The yard at Kettle Point ran on radio and memory for thirty years. Plans were made at the gate, changed by shout, and reconstructed at the end of the week from whoever's notebook had survived the rain.

The first month of running the morning on a shared ledger did not feel like software. It felt like the arguments getting shorter. A crane delay stopped being a negotiation and became a row everyone could see move.

The number that convinced the region was not throughput. It was the hour — the one every yard lead got back between the gate opening and the first real decision, every single morning.