The Ship I Never Sailed: A Childhood Hovercraft and the Leadership Lessons It Left Behind
Some lessons arrive wrapped in success. Others show up as unfinished projects sitting on a workshop table, humming with ambition but lacking the pieces to move. This story is about the latter—and why it has shaped how I operate as a business leader to this day.
When I was about ten, I signed up for a class where each kid was supposed to build a remote-controlled model ship. The concept was simple enough: start from scratch, keep costs low, learn the basics of engineering, and sail your creation at the end of the program.
What I actually built, however, wasn’t a ship at all. It was a hovercraft—an oddly shaped, Styrofoam-heavy contraption powered by two small battery-driven motors. One was dedicated to lifting the thing off the ground; the other was meant to propel it forward. In theory, it was brilliant. In practice… well.
The fatal flaw? I never managed to acquire a remote control. I didn’t have the money to buy one, and building one from components was well beyond my capabilities at the time. So, while the other kids were preparing to pilot their creations, mine sat on the floor immobile, buzzing faintly like it wanted to escape its own design.
And then there was my friend—whose parents, wisely or unwisely, ignored the instructions and sent him to class with a complete, ready-to-assemble kit. While I was carving Styrofoam with a butter knife, he was snapping precision-molded pieces together like a miniature naval engineer. His boat worked. Mine… wanted to.
To say I was envious would be accurate, though envy isn’t quite the whole story. I was frustrated, certainly, but also strangely proud of my Franken-hovercraft. It was imperfect, incomplete, but authentically mine.
Looking back, that little failed hovercraft carried three lessons that I use every day in business—especially when making decisions about resources, strategy, and what it means to compete.
1. Ingenuity is valuable, but fit-for-purpose tools matter more.
Creativity is a wonderful instinct. It’s often the spark that fuels entrepreneurship. But creativity alone won’t carry a project across the finish line. In business, you also need the right infrastructure—systems, tools, people, processes. If the core requirement of the project is remote control, you can’t wish it into existence.
Today, I’m far more pragmatic. I encourage creativity, but I don’t romanticize doing things the hard way. If the right tool exists, use it. If expertise is needed, bring it in. No medals are awarded for unnecessary struggle.
2. Competing without equal resources is heroic, but not strategic.
As a kid, I was genuinely trying to keep up. But I was missing a key component, literally and figuratively. My friend’s kit gave him a straightforward path to success. Mine was a battle fought uphill from day one.
In business, I’ve learned to acknowledge resource gaps early. If we don’t have the budget, the people, or the capabilities to win in a particular direction, pretending otherwise is costly. Leaders must choose markets—and methods—where they can compete fairly and intelligently, not just passionately.
3. Pride in ownership matters—yet outcomes matter more.
I was proud of my hovercraft because it was mine. But pride didn’t make it move. I now treat ideas the same way: attachment is fine, but performance wins. Being willing to let go of something—even something you built—is a sign of maturity, not failure.
The truth is, I learned more from that grounded hovercraft than I would have from a perfect kit boat. Not because failure is noble, but because it’s clarifying. It taught me that great intentions, clever improvisation, and hard work are important—but without the right resources, the right tools, and the willingness to adapt, a leader ends up with nothing more than a humming piece of Styrofoam on the floor.
A reminder I carry with me every time I chart a new course.
