What it’s really all about.
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION- Imagine for a moment if Richard Halliburton never did any stupid shit? There would have never of been a Royal Road to Romance — an apologetically juvenile travel classic. He wouldn’t have swam the Panama Canal. And he definitely wouldn’t have attempted to cross the Pacific on a fucking raft. He would have been just another trust fund kid on vacation whose name we would never have known. He probably would have wore a suit to work, lived in Manhattan, and made a lot of money. Instead, he did stupid shit … and died.
The guy understood the value of stupid shit. He created an entire career off of it. He’d go out and circle the globe, stringing together concocted adventures, glorify them in books, and then cash in giving talks about them in high society social clubs. There was no rational reason for him to do what he did. He just did it because that’s what made life interesting — and, as most of us readily accept, an interesting life, pound for pound, is worth more than a long life.
He’d say things like:
“When impulse and spontaneity fail to make my way uneven then I shall sit up nights inventing means of making my life as conglomerate and vivid as possible…. And when my time comes to die, I’ll be able to die happy, for I will have done and seen and heard and experienced all the joy, pain and thrills—any emotion that any human ever had—and I’ll be especially happy if I am spared a stupid, common death in bed.”
“Realize your youth while you have it. Don’t squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, or giving your life away to the ignorant and the common. These are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live the wonderful life that is in you. Be afraid of nothing. There is such a little time that your youth will last- such a little time.”
Halliburton traveled in what could be called the first age of tourism in the first stretch of the 20th century. By that time the world had already been charted, the maps have all been drawn, and travel alone was no longer a guarantee of adventure. The age of discovery was over, adventure itself became a commodity — something bought and sold but rarely delivered. No longer was simply going off to the far stretch of the world enough to produce incredible experiences and stories that people would actually want to hear. Travelers of this age were the first to realize that if you wanted adventure you had to purposefully create it. And the easiest way to do this? Stupid shit.
We spend our lives trying to avoid consequences, but consequences are precisely that which turns life into a story. What we remember from life are not those times when we made the best decision, when we played it safe, when we held fast to morality, common sense, and rationality. No, it’s the times that we veered off-course, roll the dice, and exposed ourselves to whatever may come. That’s the shit you’re going to remember, that’s the shit from which you will learn, and that’s the experiences that you will value more than anything …
… until you sink.
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