Vertex Macro | Ferryboat Computer Club 02: Winter Recruitment Day

The Second Crossing

Winter Recruitment Day

It rarely snowed during winter at Aoba High School, but the wind crossed the athletic field and rushed through the corridors, making the papers on the bulletin boards rustle.

At the computer science club's recruitment table, Peter connected an old laptop to a monitor. On the screen, a pixel-art boat moved along a blue river. Whenever it approached an island, a lamp lit up.

“This was created after last year's Community Day,” Peter told the new students gathered around him. “The program is not complicated, but it helped someone who had once been afraid to touch code believe that they could complete a project.”

A girl in a red scarf raised her hand.

“If I join the club, can I give a public talk?”

“Yes, but not everybody needs to go onstage immediately,” Peter replied. “Some people write code, some design artwork, some organize documents, and some look after the event venue. A community is not made up only of people standing in the spotlight.”

David sat beside him recording registrations. Without looking up, he said, “And standing onstage does not mean you have the authority to make decisions.”

All the new students turned toward him.

“Could you avoid frightening them in the first minute of recruitment?” Peter whispered.

“I am merely reducing false expectations.”

Tommy arrived from the other end of the corridor carrying three chairs.

“David tells everyone about the hidden currents,” he said with a smile. “Peter tells them about the scenery on the opposite bank, and I make sure there is still room aboard the boat.”

The girl in the red scarf wrote her name on the registration form: Aoi.

“Who is the club president?” she asked.

Peter pointed toward a second-year student who was explaining the process to another newcomer.

“We have two co-leaders this year. I am an adviser, not the president.”

“But everyone says you built this community.”

“Building something does not mean owning it forever.”

David finally looked up. “That answer barely passes.”

By the end of recruitment day, twenty-seven new students had joined Slack, nineteen had followed the LinkedIn Page, and fourteen had registered for the first Meetup. The numbers looked impressive, but the role selections revealed a strange pattern. Most students wanted to create content, host sessions, or manage social media. Almost nobody wanted to test systems, keep records, manage equipment, or clean up afterward.

David projected the figures onto the wall.

“Everyone wants to be the torch. Nobody wants to organize the woodshed.”

“Public work is easier to notice,” Aoi said.

“Correct. If a system rewards only visible work, the organization will gradually lose the people who keep it functioning.”

“Then we will make invisible work visible,” Peter said.

“Not with another thank-you post,” David replied. “A thank-you message is the cheapest form of management. Give people credit, learning records, priority access to training, and protection from being trapped in support work forever.”

Tommy placed a new poster on the blackboard. It read: The Second Crossing Project.

“The southern harbor school has established its own computer club,” he said. “They want to organize an interschool online event with us. This time, we are not inviting them to attend our event. Both schools will design it together.”

Peter's eyes brightened. “Excellent. We can take last year's Community Day model to them.”

Tommy shook his head. “Not take it to them. Start again with them.”

“If you force a successful model onto another place,” David said, closing his notebook, “the successful model becomes a new form of power.”

Peter looked at the pixel boat. The lamp at the first crossing was already glowing, while the second remained dark.

“All right,” he said. “This time, we will begin by asking what they need.”

Chapter Two: Not a Branch School

The first interschool meeting took place on Saturday morning. On the other side of the screen sat the computer club from Star Harbor High School. Harbor cranes were visible through their classroom window, and cargo ships occasionally moved across the background.

“We want to organize Harbor Technology Day,” said Lina, the club's coordinator. “Our theme is how technology can help small shops, the fishing harbor, and student communities.”

Peter immediately opened his presentation.

“We can provide last year's stage schedule, sponsorship templates, speaker list, and security checklist.”

Lina nodded politely but did not accept right away.

A boy beside her asked, “Will the LinkedIn Page use Aoba's branding?”

“We could establish a joint page,” Peter answered.

“Who will administer it?”

“We can help manage it at first.”

“What happens if we disagree with something you publish?”

Peter paused. In the chat, David typed, “Good question.”

“We appreciate Aoba's willingness to share its experience,” Lina continued, “but Star Harbor is not an Aoba branch school. We want our students to learn how to manage a community. We do not want to provide local stories for somebody else's platform.”

