that’s all I could see.

He turned the corner and was out the door.

—

As I walked away with Annette’s very expensive, thoughtful, and envy-inducing gift, curiosity got the best of me. I had to find out what this guy had written or done that earned him the recognition. I scanned the racks of magazines, instinctively ignoring the racks holding mags that focused on fashion or celebrity gossip. Something told me not to look there. Where could it be? Hobbies, maybe? Yes, hobbies. He seemed like an artist of some sort, but not really a painter or photographer. Definitely not a decorator. Gardening? No. His hair didn’t fit any of those. His hair looked like the hair of someone who enjoyed the beach. So what kind of artist who doesn’t paint or photograph would be at the…

And there it was. There were 3 copies left. A sailboat. That was the triangle. A light blue sky, steel blue water, and a sailboat. I read the title. Yes, he was an artist.

He built sailboats.

Something in me leapt for joy twice. The first leap was for this man’s moment… How excited he must have been to see his name in that magazine. I flipped through the pages looking for a photo, but I didn’t see anyone who resembled him. Maybe he had written something. Or maybe someone had mentioned him in an article. Who knows? But it was something worthy of two copies. One to read, and one to keep. Maybe to pass on to grandchildren?

But there was the second leap. That’s the one that got me. The second leap was for the man himself. It was the realization that the man—someway, somehow—had fulfilled a dream. Had he worked decades in a mediocre job only to be fortunate enough to live to see retirement and hit the finish line with enough cash to build a sailboat? Something told me no. Something told me this man had built many boats. It may have started when he was a child watching his dad build boats, or while cheering on skippers as they flew their schooners across a lake.

The first boat he built might have sunk. If not, the second or third may have. But at some point, he found the right combination of wood, rope, and ingenuity that made every boat a success.

The man with the Santa-white hair and the well-kept beard was a dreamer. But beyond that, his name in print proved that he was also a doer. Even as a child, he could see a goal in his imagination, but wasn’t satisfied to let it stay there. He was built to build the boat.

The obvious question that made me dizzy as I set the magazine back on the rack and walked toward the door was, “What did I want to be before I grew up?”

Before taking comfort instead of chances… Before jumping with only a partial view of the ground, and content to tighten the straps on the way down. Before thinking I had to wait for someone to give me permission to be brave.

What was it?

Geez… What was it?

Something is telling me I need to remember. I’ll let you know what I come up with.