One of my coworkers was so taken with Cork Boat: A True Story of the Unlikeliest Boat Ever Built
that he shoved his copy into my hands and demanded that I read it. He came to regret that decision.
The book is a memoir from John Pollack, a man whose talent as a writer is without question. I just wish such ability resided in a decent human being.
Pollack starts his tale in the conventional way by talking about his childhood, but his early years were anything but conventional. The scion of a Liberal political activist mother and father who was a professor of geophysics, the family was constantly traveling the world to poke and prod into the remote corners of the Earth. The author attributes this upbringing as having instilled in him an unquenchable desire to strive for achievements less ordinary. This manifested itself in a childish plan to build a boat from used wine corks, which is certainly nothing less than less ordinary. As far as writing a memoir is concerned, so far so good.
He also relates the sad tale of losing Sara, his sister and constant companion. His father took the family to the Himalayas on a research project when Pollack was 12. His sister was swept away in a mountain stream, along with one of the native guides who selflessly plunged into the torrent in a rescue attempt. Neither were ever seen again.
It was at this point that I began to have a faint stirring of unease. One of the guides willingly gave his own life in a futile and heroic attempt to save his sister, and Pollack barely devotes a single sentence to this selfless act. Admittedly, the loss of a sister would be a monumentally greater tragedy then the death of a man who he had met only days before, but Pollack never even mentions the name of the hero. I get the distinct impression that he never even bothered to ask.
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