This anecdote is from a different world, but this is pretty much my attitude towards startup business plans.
On ships, we have to prepare a detailed voyage plan. Once, a young officer wrote a half-decent one, then spent 30 minutes printing it on fancy paper and arranging it in one of those glossy presentation binders. He left it on my desk with a nice note.
I walked past my office that day with grease on my hands from working on a valve. Normally, I head straight to the slop sink for some Gojo, but this time I call the officer into my office and slowly pull out each sheet of paper.
Every greasy fingerprint clearly disturbed him. Then, like a middle school English teacher, I bled all over it in red ink.
He was visibly in psychological pain.
We repeated this ritual three times with more fingerprints and red ink.
A few days later, I’m walking past the galley and hear a rant. The officer is venting to another officer, clearly frustrated:
“I pulled old voyage plans from the file cabinet and mine is twice as detailed as any of them—but that F’n SOB won’t accept it. F*** him.”
So I head up to my office and call him on the radio.
“Tick tock. Your voyage plan is overdue. Let’s see it,” I said.
“It’s on my USB. Let me go print it.”
“Fine. But no plastic covers. Paper and a metal paperclip, that’s all.”
Clearly pained, he disappears for another 30 minutes. When it comes back, it’s like an origami masterpiece. He had cut and folded tab marks, highlighted sections in different colors. Pure art.
I was really impressed but being a “F’n SOB” I couldn’t tell him that.
“Leave it on my desk and go.”
I secretly scanned and printed every page, slapped his original cover sheet on the copies, then called him back in.
“Great job. Now let’s file it.”
The kid’s face lit up like Christmas morning. He ceremoniously walked up to the bridge holding it out in front of him like the gospel on Easter Sunday.
He opened the filing cabinet and handed it to me.
I took it, walked to the side of the ship, and tossed it overboard.
Walking back past him, I said, “Thank you. Great job.”
He was crushed.
Fast forward a few weeks. We’re approaching a tricky navigation point and have to deviate from the plan. Everyone is exhausted and running out of ideas. Nobody can remember a critical detail about the approach.
I call the kid up to the bridge.
He explains exactly what to do, in perfect detail, then snidely remarks, “If you hadn’t thrown my voyage plan overboard, they’d know what to do.”
I told him to listen carefully.
“This deviation wasn’t on your plan, The process of doing detailed revisions and nailing every detail is why you remember. The plan itself is useless. Any idiot can follow instructions from buoy to buoy. But when things go off-script, you need to understand and that only comes from doing the work.”
Then reached into a filing cabinet and handed a seaman one of those fancy binders, filled with beautifully folded tab marks, highlighted sections, and origami precision.
Inside was the junior officer’s original plan, except the coversheet now read:
VOYAGE PLAN BY OFFICER SMITH
THE BEST VOYAGE PLAN THIS SHIP HAS EVER SEEN AND THE TEMPLATE FOR FUTURE PLANS
And beneath that:
“Plans are useless, but planning is indispensable.”
—Dwight D. Eisenhower
P.S. skip the origami and fancy covers. It’s the attention to detail inside that counts.
⸻
Then I signed it with one greasy fingerprint,
I don’t think he forgot the lesson.
Detailed planning is the key to adaptability.