The autobiographic vignette below was originally titled “In the Dark.” I wrote this passage in the early months of my (attempted) PhD in 1998. My doctoral research focused on educational inequality and the lessons taught by the “formal” and “informal” curriculum at schools in hard places. This story captures the profound shift in my priorities following a car accident on the Midlands Highway that could have claimed my life.

31 August 1995

White noise in my ears as the voice on the self-development tape falls silent. Beep-diddly-beep — the tape winds to a stop in my Walkman.

“Bugger it! I need to change the tape,” I mutter over the hum of the car engine. I free one hand from the steering wheel and snatch the Walkman from the passenger seat.

“Why didn’t I get that audio deck installed in my car?”

Holding the Walkman at steering wheel level, I search for the eject button.

“Watch out — car in my lane!”

In one swift move, I dip my headlights, indicate to overtake, and drop the Walkman back on the seat. I wince as the earbuds yank free — bouncing off the dashboard before settling atop a pile of folders beneath the glove box.

“Let’s pass this highway snail.”

A cheeky smile to ghost followers —

  Accelerate more — what a breeze,

    Fast corner, inside line — faster corner, road’s all mine.

      Straight road, accelerate more,

        Fifth gear, engine roar.

I take a deep breath and reset my high beams on the endless white line of Highway Number 1.

“Now, where’s that tape?” I root around the central console and find three tapes. I grab one and bring it to eye level.

“Nope. Tape 3 — where are you?” I ditch the unwanted tape and grasp for another.

“A-ha.”

I place the tape between my teeth and reach for the Walkman again. Without taking my eyes off the road, I swap Tape 3 for Tape 2, smile to myself, and press play.

Silence.

“Oh, the earphones!”

I shift my hand, track along the cord, and give a tug — like reeling in a hand-fishing line.

“Gotcha. Now where’s your mate?”

Another tug — snagged. I press the interior light button, revealing the second earbud caught in the lever arch of a folder beneath the glove box.

“Ah, you bloody thing!”

I lean over toward the passenger seat to untangle the cord. I can’t quite reach. I tug my seatbelt — slack.

“How unusual. I’ll get that fixed one day.”

I half-open the folder, free the earbud, and refocus on the road.

“Fuck! A guide post!”

I grip the steering wheel tight and pull hard right. The tyres scream at the sudden swerve.

“Oh shit. I’m losing it.”

I steer hard left to avoid entering the oncoming lane. The car wrenches sideways, skids on the gravel shoulder, and leaves the road.

“Oh fuck, this is gonna hurt. Ahhhhhhhh!”

I brace myself as the car speeds down the embankment and begins to roll.

Folders, books, tapes, and muesli bar wrappers tumble around me.

  Fencing wire slices across the car,

   Glass shatters, metal shears,

    The engine roars.

The ceiling caves in a little more with each roll.

  Grass and dirt replace the dashboard,

   The wheels spin effortlessly toward the night sky,

    As the engine finally dies.

I am suspended upside down in the dark.

I remain still, eyes wide open but seeing nothing.

No fuzzy outlines. No shapes. Just pitch black.

Slowly, I open my trembling right fist. I gather courage and slide it down my body to check my limbs — right leg, left leg, left arm. No pain.

I am warm — very warm — but my brain registers prickly skin, brimming with fear.

I draw my left hand to my chin, lock my hands above my heaving chest, and try to slow my racing breath. My pulse pounds in my ears.

Adrenalised blood streams through my body — to brain, muscles, skin.

I remain motionless. Staring into the darkness.

Silence.

I try to open the driver’s door — no luck. I reach for the passenger door, but it’s blocked by the crushed roof.

I twist awkwardly to check the back seat — my only way out.

I release my seatbelt and crawl through a broken rear side window.

I stand, blinking up at the biggest, most brilliant night sky of my 21 years.

In many ways, the roots of vibrant nation and this website trace back to that night under the stars. It was two hours and twenty-five minutes before the first day of Spring, 1995.

I puzzled over why I hadn’t been killed. I was extremely lucky. Not even a scratch — no sign I’d been in a car crash. Police officers at the scene were stunned I’d escaped the mangled wreckage unaided.

Not long after, I re-listened to the self-development tapes I’d been hearing that night — Stephen R. Covey’s The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. Covey preached living, loving, learning, and leaving a legacy.

That idea — leaving a legacy — grabbed me.

I was lucky to be walking (and walking was the operative word for the next five years — no car for me).

Until then, I’d never thought of my life as precious — or as a gift for leaving a legacy.

So I buckled down to my studies (abandoning plans to transfer out of teaching and into social work). I resigned from all volunteer political positions, left the swim clubs and cricket coaching.

I studied. I worked as a personal trainer. I spent time with my family. Most importantly, I spent time with myself — thinking, reflecting, figuring out who I was, who I wanted to become, what I believed.

I resolved to make every extra day count.