Departure(75)

I hate when meetings start this way. I’m never sure what to say. Some folks get sappy (my father passed away two years ago); some recall episodes I was too young to remember (which, to be fair, I often enjoy hearing about a great deal); and some, like the man before me, Alastair Hughes, just let the statement hang in the air, awaiting my response.

I stare at the London skyline behind him for a moment, what I can see through the dreary fog. The day is as gray as I feel. Maybe I should move to London. There’s a change. Probably a good investment too. But I hear they’re considering taxing homes owned by foreigners. Surprised they haven’t yet.

“Were you a diplomat as well?” I finally ask.

He was, as it turns out. He runs through a few of his postings, offers a story about my father, one that took place in 1985, in Nicaragua, one I hadn’t heard. It’s a good story, well told. I like Alastair Hughes. And I think that may have been the point of the story. I bet he was a pretty good diplomat.

When the last laughs settle into chuckles, then reflective silence, he gets to the matter at hand.

When he’s finished, I simply say, “You want to build a dam across the Strait of Gibraltar?”

Alastair leans forward slightly. “We will build a dam across the Strait of Gibraltar.”

I glance at the three men, wondering what in the world this has to do with me. Before the meeting, I told them that I typically fund Internet-related companies, mostly seed-stage. The initial investments are low, relatively speaking; assuming things work out, I usually participate in subsequent funding rounds, doubling down on winners. I’m rarely more than twenty million into any one company by the time it either folds or reaches liquidity (IPO or acquisition). They’re talking billions to build something like this. And even if they had the money in hand, I doubt they’d get the political buy-in.

“This project will take decades, Nick. It will be the largest construction project in history, a multinational collaboration that will change the face of the earth. The marvels of the ancient world, the Great Pyramid of Giza, the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, the statue of Zeus at Olympia—most were monuments, ceremonial shrines. This dam will do something. It will carve a new destiny for humanity, a future about global cooperation, dreaming big. It will show the world that we can solve big problems. It won’t be built with dollars, pounds, or euros, or even man-hours. It will be built with consensus.”

He slides a series of artists’ renderings over to me. In the center of the dam, a waterfall spills into a blue basin set in a rocky brown valley that turns to green farther out. A few simple low-rise buildings stand at the top.

“Building something this large requires a strong foundation. We’re not talking about a foundation of concrete or steel or money. People. Every successful venture starts with the right people. I’m sure that’s how it is in start-ups, right? Two companies developing the same technology; the best group of people wins the day.”

I nod.

“You chose start-ups because you like to be on the ground floor of something big, something that could have a huge impact.”

“I suppose.”

“Doesn’t get bigger than this, Nick. And this is the ground floor.”

“Yeah, but the thing is, I don’t see how I fit in. Don’t get me wrong, it’s impressive, the vision, the potential impact. But . . .”

“You’re uniquely qualified, Nick. The people you grew up with, went to school with around the world—over the next few decades, they will become the senators, prime ministers, and CEOs who will decide whether this dam gets built. They’re the levers of the future.”

“Perhaps, but look—I mean, I was rarely picked last at gym time, but my childhood friends don’t like me enough to let me drain their coastlines.”

“These people will listen to you, Nick. That’s all we need. You didn’t become a diplomat like your father. You wanted to do something different. No comparisons. Your own path.”

“Something like that.”

“But you’re looking for a change, something big. That’s why you flew to London, even knowing this wasn’t about an IT start-up. We’re just asking you to think it over. That’s all. We’re offering you the opportunity to be the point person on an international initiative that would change the course of history. Your father relished that role. It was the only time he was ever really happy. It’s inside you too.”

We spend the last minutes of the meeting talking about small details, ancillary benefits from the project. There’s talk of refreezing polar ice using solar shades, technology that’s still conceptual. Issues related to sea currents and salinity. The fate of the Black Sea. It’s an attempt to convince me that this isn’t the half-baked dream of a few aging diplomats. They’re trying to close me, convince me that I won’t spend the next three decades flying around Europe having the same meeting about a dam that will never get built.

That was my first instinct early in the meeting, but as I look at the artists’ renderings a feeling settles over me, a sensation I haven’t had in a long time: excitement. It’s faint, the desperate flare of a match flickering in the wind, but to me, at this point, it’s like a campfire on a cold November night.

I’m confident that this dam will be built.

I keep the drawings and promise them they’ll have my answer shortly.