John Fairfax lead an eventful life. He crossed the Atlantic Ocean because it was there. He then crossed the Pacific Ocean because it was also there. And he did it by ROWING. The New York Times ran his obituary today, and it’s the most impressive obituary I’ve ever read. See for yourself, but here’s a great nugget:
At 9, he settled a dispute with a pistol. At 13, he lit out for the Amazon jungle.
At 20, he attempted suicide-by-jaguar. Afterward he was apprenticed to a pirate. To please his mother, who did not take kindly to his being a pirate, he briefly managed a mink farm, one of the few truly dull entries on his otherwise crackling résumé, which lately included a career as a professional gambler.
Mr. Fairfax was among the last avatars of a centuries-old figure: the lone-wolf explorer, whose exploits are conceived to satisfy few but himself. His was a solitary, contemplative art that has been all but lost amid the contrived derring-do of adventure-based reality television.
(hat tip: @gourmetpigs)