Back in the mid-1980s, I worked with a Canadian engineering firm on a mining project deep in the far north of Saskatchewan. It was an untamed, rugged landscape of dense boreal forests, endless frozen lakes, and immense isolation.
Reaching the site meant boarding a small single-propeller plane from Regina. The airfield up north was little more than a windswept gravel strip carved into the wilderness, with a small wooden shed serving as the airport terminal. In those days, there were no computers, no internet, and no mobile phones. Communication with the outside world relied on a crackling radio telephone.
One Friday afternoon, after an exhausting week on-site, I stood on that remote airstrip waiting to start my journey back home to Toronto. With connecting flights ahead, every leg mattered. The weather was classic northern Canadian winter: a piercing blue, cloudless sky, brilliant sunshine, and temperatures cold enough to freeze your breath instantly.
I was the sole passenger booked on the little plane. The pilot was a big, burly, lumberjack-style man clad in a red-and-black checked fleece. As I went to board, he blocked the entryway and bluntly demanded an authorization number to take me to Regina.
I showed him my papers and explained that my company had chartered and paid for the flight, but he refused to consider them. Crossing his arms, he insisted that without a number, the plane was staying put.
Panic threatened to surface. If I missed this departure, I would lose the entire connection home, spending the weekend stuck in the airport shed waiting until the mining office opened on Monday morning. With no mobile phones in those days and only a temperamental radio line to the outside world, I would be completely stranded.
I pleaded for a couple of moments, but reading his demeanor, I realized instantly that pushing back would only make him dig his heels in deeper. I had to think swiftly and outside the box.
An ancient principle came to mind: be like the river. When water encounters a stubborn rock, it never wastes energy battering against it; it simply glides around it.
I stopped debating. Looking at him calmly, I said, “Let me check again—perhaps I missed something.”
Walking over to a nearby bench, I sat down, opened my briefcase, and pretended to search through my documents. Shielded from his view, I quickly scribbled my Toronto home phone number onto a slip of paper, writing the ten digits in reverse to make them look like an official reference code. After a brief pause, I looked up with a relieved smile and said, “Aha! Here it is! You are completely right, and I am so sorry for the trouble.”
I handed him the paper and read the digits aloud.
The pilot examined the slip, nodded with satisfaction, and said, “That’s it! Now, how difficult was that?”
Accepting humble pie with a smile, I agreed, apologized once more, and took my seat. The engine roared to life, and within moments we were soaring over the vast snowy landscape. All he needed was a number—and the satisfaction of being right.
Today, in our hyper-connected world, instant technology has spoiled us. We expect everything at the tap of a screen, and when delays occur, we quickly turn impatient, rigid, and demanding. Four decades ago, out in the isolated corners of the world, life taught a very different lesson: you learned very quickly that asserting your importance gets you nowhere.
When you encounter someone whose mind is firmly made up, arguing accomplishes nothing. You do not need to dominate the conversation or win the debate. Step aside, let the other person feel like the king or queen of the moment, provide what satisfies their mind, and allow life to keep moving forward.
Humility is not surrender; it is the wisdom to flow past obstacles without losing your direction.©️ Amyn DahyaHave a blessed week ahead, my dear friends, graced with peace, happiness, and abundance.
Amyn Dahya