You just point to the ground and it'll drill and bring the water to the surface.

You just point to the ground and it'll drill and bring the water to the surface.

You stand in the yard, looking around, then finally tap the ground with your foot and say, "Right here." After farming for so many years, you have a general idea of which plots of soil are good and which yield water. But it's just a feeling; whether there's water, and how deep, depends on it.

You take a few steps back and let it work. The machine stands up, and the drill starts moving down. A rumbling sound fills the air as you stand and watch. One meter, two meters, five meters, ten meters—the soil is turned up, wet; sand is brought up, even wetter. You squat down and squeeze it; it's cool, and your heart skips a beat. But you still stand there, waiting, letting it work on its own.

It drills down by itself, brings up soil on its own, and finds the hidden underground waterway. You don't need to worry, you don't need to lift a finger, you don't need to rush it. It knows where to go, when to push harder, and when the water is almost there. You just point and say, "Right here," and it takes care of the rest.

Then the water comes. It gushes from the pipe, clear and icy cold, splashing you all over, but you don't flinch. You crouch down, cup your hands, and take a sip—it's sweet. At that moment, you know you haven't pointed in the wrong place, and it hasn't disappointed you. The spring hidden underground has finally been brought to light by your combined efforts.

You just point and say, "Right here," and it takes care of the rest, drilling and bringing the water to you. From today onward, you trust not only your own eyesight but also this machine that drills through everything for you.