Vertex Macro | Ferryboat Computer Club 01: The Old Computer Room in the Rainy Season

The Ferryboat Computer Club

The Old Computer Room in the Rainy Season

June rain streamed down the fourth-floor windows of Aoba High School like lines of code that had not yet been debugged. Ten minutes after the final bell, the computer science clubroom was still lit by white fluorescent lamps. Disassembled keyboards, network cables, and three computers of uncertain health stood along the wall. On the blackboard, former club members had left a sentence: “Make it work first. Make it perfect later.”

Peter connected his laptop to the projector. A draft event poster appeared on the screen.

“Everyone, this is Aoba Community Day,” he said. “It will not be an ordinary school exhibition. We will invite nearby schools, community engineers, design clubs, and parents. We will have short talks in the morning, workshops in the afternoon, and a networking session in the evening.”

David leaned against the window, clicking a mechanical pencil.

“Let me translate,” he said. “You find the people, attract the audience, host the sessions, and clean up. Other people gain visibility onstage. Afterward, they leave with business opportunities, and you leave with photographs.”

Peter frowned. “Must you always begin with the ugliest version?”

“Ugly does not mean wrong. Calling you ‘teacher’ costs them nothing. If they truly value you, they will offer a budget, a position, a project, or at least a clear share of the benefits. Praise without resources is cheap applause.”

Tommy looked up from the back row. He came from a port city in Southeast Asia. When he spoke Chinese, he sometimes paused as though choosing the most suitable word from several languages. Stickers from clubs and schools around the world covered his desk.

“Applause is cheap. I agree,” Tommy said. “But cheap does not mean useless. Some people dare to take a second step only because they received a little applause after their first.”

“And then they take the second step for free too?” David asked.

Tommy smiled. “That is why we need more than kindness. We also need rules.”

Peter changed the slide. Four names appeared: Community Day, LinkedIn Page, Meetup, and Slack Group.

“Community Day is only the beginning. The public page will keep showing student projects. Meetup will manage registration. Slack will connect people from different schools. The community should not disappear after one busy day.”

David walked to the screen and pointed at the four names.

“Who owns the accounts? Who keeps the passwords? Who approves content? Who is responsible when something goes wrong? How is sponsorship divided? Who takes over after graduation? You have drawn a boat, Peter, but no life jackets.”

Peter fell silent.

He was experienced in public speaking and advocacy, and he knew how to explain difficult ideas in simple language. At his part-time job with a security company, he organized alerts, tested internal tools, and learned how incidents were handled. His family, however, did not admire the time he spent on the club.

Only yesterday, his mother had said, “People call you a little teacher, and you begin to believe you are one. Learning one useful skill at the security company is more practical than running ten free school events.”

His father had been even more direct. “You are like a tiny official who opens doors for everyone else, but when dinner is served, there is no seat for you.”

Peter turned off the presentation remote.

“I knew you would ask these questions. That is why I invited both of you.”

“To make me the villain?” David asked.

“To design risk controls. Tommy will handle cross-school connections. I will lead content, the stage, and security. Remove any one of us, and the project falls over.”

Tommy placed three warm cans of milk tea on the desk.

“Then let us stop discussing who is important,” he said. “Let us discuss who does what.”

Rain struck the windows harder. Peter opened a blank slide and typed one question: Whom are we trying to carry, and where are we trying to take them?

Chapter Two: The Free Boat

At lunchtime the next day, the three boys ate beside the rooftop water tank while whistles echoed from the sports field.

“I want students without resources to experience a real technology community,” Peter said. “Some can code but are afraid to speak. Some can draw beautifully but do not know how to work with engineers. Some have never owned a computer and must use machines the school was ready to throw away.”

David picked up a piece of omelet. “The vision sounds good. What is the commitment?”

“One public talk every month, one workshop every quarter, and all learning materials freely available.”

“The actions?”

“Community Day first, then the four platforms.”

“The results?”

Peter paused.

“You see?” David said quietly. “Your vision is always large, your promises are quick, and your actions are numerous, but you leave the results for time to explain.”

“Results are not only money.”

“I did not say they were. I said they must be verifiable. How many people learn a skill? How many complete a project? How many cross-school partnerships actually deliver something? How much sponsorship becomes useful equipment? How many students are willing to take over? If we cannot answer anything, we are only manufacturing noise.”