Peter felt his face grow warm.

“I did not intend to control you.”

“I believe you. But a person can have no intention to control and still gain control by holding the accounts, resources, and speaker network.”

The meeting fell silent.

“Let us divide cooperation into three levels,” Tommy suggested. “What we decide together, what each school decides independently, and what neither school may decide alone.”

David added, “Both schools should administer joint accounts. External statements require approval from at least one representative of each school. Sponsorship and participant data stay with the host school. Speaker information may be shared, but the host school controls invitations.”

Peter closed his presentation.

“I should apologize. I treated our method as the answer too quickly.”

“Experience is valuable,” Lina said, smiling. “But experience should be a toolbox, not a command.”

After the call, Peter remained alone in the clubroom. Aoi returned for her coat and found him staring at the dark screen.

“Are you unhappy?”

“A little embarrassed.”

“Because they rejected you?”

“Because I thought I was helping, but almost turned help into a takeover.”

“Will you stop helping?”

“No. I need to learn how to help without forcing people to accept help only in my way.”

“That sounds difficult.”

“Much harder than public speaking.”

David entered carrying hot cocoa.

“The first sign of maturity is understanding that goodwill cannot replace authorization.”

“You expected this?” Peter asked.

“I suspected it. People who control resources easily confuse what is convenient for themselves with what is helpful to others.”

“How can we tell whether we are becoming controllers?” Aoi asked.

“Ask whether the other side can reject you, whether they can continue without you, and whether they can modify the system you provide.”

Peter took a sip of cocoa.

“The first crossing must not own the second.”

Tommy entered just in time to hear him.

“Exactly. Rivers can connect, but there does not have to be only one boat.”

Chapter Three: The Missing Administrator

Two weeks into the partnership, a problem appeared on Slack.

Kai, an administrator from Star Harbor, suddenly lost his permissions. He could no longer enter management channels, publish notices, or inspect moderation records. The system provided no explanation.

“Does anyone know why I was removed?” he asked in a public channel.

Ten minutes later, an Aoba administrator replied, “This was a decision by the interschool core team. Please do not discuss it publicly.”

David tapped the table twice when he saw the message.

“Who did it?”

Nobody answered.

Peter inspected the logs and discovered that a shared account had changed the permissions. Six people knew its password, so the operator could not be identified.

“Restore Kai's permissions first,” Peter said.

“First determine whether there is an urgent risk,” David replied. “If he leaked information, restoring access immediately could cause a second incident.”

Tommy contacted Kai and asked when he had last used his administrative access. Kai said that he had objected to giving registration data to a sponsor. Soon afterward, he lost his role.

“If that is true, this was retaliation, not risk control,” Peter said.

“We cannot conclude that yet,” David replied. “Someone may have considered him an obstacle, or another event may have occurred. Preserve the records, lock the registration data, and stop all external transfers.”

They convened an emergency review with all six people who knew the password. Nobody admitted responsibility at first. Then Aoi pointed out that the login time matched the campus network location of one particular administrator.

At last, the student confessed.

“I did it. I was afraid Kai's objections would cause the sponsor to withdraw. Everyone on the core team wanted the event to succeed.”

“Which core team decided to remove me?” Kai asked.

The student could not name one.

“When you called it the core team's decision,” David asked calmly, “did a meeting record actually exist, or did you merely assume everyone would support you?”

“I was solving the problem in advance.”

“Turning a person who disagrees with you into ‘the problem’ certainly makes solving it faster.”

Peter looked at the student.

“Our rules allow you to request restricted access, but you need a reason, a time limit, and approval from two people. You cannot hide a personal decision behind a shared account.”

Kai's permissions were restored. Shared passwords were eliminated, and all administrative actions had to be made through identifiable accounts. The administrator who had removed Kai was suspended from management duties for two weeks but could still attend ordinary activities. The response included an appeal and restoration process.

“Why not remove him permanently?” Aoi asked. “He nearly harmed the entire community.”

“Responsibility must be clear,” Tommy said, “but punishment should not exist merely to frighten people. If someone admits an error and learns the correct process, the community should leave a road back.”

“Permanent exclusion makes administrators feel powerful,” David added. “A mature system distinguishes malice, negligence, and poor judgment. Different problems need different responses.”

