The Trenchmaker and the Fisherman: How We Lost the Freedom to Innovate

In the early days of Australia’s commercial fishing industry, growth came from those bold enough to take risks. Men and women invested time, sweat, and capital into vessels and gear, pushing out into the unknown in search of abundance. Their success wasn’t guaranteed—but the risk-to-reward ratio was fair. If they succeeded, they earned a living. If they failed, they tried again. But today, that balance has shifted. As bureaucracies have grown, so have the rules, costs, and consequences of non-compliance. The price of failure has become so steep—financially, legally, reputationally—that many fishers no longer dare to innovate. Risk remains, but reward has been regulated away. This story is a metaphor for that shift.

The Trenchmaker

There once was a tribe that lived in a dry valley below a towering mountain. Every morning, as the sun rose, the tribe would begin its solemn procession up the rocky slopes to fetch water from a clear spring that trickled from the mountain’s heart. The journey was long and arduous, costing them time, energy, and sometimes their health.

This ritual had been the way of things for generations. No one questioned it. To drink, one must climb.

But among them was a quiet thinker named Toma. As he trudged up the path one morning, his mind wandered. “Why,” he pondered, “must we walk to the water, when the water might walk to us?”

He envisioned a narrow trench, carved by hand, guiding the spring’s flow gently down the mountain to pool near the village. It would take immense effort—labour, time, and discipline—but in the end, the walk would be no more. Water would flow freely, and the tribe could drink without toil.

That night, Toma shared his vision by the fire. “I will dig a channel from the spring to our homes. But I cannot do it alone. Who among you will help?”

The elders scoffed. “The spring has always been there. If you want water, walk for it.”

Others laughed. “Why waste your strength? You’ll be too tired to collect water, and your trench will dry before it reaches the valley.”

Still, Toma persisted. Every day after the climb, he would eat, rest briefly, and then walk back up—not to fetch water, but to dig. Inch by inch. Stone by stone. His hands blistered, his body ached, but his spirit remained sharp.

As he worked, he continued to ask, “Will any of you join me? When the trench is done, it will help us all.”

But no one joined. They preferred certainty. Water was where it had always been. The trench was only a dream, a theory not yet proven. And Toma, they believed, was a fool who wasted his evenings chasing abstractions.

Seasons passed. The trench grew longer.

Then, one cool morning, the ground at the edge of the village began to dampen. The children squealed as water trickled into a shallow basin outside Toma’s home. By dusk, the trench overflowed into a sparkling pool.

The tribe gathered, amazed. Toma had succeeded. The mountain’s water now came to them.

They cheered and sang, then quickly demanded, “Let us all drink from your pool! It is for the tribe!”

But Toma, weary from years of labour, stood firm. “I asked for your help when the trench was only an idea. You refused. Now that the value is certain, you demand a share. Why should those who took no risk and bore no cost claim equal reward?”

The elders bristled. “Water belongs to all! You cannot own the river!”

Toma digging the trench alone while the tribe sticks to tradition.

Toma replied, “I do not own the spring. But I created the trench. I transformed potential into reality. That which was merely nature became capital through action. If you wish to drink, I ask only what is fair—contribute to its upkeep, and respect the work it took to build.”

Some refused, returning to the old climb out of pride. Others accepted his terms, understanding that effort and foresight deserve respect. In time, many learned from Toma.

They began building channels of their own—some for irrigation, others for mills.

And so the tribe transformed. No longer just gatherers of what was given, but builders of what could be.

The Bureaucracy That Never Was

But consider: what if the elders had stopped Toma?

What if they had decreed that no one may alter the land without permission? That trench-making was unsafe, unproven, and disruptive to tribal tradition? What if they had created a council to study the impact of trenches, or demanded that only official trench-diggers with ceremonial robes and years of approval be allowed to try?

Toma would have been silenced. The trench would remain a dream. The tribe would keep walking up that mountain, day after day, for generations more—wasting their lives fetching what could have flowed freely.

Growth would have been halted. Innovation suffocated. Not by nature, but by control. Not by scarcity, but by fear of change.

And this is the lesson: Progress is born when individuals act. Bureaucracy, though often well-intentioned, becomes a net that catches not only the foolish but the visionary. When it fears risk more than it values reward, it delays the future.

Let us then honour the Toma in every community—not by demanding their fruits, but by clearing the way for them to build.

This story reflects lessons I've drawn from my study of Austrian Economics, particularly the role of human action, capital formation, and risk. The core idea behind this parable came from an author I cannot presently identify. Should I discover the original source, I will gladly attribute it.

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