Peter looked toward the field. “My family wants me to work more hours at the security company. At least I earn money there and learn incident response.”

“They do not object to helping people,” David said. “They are afraid you confuse being needed with being valued.”

The words stopped Peter.

Tommy took a creased photograph from his pocket. A narrow ferry was carrying children across a river mouth.

“I took a boat like this to school when I was young,” he said. “The ferryman did not sit in class with us or take our examinations. He simply carried us across. Without him, many children could not reach school.”

“The ferryman charged money,” David observed.

“Exactly. Being a ferryman is not self-sacrifice. The boat needs repairs, the ferryman needs food, and the crossing needs rules. Peter’s problem is not that he carries people. It is that he sometimes forgets he is also on the boat.”

“You think I am a ferryman?” Peter asked.

“You carry people from being afraid to speak toward being able to express themselves. You carry beginners from confusion toward action. You cannot accompany everyone to the end, but you can help them cross one stretch of water.”

“That is a gentle and dangerous metaphor,” David said. “Anyone who wants free labor from him will love it.”

“That is why we need you. Confucian thinking reminds us why we set out. Legalist thinking reminds us about tickets, routes, responsibilities, and boundaries. Without the first, a community becomes nothing but transactions. Without the second, goodwill is exhausted.”

David took out a heavily annotated book on four thousand years of Chinese institutional history.

“I did not study policy history merely to talk about ancient times over lunch. People pursue their own interests. If we rely only on virtue, the most willing worker usually carries the heaviest burden while the smoothest speaker takes the greatest reward.”

“Then why are you still in this club?” Peter asked.

“Because I want to see whether powerless students can build a system that works without sacrificing a hero.”

Tommy smiled. “That is your ideal.”

“No. It is an experiment.”

“Some ideals disguise themselves as experiments.”

Before leaving the roof, Peter photographed Tommy’s ferry picture. That evening, he created the first Community Day document. Its title was not Grand Vision. It was Draft Rules for the Crossing.

Chapter Three: The Art Teacher’s Budget

The art room smelled of paint and freshly cut wood. Ms. Morikawa was trimming poster paper when Peter entered.

“The school approved the basic venue,” she said, “but not transportation for visiting speakers. I may be able to use part of the interdisciplinary education fund, but you must submit a formal plan with clear learning outcomes.”

Peter’s eyes brightened. “What about travel assistance? Tommy wants to invite a club from a southern port school. Their journey is long.”

“You may apply. But an invitation alone is not enough. I need names, purpose, expected attendance, transportation arrangements, and risk controls.”

After school, David read the draft and said, “You went to the art teacher for extra benefits again.”

“What do you mean, benefits? I am obtaining resources for the event.”

“Whenever you work with her, you manage to find travel money, venues, or printing funds. What will other clubs think?”

“They can submit proposals too.”

“Do they know the same information? Are the standards public? Or do you receive opportunities more easily because you often repair the art room computers?”

“I have exchanged no private favor.”

“I did not accuse you of doing so. I am asking whether the system can survive reasonable suspicion.”

Tommy took the proposal from between them.

“We publish the funding source, application conditions, and spending records. Every partner school may request transportation support. Peter cannot approve requests alone.”

“Add a student council representative and a supervising teacher,” David said. “Applicants cannot judge their own requests.”

“We are organizing a high-school activity,” Peter complained. “Must it look like a government contract?”

“People ask the same basic questions about a twenty-thousand-dollar event and a two-hundred-thousand-dollar event. Who controls the money? Who receives the stage? Who may say no? The scale changes; the principle does not.”

Ms. Morikawa entered in time to hear him.

“David is right,” she said. “We do not create systems because we trust nobody. We create them so trust does not depend on guessing.”

She placed a new form on the desk.

“Peter, your strength is making things begin. But after they begin, they cannot depend forever on your personal relationships. If you want the community to live after you graduate, turn relationships into processes and goodwill into responsibilities that can be handed over.”

“Will that not make everything cold?”

“Whether a rule is cold depends on whom it protects. If it only serves the powerful, it is cold. If it tells newcomers how to participate, apply, and appeal, it can be a form of kindness.”

“Confucian outside, Legalist inside,” David murmured.

“Do not rush to decorate everything with ancient labels,” Ms. Morikawa said with a smile. “Finish the form first.”