Peter converted the event into an anonymous training case.

“Power does not live only in job titles,” he said. “Anyone who knows the passwords, controls the list, or can silence another person possesses power.”

“And disagreement is not betrayal,” Kai said.

That night, a new message was pinned in the management channel: “Nobody may disguise an individual exercise of power as an undocumented collective decision.”

Chapter Four: David's Price

Harbor Technology Day needed money. Star Harbor could provide rooms and basic equipment, but transportation, captions, insurance, and materials required additional funding.

David created a small trading simulation to teach students how to estimate costs. He divided a fictional budget among equipment, promotion, speakers, transportation, translation, and emergency reserves, then required each group to make choices under changing conditions.

“You really enjoy turning everything into numbers,” Peter said.

“Numbers do not automatically become truth. But without them, beautiful language escapes examination more easily.”

“What if someone volunteers?”

“Ask how long they are volunteering, what they are responsible for, and whether they can stop. Free work is not unlimited authorization.”

Halfway through planning, a startup offered to cover most transportation and captioning costs. In return, it wanted David to demonstrate his personal trading strategy and suggested that they jointly sell a paid course.

“Is this not exactly what you wanted?” Peter asked. “A real budget, project, and profit share?”

“They want me to present a strategy that has not been tested over a long period,” David said. “They also want to borrow trust from a student community.”

“But you do have trading experience.”

“Experience does not allow me to guarantee anybody's profit. A youth event should not use promises of quick money as bait.”

“So you reject benefits too.”

“I value benefits. That is why I must understand their price.”

Tommy suggested a financial-literacy workshop focused on risk, recordkeeping, and uncertainty. There would be no profit promises and no collection of student contact information.

“All examples must use simulated data,” David added. “No personal investment advice. Speaker fees and sponsorship funds must remain separate, and the relationship must be disclosed in writing.”

The company objected.

“That gives us no marketing value,” its representative said.

“Then our objectives are different,” David replied. “You want customers. We want education.”

The company withdrew its offer.

“Do you regret it?” Peter asked, looking at the vanished budget.

“Of course I do. Rejecting an improper benefit does not mean money has no appeal. A real choice is supposed to hurt.”

“I thought a cynic would say that you should take anything that benefits you.”

“Cynicism can expose packaging, but it cannot choose your boundaries. If I criticize others for using communities for gain and then change my argument when the opportunity becomes mine, four thousand years of political history would serve only as an excuse.”

“You sound Confucian today,” Peter said.

“I am merely keeping the model consistent.”

“Some morality disguises itself as consistency,” Tommy observed.

David did not disagree.

Chapter Five: Peter's Two Schedules

One month before the event, Peter's security company entered a busy period. His supervisor offered him additional evening shifts and a place in a real incident investigation, an opportunity he had wanted for a long time.

In the same week, the two schools scheduled host training, a sponsorship meeting, and equipment testing.

Peter placed the two schedules beside each other. Every arrangement produced a conflict.

“You cannot surrender this professional opportunity to the club again,” his mother said. “The community can find another host. The company's incident will not wait for you.”

Peter knew she was right, but he worried that the interschool meetings would lose direction without him.

“I promised to be there.”

“Did you make that promise because nobody else can do the work,” his father asked, “or because you enjoy being needed?”

Peter did not answer.

The next day, he explained the conflict to David and Tommy.

“I could decline the investigation and wait for another opportunity.”

“No,” David said immediately.

“But the event...”

“If a community requires you to abandon important career growth to prove your loyalty, it is no different from an organization exploiting you.”

Tommy opened the responsibility plan.

“Aoi has completed three host-training sessions and can lead the first meeting. I will handle sponsorship. Both technical teams will test the equipment. You need only record an introduction and read the minutes after the investigation.”

“You really do not need me?” Peter asked.

“It is not that we do not need you,” Aoi said from the back row. “We simply do not need you every minute.”

The words opened a window in Peter's mind.

He joined the company's investigation. A user account had been misused. Peter organized the timeline, compared login records, and interviewed users. The underlying problem was not one leaked password but the team's habit of sharing an account, which made responsibility impossible to trace.

