Column: Life with Logan

 I always wanted to be a pirate — not because I had an urge to steal and plunder, but because nothing ignited my 9-year-old imagination like sailing the wide ocean, discovering uncharted islands and donning a skull-themed eye patch. 

That’s why, at the peak of my architectural competence, I decided to build my own pirate ship. 

Most 9-year-olds couldn’t do that, but I was no ordinary kid. I watched every episode of “Phineas and Ferb,” a Disney Channel cartoon featuring two young geniuses who built unrealistically complicated machinery for fun. Believe me, I was qualified. 

My visions of a grand vessel worthy of Captain Jack Sparrow, however, were thwarted by reality, which reduced my boat to a small, poorly-operating raft. 

Several long layers of plywood collected from my backyard shed made up the base. They lay parallel, glued together by two other thick planks. Styrofoam covered the bottom to help it float, and in the raft’s center, a long poll acted as my mainmast. 

The top of the mainmast featured the most essential component of my masterpiece: a sail, which I strategically stole from my dad’s underwear drawer. 

Call it what you want, but in my mind, it rivaled the majesty of the Black Pearl from Disney’s “Pirates of the Caribbean.” 

I eventually dragged my creation to the small river behind my house to test its seaworthy capabilities. But my anticipations were short-lived because it failed to hold any substantial weight. 

 My raft is still down there by the water, either perched beside the river like I left it, or beneath the ferocious waters, forever forgotten by the world. Either way, the building experience was a blast. 

I didn’t know exactly what I was doing. Neither a sufficient manual nor professional help guided the process. Imagination was my only blueprint. 

I didn’t own a cellphone as a little kid, so when fantasy literature or video games became too excessive, I escaped to the outdoors, which nurtured endless opportunities of fun and imagination. I frequently crafted bows, arrows, spears and other weaponry out of the simple accessories surrounding my backyard. 

PVC pipe served as bow rods, smooth sticks as arrows and sharp stones as arrowheads. I crafted my spears from old broomsticks and sharpened the tips. None of my weapons were dangerous enough to impose lethal injuries, but I didn’t care. They were my own, and I took pride in that. 

The value of experiencing the outdoors cannot be overstated. The modern methods of entertainment rarely exclude a phone, computer or television screen. While these also provide great avenues of escape, nothing competes with a warm summer afternoon outside. 

I did everything growing up. I played multiple sports, participated in theatre, mastered skateboarding, danced, learned guitar and drums, developed a love for reading and could solve a Rubix Cube in 28 seconds, all while cultivating an imagination through my backyard. 

I was your typical Lynchburg homeschooler. I had no worries with nothing to lose. If I could experience it again, I would instantly jump back in time. My thoughts echo the lyrics of country music star Blake Shelton, who dedicated his latest single to his childhood: “Man, I lived it.”