That night they wrote their first budget rules. Peter would explain educational value, David would examine cost and risk, and Tommy would test whether students from other schools could understand the process. Significant spending required a purpose, an approver, and evidence of results. No one could use the community’s name to seek private business. Speakers had to disclose commercial relationships.

“I only wanted to run an event that made everyone happy,” Peter sighed.

“Happiness is an experience, not a governance system,” David said.

“But without happiness,” Tommy added, “no one will return.”

Chapter Four: Four Doors

Six weeks before Community Day, the four platforms went live.

The LinkedIn Page became a window to the outside world. Peter wanted weekly posts about student stories, projects, and speakers. “Do not publish posters only. Everyone should be able to explain what problem they solved.”

Meetup became the entrance for events. Tommy made registration bilingual and added fields for transportation, accessibility needs, and equipment loans. “People from other places may not know our campus customs. They should not feel unwelcome merely because they cannot find the right door.”

The Slack Group became the everyday meeting place. David insisted on role-based permissions, channel purposes, retention periods, and an appeal process. “An administrator must not ban someone forever merely because of personal dislike. Nobody may replace evidence with the sentence, ‘This is the school’s decision.’”

Community Day itself was the fourth space. Peter called it not a door but a public square.

Then Slack produced its first crisis. A visiting student posted a trading-analysis bot and claimed it could produce reliable weekly profits. Another student called it a fraud. Soon both were posting links to each other’s private accounts.

“I will suspend them both,” Peter said.

“Under which rule?” David asked.

“They are causing conflict.”

“Conflict itself is not an offense. Publishing private information is. Who investigates? How long is the suspension? How do they return?”

“If we do nothing, the group will explode.”

“Temporarily restrict the messages, preserve the records, notify them privately, and require two administrators to review the case. Emergency action may be fast. A permanent conclusion must not depend on one person’s temper.”

Tommy moved the argument into a mediation channel. He did not demand that the students like each other. He asked them to separate three questions: Did the program work? Was there evidence for the profit claim? Did sharing private information cross a boundary?

The bot’s creator admitted that one week of testing did not justify the words “reliable profit.” The other student removed the private information and apologized.

“If I had banned them permanently, that would have been excessive,” Peter said.

“Power is most dangerous not only when bad people possess it,” David replied. “It is dangerous when good people believe they cannot misuse it.”

“You speak as if four thousand years of history were waiting for this Slack group.”

“Tools change. Human nature does not suddenly receive an upgrade.”

Tommy added a rule: Every management action must have a reason, a time limit, a record, and a path to restoration.

“Is this Legalism?” Peter asked.

“More precisely, it is putting authority inside a process,” David answered. “Law, technique, and power can protect an organization, but they can also injure people. No one should be able to declare himself the highest authority merely by speaking loudly.”

“And Confucianism?”

“It reminds administrators that the person behind an account is still a human being affected by their decision,” Tommy said.

Chapter Five: The Title of Teacher

With three weeks remaining, registration passed two hundred. Several first-year students repeatedly called Peter “Teacher Peter.”

After they left, David entered. “Congratulations, Teacher Peter.”

Peter heard the mockery. “What now?”

“Calling you teacher is free.”

“I know.”

“Do you? You are the host, the speaker contact, the sponsorship presenter, the security reviewer, and the emergency volunteer trainer. You give everyone a chance to sit at the table, yet when the bill arrives, everyone assumes you came to help rather than eat.”

“I do these things because I can.”

“Being able to do something does not mean you must do all of it. You are not an unlimited resource.”

“What do you want from me? Must I ask for money before every act? If there is no share, should I refuse to help? If everyone calculates only personal gain, no community will ever be born.”

“If every community is born by burning one person as fuel,” David shouted back, “its birth is only the beginning of its funeral.”

The room became silent.

“Perhaps you are right,” Peter said at last. “Perhaps I am only a powerless errand boy. I know many people, but few would entrust real decisions to me. I open doors for them, and once they enter, they forget who held the key.”

“I am not asking you to deny your worth,” David said more quietly. “I am asking you to stop using noble explanations to hide an unfair distribution of work.”

“But every time you speak, you make it sound as though my value is nothing more than my price.”

David had no immediate answer.