He immediately recognized the structural similarity to Kai's case.

“How did you notice the shared account so quickly?” his supervisor asked.

“I saw the same problem in a school community. People think sharing is convenient, but after an incident, convenience becomes nobody being responsible.”

His supervisor asked him to write the recommendations and paid him an additional allowance.

That evening, Peter read the minutes from Aoi's meeting. The discussion was clear, decisions were complete, and every unfinished task had an owner and a deadline.

“Was this acceptable?” Aoi messaged him.

“Better than my first meeting.”

“Are you afraid I will replace you one day?”

Peter thought before replying.

“If you can do it better, that is not replacement. It means the community has grown.”

Chapter Six: Stickers on the World Map

Tommy kept a large world map. Whenever he met a new school or community, he added a small dot. After six months, more than thirty dots covered it.

“You know people in so many places,” Aoi said. “You must have enormous influence.”

“Knowing someone does not mean cooperation,” Tommy replied. “Cooperation does not mean trust, and trust does not mean they will give you an important decision.”

“Finally, someone has learned my language,” David said.

“Connections still have value,” Tommy continued. “We simply must not mistake the number of contacts for results.”

After the Star Harbor event was announced, five overseas student communities expressed interest. Peter proposed an international speaker session in which each community could introduce itself.

“Not five-minute introductions from every place,” Tommy said. “That would become a world-map fashion show.”

“What would you do instead?”

“Each community should bring one real problem, such as limited equipment, language barriers, newcomer retention, or administrative conflict. We work on the problems together and continue tracking them after the event.”

“A shift from counting assets to measuring conversion,” David said.

“You have finally found an excuse to say that,” Peter replied.

They renamed the session the Problem Exchange. Every community submitted one challenge and promised to help another. The LinkedIn Page would record not only photographs but also the problem, proposed action, owner, and thirty-day progress.

One week before the event, a well-known community demanded that its logo appear above every other partner. It also wanted the host to call it the “Global Supervising Organization.”

“Do they have global authorization?” Peter asked.

“No documents,” Tommy said. “Only contacts in many countries.”

“Turning broad contact into global authority is one of the community world's most common magic tricks,” David said.

Peter replied that the group could be credited according to its actual contribution, but it could not use the requested title. The group suggested that it might stop introducing speakers.

“Would losing its network be serious?” Aoi asked.

“One dot matters,” Tommy said, pointing at the map, “but it cannot represent the entire map. In a healthy network, one person closing a door does not make every road disappear.”

“That is why power must be distributed,” David added. “Not to oppose a person, but to prevent cooperation from becoming obedience.”

“We respect their contribution,” Peter said as he sent the message, “but titles must match reality.”

Three days later, two speakers originally introduced by the group chose to participate independently. They said cooperation should rest on content and trust, not one organization's title.

Looking at the map, Aoi began to understand. A real network did not collect everybody's name into one person's list. It helped people build roads to one another.

Chapter Seven: Harbor Technology Day

On the morning of the event, sea air drifted outside Star Harbor High School's auditorium. Instead of one enormous organizer's logo, the entrance displayed a mural painted by the students. It showed boats, bridges, shipping containers, program windows, and greetings in several languages.

“No school is the center today,” Lina said in her opening speech. “Aoba brings governance experience. Star Harbor brings local challenges. Overseas communities bring different methods. Everyone may sometimes be a teacher, but everyone must remain a student.”

Peter sat in the audience. It was the first major event into which he had poured so much work without standing on the opening stage.

“Uncomfortable?” David asked.

“A little.”

“Do you want to steal the microphone?”

“No. I am learning that I can confirm my contribution without being onstage.”

One workshop explored how small harbor shops could manage orders with simple forms. Another discussed account security for student communities. The art club led a session on designing information graphics that nontechnical people could understand.

Aoi hosted the Problem Exchange. At first she spoke too quickly, her palms covered in sweat. Peter did not rush forward to rescue her. When she looked toward him, he held up a card: Pause for three seconds. Ask the next question.

Aoi took a breath.

“We have heard many possible solutions. Which one can truly begin within thirty days?”

The discussion returned to its course.

That afternoon, a sponsor demanded public recognition for having “directed the whole project.”

