"Impressive," she said, already stepping closer than she should. "We used to have a community pontoon, you know. We'd host tours, sunset cruises, even weddings. Maybe you could revive that tradition."
"I don't do passengers."
"Oh, come on." She leaned on the railing, tilting her head. "You'd be the talk of the neighborhood. People love feeling included."
"Then they can buy their own boat."
She laughed, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You really don't understand how we do things here, do you?"
"No, Skyler," I said, locking eyes. "I understand perfectly. That's why I don't play."
Her jaw tightened. "You think you're special just because you have a fancy boat and a fence?"
"No," I said. "I think I'm safe because I do."
For a moment, something ugly passed behind her sunglasses—a twitch, a glint of offense turning into determination. Then she smiled again, that brittle HOA smile that promised retaliation hidden under layers of pastel civility.
"Well," she said sweetly, "enjoy your solitude."
"I do. Every day."
When she left, I didn't watch her go. I was busy checking that the hidden camera above the dock was running. It was. Battery full, storage empty, ready. Because if Skyler Campbell wanted a fight, she'd get one. She just wouldn't know when it started.
The thing about boundaries is people only notice them when they hit one. Up until then, they think the world is a buffet and your dock is the dessert table. So, I made the boundaries impossible to miss.
First came the gates: plain steel, waist-high, hinged into concrete footers I poured myself. No rustic charm, no Instagram aesthetic. These were verbs, not decorations. I welded a crossbar on each and set padlocks that could probably survive a bear attack and at least three HOA subcommittees.
Next came motion lights that flicked on like stage cues, and a pair of small dome cameras tucked into the eaves where the swallows used to nest. I rerouted the old wiring, snaked a line into an encrypted recorder, and tied the whole system to my phone with silent push alerts. If my coffee steamed, I'd know. If a blade of grass thought about leaning over the property line, I'd know that, too.
By late afternoon, I'd hung a simple sign on each gate: Stop. Private Property. Ring Bell. Wait. And just below that, in smaller letters that carried the exact opposite energy: Trespassers will be politely escorted off the premises by the sheriff's office. Repeated trespassers will be impolitely escorted.