Tommy entered and asked Peter, “How do you want others to recognize your work?”

“Not by calling me teacher. I want a defined role. I want people to know which results I built. I do not want to repair every hole. I want the community to have a real budget, so enthusiasm is not treated as free fuel.”

Tommy turned to David. “What are you trying to protect?”

“People who do the work, so beautiful words cannot exploit them.”

“What are you afraid of?”

David looked away. “That one day Peter will have nothing left, yet still smile and say that at least he helped many people.”

Peter stared at him.

“We will not treat titles as payment or payment as the whole of a person’s value,” Tommy said. “Peter is an advocate who helps ideas travel, a builder who creates platforms, and a ferryman who helps others cross their first stretch of water. But a ferryman needs a ticket system, a builder needs credit for his work, and an advocate needs measurable results.”

They reassigned the work. Peter kept the opening speech, the security workshop, and overall planning. Tommy took speaker coordination. Other students took volunteer training. Every task received an owner, a backup, and a completion condition. The final report would identify each contribution.

David wrote at the top of the responsibility sheet: “A closed responsibility loop is not a method for finding someone to blame. It ensures every problem has a place to go.”

“I still dislike being called a freeloader,” Peter said.

“I called you a free boat, not a freeloader.”

“Equally unpleasant.”

“Then I withdraw the label and keep the question.”

“Deal.”

Chapter Six: The Trading Game

To test their governance design, David created a game. Each team received ten wooden tokens to exchange for rooms, equipment, publicity, and volunteer time. Every participant also received a secret goal. One wanted maximum attendance, another wanted to preserve the budget, another wanted exposure, and another wanted beginners to finish projects.

Within ten minutes, the classroom became a marketplace.

“I will give you two tokens for the main-stage slot!”

“No. I promised it to a first-year project team.”

“Then I will add a LinkedIn interview.”

“Do you have authority to promise that?”

“I know the editor.”

“You deliberately left holes in the rules,” Peter told David.

“Reality does not give you a complete manual before the game begins.”

Tommy’s team did not rush into trades. He asked what each member could least afford to lose. Then he divided long room bookings into shorter periods so competing teams could share equipment. His group did not collect the most tokens, but it helped the most people complete their minimum goals.

Afterward, David wrote the results on the board.

“The team seeking the most tokens controlled the main stage but lacked volunteers, so its event failed. The team devoted only to helping others spent everything and could not complete its own mission. Resources, authority, and trust are all necessary.”

A student asked, “Does that mean the best method is Confucian outside and Legalist inside?”

“Do not turn it into a slogan,” David said. “The outer Confucian side means treating people with sincere respect, not wrapping control in warm language. The inner Legalist side means writing rules and responsibilities clearly, not practicing secret manipulation. If an organization speaks about shared success while rewarding only friends of the powerful, that is not governance. It is disguise.”

“Values and systems must check each other,” Tommy added. “Values ask whether a system harms people. The system asks whether the values can become real.”

Peter reconsidered their scorecard. “We should not measure registration alone. We should count beginner projects, speaker support, volunteer fatigue, and access for other schools. We should also ask who received opportunities and who performed invisible work.”

“You are beginning to sound like a product designer,” David said.

“I always was one. I simply speak well.”

“Speaking well is not a crime. Only speaking is.”

“You are terrible at compliments.”

Chapter Seven: The Night Before the Typhoon

One day before Community Day, a typhoon changed course. The school did not cancel classes, but it demanded a backup plan.

Then a sponsor requested the most valuable post-opening time for a product presentation and asked for the participants’ email list.

“If we refuse, they may withdraw the equipment,” Peter said.

“What does the agreement say?” David asked.

“It promises equipment and logo display, but no participant list and no guaranteed stage time.”

“Then refuse.”

“Without their equipment, two workshops may be impossible.”

“If we hand over student data, the community loses its credibility.”

Peter paced. “I can offer an optional lunchtime demonstration without the mailing list.”

“Prepare a version that works without the sponsor,” Tommy said. “Do not let them believe we cannot survive without them.”

David divided the equipment list into essential and optional items. Essential devices could be borrowed from the school. If quantities were insufficient, the workshops would shrink. Optional features could disappear without defeating the learning goal.

“In the past, I would have agreed simply to preserve the event’s appearance,” Peter admitted.