“Your company sponsored captions and transportation, and we will clearly acknowledge that,” Lina replied, holding the agreement. “But students from both schools designed the project. We cannot change support into direction.”

“Could the event happen without us?” the representative asked.

“It would become smaller, but it would still happen. Before accepting resources, we decided what we could not surrender.”

“That sounds like you,” Peter whispered to David.

“She said it better.”

At closing, the screen displayed more than attendance. It showed completed problem pairings, public teaching materials, average volunteer hours, accessibility completion, sponsorship spending, and follow-up owners.

Lina invited Tommy to the stage.

“Last year, Star Harbor was a distant guest,” he said, holding his old ferry photograph. “This year, it became an organizer. That did not happen because Aoba delivered a complete method. It happened because both schools were willing to redistribute decision-making. A ferryman does not carry people to his own shore. He helps them find a shore on which they can stand.”

Applause rose.

“Still free,” David whispered.

“But today's budget, credit, responsibilities, and results are clear,” Peter replied.

“Then we can accept it.”

Chapter Eight: The Invitation After the Event

After Harbor Technology Day, an educational organization invited Peter to become a youth-community adviser. The contract carried a real fee and defined work: host training, platform design, and security processes.

“This time they are not merely calling you teacher?” his mother asked after reading the letter twice.

“There is a budget, role, list of deliverables, and deadline.”

“What authority do you have?” his father asked.

“I can design the plan, but their program director makes the final decision.”

“Who owns the results?”

“My name remains on the teaching materials, general templates use an open license, and participant data stays with the organization.”

“Then you are not a tiny official,” his father said. “You are a tiny official with a contract.”

Peter laughed.

He asked David to review the agreement before accepting it.

“The fee and scope are reasonable,” David said. “But this clause requires you to guarantee the event's results on your LinkedIn Page. Change it. You can discuss your participation, but you should not endorse an outcome you do not control.”

“And ensure that community members do not automatically become the organization's marketing list,” Tommy added.

The organization accepted all the revisions.

When Peter signed, he did not feel that the contract proved every unpaid contribution had been worthwhile. Nor did he decide that every past expression of gratitude had been false. He simply saw a more complete path. His experience and trust had entered a bounded exchange, but not every act of goodwill needed to be monetized.

Meanwhile, a trading community invited David to design a risk course, and two overseas schools asked Tommy to coordinate interschool cooperation.

“Does building a good community mean everybody eventually gets a job?” Aoi asked.

“No,” Peter replied. “A community is not an investment product. Ten hours of effort do not guarantee ten hours of reward.”

“But you can improve the possibility of conversion,” David said. “Record results, turn ability into a repeatable method, and explain roles and responsibilities. Then people know how to work with you.”

“And do not assume every relationship is false because it produces no immediate reward,” Tommy added. “Some people can offer a role. Some can give only sincere advice. Some travel with you briefly and then leave. Their values differ. Do not pretend they are the same.”

“How do I know whether I have become a free boat?” Aoi asked.

“Ask whether you chose freely, whether you know the boundaries, whether your contribution is recognized, and whether the experience genuinely moves you or somebody else forward,” Peter said.

“Add one more,” David said. “When you want to stop, does someone use morality to force you onward?”

“And if they do?”

“Then they are not traveling with you. They have tied you to the boat.”

Chapter Nine: Not Everyone Crosses the Same River

Before the new term, the three friends returned to organize equipment in Aoba's old computer room. Beside the world map hung Harbor Technology Day photographs. The caption did not say that Aoba had successfully exported its model. It said: Two schools completed the second crossing together.

Aoi led the handover for the new club members. She explained administrators, budgets, content schedules, and appeals. When she did not understand something, she added it to a clarification list instead of pretending to know.

“Last year, I would have rushed in to add explanations,” Peter said from the doorway.

“And now?” David asked.

“Now I know that somebody completing the work differently does not mean they are doing it incorrectly.”

Tommy put a new dot on the map.

“Where is that?”

“A mountain school. They do not want a large Community Day or a LinkedIn Page. They only want a monthly low-bandwidth connection with two other schools to learn programming.”

“In the past, I might have recommended a full brand, Meetup, and Slack,” Peter said.

