Founder Journey – Part 3: Swing Hard. Walk Away. Start Again.

From a golf course in Hanoi to a fishing boat in Mindanao. A story about grit, belief, and moving on.

It was 2013. A hot, heavy day in Hanoi—the kind of humid that makes your shirt cling and your energy sink. I was standing in the lobby of the Hanoi Hotel with Stanley Boots and Richard Frost. We’d just come out of a brutal round of meetings with the World Bank. Everyone was frustrated. The project was faltering. We were deep into an infrastructure study for a 220-kilometre expressway running from Ninh Binh down to Bai Vot. It was ambitious, transformational even. But it wasn’t working. The Vietnamese government wanted this road badly. And for good reason: better connectivity between the north and central regions, increased economic access, a modern expressway to replace the crumbling roads that groaned under the weight of everything from trucks to chickens.

But here was the problem—this beautiful stretch of road was going to cost $3.5 billion to build. And there just wasn’t enough traffic to justify it. We’d run every model we could think of. Rechecked the traffic forecasts. Dug into toll sensitivity. Looked for shadow benefits, catalytic effects—anything that might make the numbers work. But they wouldn’t budge. The revenue gap remained stubborn, and the economic justification was shaky at best. To make matters worse, the route being proposed by the government was arguably the worst option on the table. It cut across wetlands and wound through mountainous terrain, making the project unnecessarily expensive and difficult to design, construct, and operate. We had to deliver this unwelcome truth to the Bank and the Vietnamese government. No one was happy. We weren’t either.

It was tough. I think we’d worked a 20-hour day just before the presentation. That kind of stress sticks in the body. You carry it behind your eyes and in the set of your shoulders. After the meetings, we needed to decompress. So we wandered back to the Hanoi Hotel, to the driving range tucked behind the building. There’s a lake there, where you can smack floating golf balls out into the water. Don’t worry - someone comes by to scoop them up later, a never-ending loop of release and return. I remember standing there, club in hand, watching a ball sail out over the lake. There was something metaphorical in it. We’d just swung hard at a project that wouldn’t fly. And yet… the ambition behind it, the possibility—it was still beautiful. Still worth trying for. That evening became a turning point.

A Beer, A Lake, A Wild Idea

So there we were—three slightly sunburnt consultants, half-cut on Hanoi beer, launching golf balls into a lake behind the Hanoi Hotel. Stanley Boots—lawyer, maverick, and resident wildcard—looked across at Frosty and me and said, “I’ve got this idea.”

Now, before I tell you what the idea was, let me tell you about Stan. He’s one of the most relentlessly creative people I’ve worked with. A lawyer by profession—Hogan Lovells, no less—but an entrepreneur at heart. He’d had startups before. He once grew a Vietnamese variety of rice in Japan. He ran a laser tag factory in the basement of a hotel that also sold hot dogs and fries. He even dragged the World Bank team out to play laser tag one evening.

Honestly? It was probably one of the best bonding experiences of that whole two-year project. So here we are—sweaty, weary, decompressing—and Stan pitches the idea:

“Why don’t we set up our own legal and advisory consultancy? A firm that can deliver the full PPP feasibility stack—legal, technical, and financial—all under one roof. We wouldn’t have to outsource anymore. We’d work with people we trust. It would be faster, cheaper, better.”

It was bold. Visionary, even. The kind of model that made perfect sense on paper—and coming from Stanley, it had a flair of cowboy grit.

“Let’s call it Frontier,” he said. “It’ll be like entering a new frontier.”

Stan’s American, so frontiers and wild ideas come naturally. But behind the jokes and beers, I could see the shape of something real. Something that might work.

And yet—I was scared.

I was having a rough time back at CH2M Hill. Offices were closing. The writing was on the wall, and I knew I wanted to stay in Southeast Asia. But stepping into the founder world? That felt like jumping off a cliff without a parachute. I’d never started a company before. I wasn’t an engineer—I was a project manager, deal structurer, and transaction advisor. Frosty, for his part, was excellent with numbers: traffic modelling, economic appraisals. But he wasn’t keen. He was older than us, dealing with rheumatoid arthritis, and simply didn’t have the appetite for risk. So that night it remained just an idea. We drank a few more beers. Laughed. Talked about what-ifs. And then we all went our separate ways. I flew back to the Philippines, Stan returned to Hogan Lovells, and for three months—maybe more—we didn’t speak about it again. But the idea had landed. Just like those floating golf balls, it hadn’t sunk. It was still out there, drifting quietly. Waiting…

Winning the Battle, Losing the War

Back in the Philippines, things were looking up—at least on paper. I’d just helped the Manila office win a major bridge project—one of the largest infrastructure undertakings the country had ever considered. We landed the first phase: a million-dollar engagement for preliminary design. If our consortium secured the full bid from the government, the second phase was expected to be worth somewhere between $20 and $22 million. It was a complex bid, and I was leading it—working across time zones with our internal experts in the UK and India. I didn’t know much about bridges at that point, but I was the one fronting the positioning and the negotiations, especially with Leighton’s Manila office. Negotiating with contractors is something I’ve always enjoyed. I grew up around building sites. My family was in construction. These were my kind of people. I wasn’t about to get rattled by a few burly old blokes trying to throw their weight around for a better deal. This one felt like it was made for me. And I got it—on the terms I wanted.