“You valued a complete-looking event more than its boundaries,” David said.

“And now?”

“Now we would rather become smaller than sell our participants.”

Peter called the sponsor. He neither attacked nor flattered them. He repeated the agreed scope, the student data principles, and the alternatives. The sponsor accepted the optional lunchtime session and agreed that interested participants would scan a link themselves.

“Well done,” David said after the call.

“What was that? Could you say it again?”

“Recordings require payment.”

They converted Community Day into a hybrid event. Meetup sent updates, Slack gained an announcement channel, and the LinkedIn Page published clear safety information. Tommy contacted every partner school to ensure nobody traveled dangerously for the event.

Peter’s mother called late that evening. “Are you still at school? Your security supervisor offered to let you observe an incident response tomorrow. Would that not be more useful?”

“I know it is useful, and I will ask for another opportunity. But I am also learning incident response here. This time, what we protect is not a server. It is the time, data, and safety of two hundred people.”

“Are you being paid?”

“No.”

“Then make sure you gain real ability and evidence of what you accomplished. Do not come home with photographs only.”

“We will have a complete report.”

“And come home if the storm worsens. Heroes catch colds too.”

Chapter Eight: Community Day

The morning sky was gray as an unloaded screen. Most distant participants switched online, leaving many empty chairs on campus.

“Have we failed?” Peter asked backstage.

David checked the dashboard. “Ninety-six people are online. Total participation is higher than planned. Do not let empty chairs make the conclusion for you.”

Tommy ran over wearing a headset. “The southern port school is connected. They said this is the first time they have been able to attend a technology event so far away.”

Opening music began. Peter stepped onto the stage.

“Welcome to Aoba Community Day. Today is not about proving who is strongest. It is about showing everyone still outside the door where a first step may begin.”

He did not call himself a leader or list famous companies he knew. He spoke about a first-year student who moved from being afraid to ask questions to completing a program. He described art students designing expressions for a robot and visiting students creating bilingual lessons together.

“A community is not one person leading everyone to the finish line,” Peter concluded. “It is more like a ferry crossing. Someone builds the boat, someone watches the weather, someone draws the route, and someone reminds everyone to wear a life jacket. Today, we help one another cross a little farther.”

Applause filled the hall.

“Still free,” David whispered backstage.

“But this time,” Tommy replied, “the ticket system exists too.”

Problems soon arrived. A classroom lost its network connection. Two borrowed computers could not install the workshop software. Lunch was forty minutes late. A nervous volunteer posted the wrong link in the announcement channel.

Peter wanted to run toward every problem, but other people stopped him.

“The security team owns the network issue.”

“Technical support owns the equipment.”

“The administration contact is tracking lunch.”

“The incorrect notice has been removed and corrected.”

For the first time, Peter discovered he did not have to become the patch for every hole.

A younger student ran toward him with a laptop. “Teacher Peter, my program keeps failing.”

“Call me Peter. The error says it cannot find the file. Where do you think the file might be?”

“In Downloads?”

“Let us check together.”

Five minutes later, a pixel-art boat moved across the screen.

“It crossed the river!” the student cried.

Before closing, David announced preliminary results: 216 unique participants, 42 beginner projects, 12 cross-school matches, an 81 percent workshop completion rate, no lost equipment, and no personal-data incidents. Seven matters still needed improvement, including volunteer scheduling, delayed online captions, and slow device loans.

“Why discuss problems during the closing?” someone asked.

“Because transparency is not displaying victory only,” David said. “Real credibility means we dare to hand unfinished work to the next attempt.”

Peter took the microphone. “Our report will name every contributor, not only those visible onstage. This community does not treat enthusiasm as an unlimited resource. Rest must be respected, expenses reimbursed, and work credited.”

Applause rose again. This time David did not mock it.

Chapter Nine: After the Tables Were Cleared

At eight that evening, the last visitor was gone. The three friends sat at the edge of the stage eating convenience-store rice balls.

“Other people may still leave with opportunities while I leave with photographs,” Peter said.

“You also leave with public results, governance documents, security procedures, a speaker network, transferable platforms, and feedback from more than two hundred participants,” David replied. “Those things may not become money immediately, but they are not empty.”

“Have you become gentle?”

“I updated my model.”

Tommy handed Peter a card from the southern port school. It said: “Because we could participate online, we have decided to create our own computer club next term. We hope one day we can invite you.”

