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Right now you’re probably thinking, “But don’t all startups begin with the founders owning 100 percent of the shares?” True. But not all founders are willing to begin working on a startup without an outside investor. Many of them hold out for that first check like it’s a security blanket. I prefer founders who are willing to pursue their visions long before an investor comes along and takes some of the pressure off of them. What this signals, in my experience, is that if these founders someday run out of money—and almost all startups do—they will likely revert back to not paying themselves, while still pushing the company forward with their effort, in order to save the business (and your investment). These are my people, the hustlers and the builders. As the world figures out you’re an angel, you will be crushed with a legion of founders who want your backing, and most of them will not be the “sweat equity” type. Most wannabe founders are waiting for an angel to anoint them with a $50,000 check before they start working on anything outside of a PowerPoint deck, or worse, delusionally long emails explaining why everything else out there sucks and their derivative idea will win—if only you believe in them and cut them a check. If the most a person can create without funding is a PowerPoint deck or an insufferable email, they have DQed themselves from running a startup—and you should tell them that in your own style. I don’t recommend using my style, which is uniquely abrasive but works with my personal brand and goals. I typically tell wannabe founders, “I invest in people who build things, not people who talk about building things.” My approach is to be judgmental and combative, if you haven’t figured that out.
Survivors aren’t fearless. They use fear: they turn it into anger and focus.
Deep Survival
Laurence Gonzales
Then there were the not-so-small days. In particular there was August 17, 2000. The only three words on the Surfer magazine cover that featured a photo of Hamilton riding Teahupoo on that date were “Oh My God.” Only a few months earlier a surfer had died in far tamer conditions, his neck broken and face torn off on the jagged coral, and that must have been on everyone’s mind when Hamilton, towed by Darrick Doerner, took off on a wave so massive and so vicious that spectators watching from boats feared they were watching a man’s last ride. There was just so much fury in this wave, a meat-grinder-cement-truck-wrath-of-God fury, that even now to watch it on video is a sobering experience. As the wave rose around him Hamilton couldn’t see it; he was riding backside, his body turned away from the barrel. But he could feel it, and his mind, he said later, screamed at him to abort, eject—anything but go through with this. At the same time, hesitation would have been fatal. As the lip slammed down on the reef the tube convulsed, the spray exploded around him, and he disappeared from sight. For a heartbeat or three no one knew if the wave had gotten him. Then he emerged, gliding along with his arms in the air. If Hamilton had fallen, the wave cognoscenti agreed, the only thing left of him would have been a red stain on the reef.
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