For me, this was it. This was how I’d save the Philippines office. Surely this would convince the leadership in Denver that our office had a future. How wrong I was. Shortly after the contract was secured, I received the news:

“Well done, Ben. You’ve proved you’re great at sales… but we’re still shutting down the Philippines office. Our focus is shifting to Singapore.”

It was a gut punch. I was pissed off. I couldn’t believe it. I’d done exactly what the business needed—proven market demand, won a flagship deal, created a long-term revenue stream. But it still wasn’t enough.

The Smartest Move I Never Knew I Was Making

I reached back out to Stan.

“I’m in,” I told him. “Let’s do this.”

Before we incorporated anything, I started talking to customers. Quietly. Discreetly. I met with senior leaders in several major conglomerates and pitched the idea of a small, specialist firm. Legal and technical advisory under one roof. No big offices. No bloated overhead. Just good people who knew how to get PPP feasibility studies done properly.

And the response? Warm. Generous. Encouraging. Several said yes.

I flew to Vietnam. Stan hosted me at his family home. I slept in his son’s bedroom—who, with quiet grace, got demoted to the sofa. We spent our days planning. Talking vision. Talking values. We weren’t just building a business—we were building it from the region, for the region.

Those days were wet. Humid. Thick with mosquitoes. But I didn’t care. I was starting something new. Tearing off the metaphorical band-aid. And going for it. As I flew back to the Philippines, I wasn’t just excited. I was ready. (Also violently unwell with chikungunya, a charming little virus courtesy of the local mosquitoes. 72 hours of joy.)

Comfort is the Enemy

I had to change everything. I left my luxury apartment in Makati’s Greenbelt. Moved somewhere older, cheaper. Gave up my gym membership. Scaled everything back. In my head, it was Rocky I. I was just starting out—I needed things to be raw, stripped down. If my surroundings were too comfortable, I’d lose the edge. I wanted to feel the pressure. Back against the wall. Nothing to hide behind. That way, when the wins came, they’d mean something. And fight for them I did.

We called it Frontier Law and Advisory. Incorporated in Hong Kong, with a subsidiary in Vietnam. No entity in the Philippines. Not yet. I resigned from CH2M Hill. They weren’t thrilled. I’d won a major project and now I was walking. They asked me to stay on as project manager— which I did for a brief period.

I was hooked. Mornings in the rusty apartment gym or sweating it out at an old-school boxing gym—no aircon, just grit. Trainers who beasted me for 90 minutes until I was nearly puking. I loved it. Podcasts in my ears—Branson, founders, builders—feeding the fire. In the gym, I like to visualise what winning looks like. The steps I’ll take. How I’ll structure the deal. How I’ll land the negotiation. When I train, I’m a million miles away in my head. My thought process runs deep. In fact, some of my best ideas—and biggest wins—have come from the treadmill or the dumbbell rack - I am still the same today.

After the gym i’d head upstairs, straight to the laptop, building Frontier.

We landed two big contracts early on: a pre-feasibility study for Metro Pacific, under Rodrigo Franco—a dream client. And a legal mandate with ADB to help draft Vietnam’s PPP law.

But then came the hitch. ADB didn’t pay—at least not on time. (Surprise, surprise. Anyone who’s worked with MDBs knows the drill.) Cash flow started to tighten. We had a growing team and salaries to meet. And just as things were beginning to bite, a message landed in my LinkedIn inbox.

The Moment of Integrity

Kelly Wachowicz from Encourage Capital had reached out. She wanted to know if we could help design a brand-new PPP model for a fishing port in the Philippines.

We didn’t hesitate. We jumped at it. - To quote Richard Brandson “If someone offers you an amazing opportunity and you're not sure you can do it, say yes - then learn how to do it later.” That was exactly the case here. We had zero experience in fishing ports but we knew PPPs.

It was a fascinating opportunity. We couldn’t find evidence of any public–private partnerships ever being structured around fishing ports. Bloomberg Philanthropies and the Rockefeller Foundation were backing it. And we knew we could add value.

Stan and I rushed together a proposal: $25,000 for a short pre-feasibility study. But something about it didn’t sit right. We were trying to win it cheaply. We were writing what we thought they’d approve—not what they really needed.

I turned to Stan and said,

“This isn’t what they need.”

He nodded. We both knew.

We’d made a founding promise at Frontier: always listen to the customer—and never submit something just to get paid. So we pulled the proposal. Missed the deadline. Emailed Kelly, asking for 24 more hours. She wasn’t thrilled—it was our first proper engagement—but she agreed.

And in that next 24 hours, we reimagined everything.

We put together a full proposal for $250,000—ten times our original amount. Not just a study of the port, but a blueprint for an entirely new PPP model. One stream from fish catch and port users. Another from data monetisation—collected from fishing vessels and used to improve operations, sustainability, and policy. It was ambitious. But it was right.