“And now?”

“If they need a small boat, do not give them a large one they cannot maintain.”

“Systems have costs too,” David said, putting away the last box of cables. “With too few rules, power expands arbitrarily. With too many, people forget the work while completing forms. ‘Confucian outside and Legalist inside’ does not mean maximizing rules. It means protecting human dignity and organizational survival together.”

“Is cynicism still useful?” Peter asked.

“Yes. Cynicism is like a smoke detector. It warns that titles may be hollow, applause may be cheap, and cooperation may merely consume your resources. But a smoke detector cannot design the entire house. If you hear only alarms every day, you cannot live.”

“Confucianism is like the light inside the house,” Tommy said. “It reminds people why they want to live together. Legalism is like the lock and fire escape. It ensures that cooperation does not depend only on goodwill. The actual house must still be repaired by the people who live inside it.”

Aoi leaned out of the clubroom.

“Stop discussing philosophy in the corridor. We have an account-handover problem.”

All three went inside, not because only they could solve it, but because they were still fellow travelers.

Chapter Ten: Beyond the River

Cherry blossoms had just opened on graduation day. Peter handed the clubroom key to Aoi. A small wooden boat hung from its key ring.

“This is not a scepter,” he said. “It reminds you that the door must open, and that you must know when to close it.”

“What if people keep calling me teacher while giving me all the work?”

“Thank them for their trust, then hand them the responsibility plan.”

“What if someone claims to represent every school?”

“Ask for the scope and record of their authorization.”

“What if someone brings many resources but asks us to abandon our principles?”

“Prepare a version that can survive without those resources.”

“What if I want to help but I am truly exhausted?”

Peter paused.

“Remember that you are on the boat too.”

David gave her a new notebook. Four characters on the cover meant: The law must not bend for the powerful.

“Rules must not change merely because someone is famous, wealthy, or well connected,” he said. “But rules must not become a weapon for administrators to punish disagreement. Record reasons and leave a path to restoration.”

Tommy gave her a new map without any dots.

“Why is it empty?”

“Because you should not live only inside the network we built. You will meet people we do not know and travel to places we have never visited.”

After the ceremony, Peter, David, and Tommy walked to the riverbank outside the school. Soon they would leave for different universities and workplaces.

“Are we still one community?” Peter asked.

“If you mean account permissions, no,” David replied.

Tommy laughed. “If you mean that we still share methods, warn one another about risks, and travel together when needed, then yes.”

Peter watched the river.

“I once thought building a community meant making more people know me. Later, I thought I needed a budget, position, and decision-making authority to prove my effort was not wasted. Now I think real strength may be creating something that no longer depends on me while still preserving the mark of what I contributed.”

“Power does not need to disappear,” David said. “It needs to be explained, limited, and transferred.”

“And value should not remain private self-congratulation,” Tommy said. “It should become a road another person can use.”

A ferry moved slowly across the river. The ferryman stood at the back controlling its direction while the passengers looked toward different shores.

Peter understood that a ferryman did not choose each passenger's destination. Along one stretch of water, he used skill, responsibility, and judgment to make the journey safer.

Some passengers would remember his name. Others would not.

Some crossings required formal tickets. Others were simple acts of assistance between friends.

What mattered was not remaining on the same boat forever or turning every river into personal territory. What mattered was explaining the direction before departure, refusing to push anyone into the water, and handing over the oar after arrival so another person could learn to steer.

“Where is the next crossing?” Peter asked.

“Look at the rules first,” David said.

“Look at where people need to go first,” Tommy said.

Peter smiled. “Then I will begin by asking questions.”

The three continued along the riverbank. Behind them stood the Aoba Computer Science Club, now able to operate on its own. Ahead were unnamed projects, jobs, and cities.

They did not take the community's accounts with them, and they did not pack its applause into their luggage. Peter carried verifiable abilities. David carried an institutional model he would continue revising. Tommy carried a world map with large empty spaces.

The river did not ask who had once stood at center stage.

It remembered only that every dependable crossing had been built by people who brought direction, fuel, rules, and goodwill together, then told those who came later:

“This boat does not belong to me alone. If you are willing, you can learn how to move it forward too.”