Preschool Pirates and the Shipwrecked Plan

The kids sank my plan—but floated a lesson for me.

“A wise teacher knows the classroom is a circle, not a stage.” — Kevin Guiney

In 1979, I was a high school senior enrolled in a new elective called Family Studies. At the time, it was a pilot program running in just two schools in the Sudbury, Ontario district. It aimed to give teenagers—not just the mechanics of parenting, but a window into the emotional and practical responsibilities of raising a child. And yes, teen pregnancy was a thing back then, too.

What made this program stand out wasn’t just the content. It was immersive. We weren’t just reading textbooks—we were engaging with preschoolers, preparing lesson plans, and even reporting to the Board of Education as student representatives. I was one of two students invited to sit on the Steering Committee, where we provided feedback from inside the classroom. Looking back, it was ahead of its time.

The course was led by a passionate teacher—herself a young mother—who truly believed in the curriculum. Her assignments were creative and open-ended, designed to make you think, investigate, and reflect. And remember, this was a pre-Google, pre-ChatGPT world. Research meant legwork: interviews, libraries, conversations.

My high school in Chelmsford was best known for its trade programs—drafting, welding, carpentry, electrical, auto-mechanics, and machine shop. In grade 10, you specialized, and I had chosen Electrical. But this parenting class was my elective, and it was worlds apart from circuits and solder.

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The Assignment

One standout assignment was to create and deliver a short lesson plan—15 to 20 minutes—for the children in the on-site preschool. We toured the classroom, observed the routine, the setup, and were told to develop a hands-on activity.

Not sure where to start, I walked over to a nearby elementary school—one I’d attended from grades 3 through 6—and spoke with a kindergarten teacher. I explained the assignment and asked for advice. She smiled and asked, “Do you have water in the preschool classroom?”

I told her yes—there was a large water table, like a fish tank on wheels.

“Then teach them about floating and sinking,” she said. “Kids love water.”

Perfect.

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The Plan

I gathered small objects: corks, erasers, fishing bobbers, paper clips—items that would obviously float or sink. I envisioned a tidy, orderly lesson. I’d explain the concept, then have each child test an object and tell me what happened. Simple, structured, effective.

Or so I thought.

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The Chaos

I arrived early to set up. I moved the water tub to the center of the room, laid out a white towel on a table like a surgical tray, and neatly arranged my floating/sinking objects. It looked like I was prepping for a science demo—or minor surgery.

The preschoolers were sitting cross-legged on a big circular rug as their teacher read them a story, animating each character with different voices. They were captivated. When she finished, she introduced me with a smile and stepped aside.

I was nervous. Really nervous.

I said hello and told them I was going to teach them about floating and sinking. I asked if they liked playing with the water tank. “YEAH!” they screamed in unison. I explained: if an item stays on top of the water, it floats; if it drops to the bottom, it sinks. Then I asked, “Are you ready to get wet?”

And that’s when everything went off the rails.

Before I could blink, the kids stormed the water tank like a swarm of bees drawn to honey. They grabbed the objects off my towel and started flinging them into the water. Corks, clips, toys—flying everywhere. Water splashed across the room. My carefully organized plan was instantly drowned.

I looked helplessly at the preschool teacher. She smiled gently and gave a little shrug that said, “Welcome to the real world.”

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The Recovery

I had to think fast. I grabbed a small basket and started gathering up the objects. Then I called the kids one at a time: come get an item, test it in the tank, come back and tell me—did it float or sink? If they got it right, they got another item. If not, we talked about why.

It was chaotic, loud, and I was soaked by the end of it. But the kids had fun. And, somehow, the key concept stuck.

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The Real Lesson

That day, the kids weren’t the only ones learning something.

I had gone in with a rigid plan, expecting it to unfold exactly as I imagined. No backup. No Plan B. When it didn’t go that way, I panicked—but I adapted. And that’s where the real learning happened.

Today, in the business world, we talk a lot about contingency planning. What if the tech fails? What if the client cancels? What if the slides won’t load? You learn to have handouts. You learn to pivot. That day with the preschoolers was my first crash course in that reality.

The parenting class gave me insights into the responsibilities of raising children. But those kids at the water table? They taught me something far more lasting:

That the best plans are the ones you're ready to change—especially on the fly.