The African Queen and the Bright Idea
There’s a particular tone a man uses when something has gone quietly, undeniably wrong.
Not anger. Not panic. Just a sort of weary disbelief, usually followed by the question:
“Whose bright idea was this, then?”
It’s not really a question. It’s a reckoning.
And it’s a question we don’t seem to hear much anymore.
Because somewhere along the way, we stopped admitting when things don’t work.
We dress it up. We explain it away. We double down and hope the problem fixes itself if we just give it a bit more time.
But there was a time when the answer was simpler.
If something didn’t work, you fixed it.
No taskforces. No slogans. No pretending that if we just believed a little harder, the engine would somehow come good.
You just fixed it.
Because right now, it feels like we’ve been sitting in the boathouse far too long… polishing, talking, reassuring one another that this is all perfectly under control… while the tide quietly slips away.
At some point, you’ve got to untie the rope and get moving.
Many decades ago, my father bought a boat.
She was an old clinker craft - tired, worn, and very much in need of attention. We called her “The African Queen.” After months of hard graft, she came good. Not flashy, not fast, but dignified. The sort of boat that didn’t show off - but didn’t let you down either.
She was steady. Reliable. A proper old lady of the water.
Then Dad decided she needed a new heart.
Out went the old motor.
In came the future: a Wankel engine.
Now, on paper, it sounded magnificent. Revolutionary. Fewer moving parts. Smooth, efficient - everything the modern world promises when it’s about to sell you something expensive.
Dad did his homework. He wasn’t reckless - he genuinely believed it was the right call.
My mother, Redhead, wasn’t convinced.
Her view was simple: “Why not stick with what we know? If it breaks, you can fix it.”
But Dad backed himself.
It was a flop.
At least at that point in time, it was.
The promise didn’t match reality. Things went wrong. Fixes didn’t quite fix. And before long, the question wasn’t whether it would come good, but how much longer you could keep pretending that it might.
Now here’s the difference.
My father didn’t hold a press conference.
He didn’t commission a report explaining why the engine was actually a success if you looked at it the right way.
He didn’t pour more money into it while assuring everyone that the breakthrough was just around the corner.
He looked at it, gave a small, knowing shake of the head, and said something along the lines of:
“Well… that didn’t work, did it? Whose bright idea was this?”
And that was that.
Out it came.
In went something simpler. Proven. Fixable.
And from that moment on, the old Queen did what she was meant to do - she kept going.
As a teenager, I’ll admit, I didn’t always appreciate it.
We’d chug along while sleeker boats roared past - fibreglass hulls, big motors, plenty of noise and spray. I envied them. Who wouldn’t?
But they weren’t always the ones still out there when things turned.
We were.
Because dependable doesn’t make headlines..but it gets you home.
I find myself thinking about that more these days.
Because we seem to be living through an age of very confident “bright ideas.”
Grand plans. Big promises. Entire systems built on the assurance that this time, it’ll be different.
And when it doesn’t quite work?
We don’t do what my father did.
We don’t stop.
We don’t reassess.
We certainly don’t rip the thing out and replace it.
Instead, we double down. Spend more. Regulate more. Insist that the problem isn’t the idea .. it’s that we haven’t committed to it hard enough yet.
Hope, it seems, has replaced judgement.
This isn’t about resisting change.
My father wasn’t afraid of change - he embraced it.
But he also understood something that feels almost unfashionable now:
Not every new idea is a good one.
And when it isn’t, the smartest thing you can do is stop digging.
We used to build things that worked.
They weren’t always exciting. They didn’t come with glossy brochures or grand promises about saving the world.
But they were reliable.
They kept the lights on.
They got you from A to B without fuss.
And when something worked, we stuck with it - not because we lacked imagination, but because we had the good sense to recognise value when we saw it.
These days, I sometimes wonder whether we’ve fallen in love with the idea of “the future” simply because it sounds impressive.
Even when the engine is spluttering, we’re told to admire the design.
Even when the boat isn’t moving, we’re assured we’re heading in the right direction.
My father didn’t get everything right.
But when he got it wrong, he fixed it.
No ego. No theatre. No endless justifications.
Just a better decision the second time around.
We could do with a bit more of that.
Because right now, it feels like we’re still standing in the boathouse, staring at an engine that clearly isn’t working… while being told it’s the only one we’re allowed to use.
And the tide is still going out.
Maybe it’s time.
Ditch the dud.
Untie the rope.
And get back on the water.
Before we’re left high and dry… still arguing about what might have been, instead of getting on with what works.
BLOG COMMENTS POWERED BY DISQUS