Stan kept asking, “Are you sure about these numbers?”

And I was. I’d built it out from the bottom up in a financial model. We either do this properly—or not at all. We submitted it. A few days later, Encourage called. They had questions. We answered. Then came a midnight negotiation with their legal team.

And then… they said yes.

We landed the deal. $250,000. The first-ever PPP for a fishing port. And we were three months old.

The Best Work of My Life

We kicked things off fast. We brought in sector experts from Rebel Group to help build out the financial model. Hired local fisheries consultants in the Philippines—people who understood the design and operations of ports on the ground. These guys had previously worked at the port on behalf of the Government. We needed insight, access, and cultural fluency to get this right. We weren’t interested in dropping in with theory. This needed to be real. At one point, we had 17 people working for Frontiert. And we were only six months old.

The work took us across the country—seven fishing ports in total. Each with its own quirks. But one stood out above the rest: General Santos, or Gensan, in Mindanao. The Tuna Capital of the Philippines. Now, if you Google Mindanao, you’ll see a mess of travel warnings—stories of instability, kidnappings, conflict zones. But that wasn’t my experience. Not even close. I spent nearly three months in Gensan. Every day, I was at the fishing port—walking it, studying it, getting to know the people who kept it running. The fisher folk were generous with their time. Proud of their work. Welcoming. I never once felt unsafe. In fact, I was treated with more warmth and respect there than in many polished boardrooms I’ve sat in.

I met the mayor of General Santos. I met Manny Pacquiao—and even stayed at his hotel. But what I’ll never forget is going out on one of the boats at dawn, watching the crew pull in a massive yellowfin tuna, and carving it up on the deck. I ate delicious fresh sashimi, right there on the deck for breakfast with the worst 3-in-1 coffee i’ve ever tasted. Salty air. Saltier hands. It was unforgettable. That moment—on the boat, eyes stinging from the sun and the sea, fork in one hand and notebook in the other—that was the best moment of my entire career.

I walked the entire 32-hectare port. Every inch. I needed to understand everything. Where the fish landed. How it moved. What storage was available. What the data flows looked like. I wanted to know every slipway, every facility, every crack in the pavement. Because if we were going to propose a public–private partnership model, it had to come from deep understanding—not a desk in Manila. The quality of the work spoke for itself.

Encourage gave us a second phase of the project—another $250,000. In total, we brought in half a million dollars from that one deal. It carried us through a moment when most startups would have crumbled. And it led to something else: they flew us to New York to train their team and partners on PPPs—how feasibility studies work, what good looks like, and how this fishing port model might just become the start of something much bigger.

None of it was easy, though. During one of the crunch periods, Stan flew to Manila. He was staying in a tiny hotel room—one of those where the bed touches three of the four walls. We set up our laptops on a round table, back-to-back. No AI. No shortcuts. Just deep thinking, honest questions, and hard graft. We were working until dawn. Wiping sweat off the keyboard. Calling out financial ratios and technical specs. And I loved it.

Because what we were doing mattered. We were inventing something that had never been done before. And doing it with real people, on real ground. It wasn’t just consulting. It was craft.

The Exit That Made Me a Founder

By month 14, Frontier Law and Advisory had done more than most startups achieve in years. We’d crossed $1 million in revenue, delivered work for clients like ADB, Bloomberg Philanthropies, and the Rockefeller Foundation, and built a team of 17 people across several countries. On paper, we were flying.

But behind the scenes, things were getting difficult.

Stan and I were pulling in different directions. He wanted to lean harder into the legal side of the business—and he’s brilliant at that. World Class. But I’m not a lawyer, and I didn’t want to become one. I cared about technical and management advisory. Project structuring. The gritty, real-world complexity of infrastructure finance.

We started clashing more often. Big disagreements. Different instincts. Different visions. It became clear that we weren’t just building a company—we were building different companies inside the same shell.

On top of that, I wanted to double down on the Philippines. That’s where the relationships were. Where I’d earned trust. Where I felt at home. But Stan was in Vietnam, and naturally, he wanted the centre of gravity to stay there. The split wasn’t just professional—it had become personal. And it was hard.

But I knew something had to give. So I made the call.

I exited.

My first ever startup. My first ever exit. I took the capital I earned from that chapter and used it to launch something new. A company I could shape fully, without compromise.

Bold Native Advisors.

This time, the focus was clear: technical and management consulting, built around the kind of work I’d done at EC Harris and Halcrow. No legal advisory. No ambiguity. Just deep infrastructure work, executed well. It was incorporated in the Philippines. 100% mine. My playbook. My rules. I was going it alone. Or so I thought. Because just a few weeks later, Richard Frost picked up the phone. He’d had enough of CH2M Hill. He was ready for something new. He was in. The old crew was back together.

But that—well, that’s a story for Part 4.

Enjoyed this? Got a project, startup, or moment you’re navigating?

I work with founders, teams, and investors to bring clarity to messy growth, find traction in complexity, and build companies that actually work.

You can reach me at bensheppardxyz@gmail.com

Or learn more at www.bensheppard.xyz