© 2026 Robert Sickles
Message in a Bottle
At five years old, my grandson Dylan was already a skeptic and a critic. I always found that boy very entertaining, but when I wanted to impress him and make the little guy’s face light up, it was getting harder to find anything that really worked. It was almost as if he was just waiting for me to try, and already knowing I’d miss the mark. This is the same boy who used to hop up and down like Tigger when he was enjoying his favorite music video. Where did that boy full of delight go? I had to come up with something impressive, yet it had to be simple and cheap.
I am the kind of Grampa that makes things out of scraps and bits. I can play a banjo made out of a stick of wood, a milk jug, and fishing line. I can make a puppet show out of old socks. By this time however, that sort of thing just made him sigh and roll his unconvinced big blue eyes.
So, we’re all enjoying a few days at the seashore, and last night’s storm and high tide brought us some good beachcombing. Some sea birds got caught unaware, there were feathers all over, lots of shells, miscellaneous junk and scads of driftwood. Naturally, I saw the possibilities and said, “Dylan, let’s find some neat stuff and maybe I can build a boat. We’ll send it on a voyage.” And just as naturally, he said, “Grampa, that sounds dumb. It won’t work. You don’t even have tools or anything with you.”
My mind was set. “Kiddo, we have a project.”
We started collecting junk. A small board, sort of pointed on both ends. Dylan scoffed. A plastic Coke bottle. Some large feathers. A nice-looking tangle of frayed green plastic rope. A potato-shaped rock. A chopstick. A Dorito bag. I needed some kind of tool – yes, there it was, a thin piece of metal, like part of an umbrella. The boy arched his eyebrow and shook his head. I said, “Oh come on, let’s go back to the condo and see what I can make with this!”
The umbrella part worked nicely to auger holes in the wood, into which I pressed the shafts of a couple of large feathers in a row like the sails of a schooner. The chopstick made a fine mast for the flag made of Dorito wrapper. The frayed green rope provided twine for tying the rock below the board for ballast, and to secure the bottle… or the cabin, that is, on deck. I agreed with Dylan, it looked like crap. But, I assured him, I was the maestro of flotsam!
Not interested in helping or watching, Dylan’s interest had shifted to playing with his train set. I asked him if he’d like to write a message to put inside the bottle. That perplexed him.
I asked, “Haven’t you ever heard of writing a message to put in a bottle, then tossing it in the sea? Someone, somewhere might find it and read it.”
“What kind of message? What’s the point? How would I know if anyone reads it?” Etc. etc.
“Dylan, it’s just a fun mystery idea. If I found a message in a bottle, it would give me something to wonder about… who sent it, when, and where did it come from? Here’s some paper… just write something like “Hello, my name is Dylan, I’m five. I sent this from the USA. Summer 2006.” You don’t have to know where it will wash up, and you don’t have to know who finds it. The fun part is imagining who that might be. And how about you think of a name for the boat?”
He took paper and a crayon, mumbling “OK, Grampa, whatever. You can name the boat ‘Stink Bug.’”
The next day, after plopping the boat in the bathtub to see if it would even sit upright, it was time for launch. We drove to a sheltered bay and set the little craft in shallow water, and… it just sat there. There air was too still, but I could see rippled water further out. I grabbed a long stick and gave the boat a shove. It coasted for a bit, slowed and lingered again. At this point Dylan started back to the car. I reached out to adjust the angle of the feathers, and suddenly a small puff of wind moved that darned boat straight out. In a few seconds, a stronger breeze came up and the boat actually heeled gently and sailed confidently out to deep water. I called to Dylan to come back and watch, and soon we were both hopping and clapping, and whooping “Bon voyage, Stink Bug!” We watched until the craft carried its message in a bottle so far out, we couldn’t even see it with binoculars.
For him and me, boyhood was restored. Mission accomplished!
Victoria
You may remember, I told this story before, but it’s worth inserting here. The weekend really was the crowning moment of things going haywire while we were taking care of our grandkids.
The Victoria Clipper is a high-speed catamaran that ferries tourists north across Puget Sound from Seattle to Victoria, Canada. Linda and I had the fun idea of treating our nine-year-old grandson Riley to a scenic 3-hour boat ride and an overnight in the city promoted as “As English as You Can Get Outside of England.” I will admit that November was a peculiar time to take this trip.
First, we underestimated the fact that he had never stayed away from home overnight except in the homes of grandparents or friends. In the middle of the evening, he starting missing his parents and wanting to go home. “Sorry, Riley, can’t do that, please tough it out. Let’s have a nice day tomorrow in town, then we’ll go home in the late afternoon.” I thought he was coping well the next day, except for the wind and cold rain. And the weird Greek restaurant. And the cheesy miniature museum. Oh well.
Second, we didn’t realize the boy had a fear of the deep blue sea. The boat ride up to Victoria, even though smooth as glass, was stressful enough for him… but long before it was time for the return sailing, he was already full of dread. At the terminal, we learned that a storm had picked up and the captain was delaying departure until the wind died down. If not, we’d be escorted to busses. During that wait, Riley fretted and moaned, praying over and over that the Clipper wouldn’t sail and we could take the bus home.
Eventually, the captain said we could board for the return voyage. The sea was still rough, and the boat had to slow down over heavy waves. One wave was so big, the bow was lifted high then slammed down hard, causing a rush of sea water through the front windows and over the passenger deck floor. I thought we’d run into something. The engines stalled, then some lady yelled “We’re going down!” Before I could look around for him, Riley had his life vest on and was running to the exit, determined to be the first to board the lifeboat!
The ship was fine and continued on slowly. We got our boy settled back into his seat and nothing bad happened after that. It was quite late when we docked in Seattle. Ever after, we knew our voyage to Victoria had cemented young Riley’s fear of drowning or being eaten by sea monsters, and was something for us to take very seriously!
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