And somehow, I managed to create the basic shape of my first prototype.

For a moment, it felt like I had finally made real progress.

But before I could enjoy that feeling for very long, a whole new series of problems came rushing toward me like an avalanche.

The first problem was the rocker—the upward curve of the surfboard. Shaping it by hand took far too much time and effort.

The second problem came from the materials themselves. I wanted to shape the Styrofoam and the cardboard framework at the same time. But because they had different levels of hardness, uneven steps appeared on the surface.

Then came a more fundamental problem.

If I filled every opening in the framework with Styrofoam, I wouldn't actually be reducing the amount of plastic material at all.

And there was still one more.

While I was shaping the outer curves of the board, pieces of glued Styrofoam kept breaking away from the framework. Every time it happened, I had to stop, glue them back into place, wait, and start again.

No sooner had I solved one problem than another appeared.

At that point, I could have walked away.

I could have pretended that none of my previous efforts had ever happened.

But I had already faced plenty of obstacles on the way here. Each time, I had searched for an idea, found some kind of solution, and managed to move forward.

And there was one thought I never wanted to have later in life:

“If only I had continued just a little longer back then.”

I didn't want to abandon the project halfway and be left with that regret.

So once again, I turned toward the problems and started thinking.

What if the problems themselves could show me what to change?

If shaping the rocker by hand took too much time, why not design the framework with the curve already built into it?

If the difference in hardness between the cardboard and Styrofoam caused unevenness, why not find a type of cardboard that could be shaped together with the foam?

If I needed to fill the whole structure with Styrofoam while shaping it, why not create the complete shape first—and then remove as much unnecessary foam as I wanted afterward?

And in the areas where the Styrofoam kept breaking away, perhaps I could cut away part of the framework beforehand and glue the foam securely into those spaces.

That might hold everything firmly enough for stable shaping.

One by one, the problems began turning into possible improvements.

And then I made up my mind.

“All right. I'll build the framework again from the beginning and put these ideas into practice. This time, I'm going to make a full-size prototype.”

Until then, I had only been working with a small model of a surfboard.

Now I wanted to build one at actual size—to hold it in my own hands, look at it carefully, and decide what the next step should be.

But somewhere in the back of my mind, there was another question.

Could I really create, with my own hands, a surfboard that could be placed in the sea and float?

I didn't know.

Maybe that was exactly what I was trying to find out.

We can imagine what we might be capable of. We can think about it again and again.

But thinking alone cannot give us the answer.

When something that once existed only in our imagination finally takes physical form—when we can see it with our own eyes and touch it with our own hands—something changes.

We begin to discover what we might actually be capable of.

People often have hopes and dreams.

“I want to become this.”

“I want to achieve that.”

But a hope remains only a hope until we take the first step.

The result might be exactly what we imagined.

Or it might be completely different.

There is only one way to find out.

We have to try.

So I gathered all the improvements I had imagined and prepared to take the next step.

No more small model.

It was time to build a full-size prototype.