“Is this a result?” Peter asked.

“One result,” David said. “Do not rush to make it sacred, and do not rush to convert it into a price.”

“Confucian thinking does not require us to speak only of virtue and refuse compensation,” Tommy said. “The distinction between righteousness and profit means knowing what must not be sold, while also knowing that labor must not be romanticized as free.”

“And Legalism?”

“It reminds us not to assume everyone is noble,” David said. “Accounts, budgets, authority, handovers, rewards, and consequences must function. But if an organization consists only of control and calculation, people pretend to cooperate while thinking only of self-protection.”

“So ‘Confucian outside, Legalist inside’ does not mean acting kind in public and playing power games in secret.”

“Of course not,” Tommy said. “The friendliness must be genuine, and the rules must be visible. The Confucian side gives people dignity. The Legalist side gives them boundaries.”

“I once believed a happy audience proved value,” Peter said. “Then I almost believed that without budgets, positions, or profit shares, all respect was false. Now I think value and exchange are two lines that must be watched together. Sincere gratitude does not require me to work free forever. Payment does not automatically mean respect.”

“That is clarity,” David said.

“Not the clarity of someone fooling himself?”

“Not for now.”

Chapter Ten: A New Crossing

Two months later, Aoba High School’s computer science club held its end-of-term meeting. Beside the event photographs hung a complete community map.

The LinkedIn Page had an editorial rotation instead of depending on Peter. Meetup events had defined objectives and feedback forms. Slack moderation records could be reviewed by a teacher and a student representative. Community Day became an annual showcase, supported by smaller quarterly gatherings.

Every role had a term and a handover. No administrator could treat a platform as private territory. Suspensions required a cited rule, a duration, and an appeal path. Budgets were published, and commercial relationships disclosed. The club even introduced contribution-hour limits to prevent its most eager members from becoming exhausted.

A first-year student chaired the meeting.

“Peter, will you serve as director again next year?” she asked.

“I will be an adviser and lead the security workshop, but I will not be director.”

“Can the event work without you?” someone asked.

“If it cannot, then last year I did not build a community. I built dependence.”

Two second-year students became co-directors. Peter handed them account records, incident procedures, sponsor templates, and the review report. For the first time, he felt he truly had a seat at the table. It was not because he controlled everything. It was because his contribution had become a system others could use and improve.

“What does your family think now?” David asked after the meeting.

“My mother still wants me to work more shifts. But after reading the report, she agreed the club is not merely play. My security supervisor also asked me to present our incident handling. He said technical and community incidents both require classification, records, communication, and recovery.”

“And your father?”

“He still calls me a tiny official. But now he says I am at least one who writes rules, hands over authority, and knows not to keep the public seal in his own pocket.”

Tommy looked through the window at the winter sunlight.

“Next term, I want more Southeast Asian schools to join online. We should not export our model unchanged. Every place should design its own crossing.”

“What about funding?” David asked.

“I have three plans: a free plan, a small-sponsorship plan, and a shared-cost plan.”

“Authority?”

“The schools manage the platform together. No single school may claim to represent everyone.”

“Success measures?”

“You are very difficult to talk to.”

Peter laughed. David smiled too.

“I merely make sure ideals have legs,” David said.

“And we make sure your rules have a heart,” Tommy replied.

They left the computer room together. Peter stopped at the blackboard. Beneath the old words, “Make it work first. Make it perfect later,” he wrote a second sentence:

“First ask whom we are helping to cross. Then build a boat that does not depend on one person alone.”

“Come on,” David called from the corridor. “The school store is closing.”

Peter turned out the light and ran after them.

Outside, the clouds were clearing. The final drops fell from the school roof like a long program that had finally stopped reporting errors. Yet all three understood that a real community is never permanently finished. New members arrive. New disputes appear. Rules require revision. Visions must face reality.

The crossing remains, and the river continues to move.

Some people arrive. Some depart. Some travel together for only a short distance.

A trustworthy boat does not demand that its ferryman remain silent, and it does not sail on the passengers’ applause alone. It needs direction, fuel, a public route, and safety rules everyone can understand. Most of all, it needs people who can see the wind and waves clearly and still extend a hand.

“Come aboard,” they say. “Let us cross this part of the river together.”