Loop mode was simple: if anyone started the engine without my authorization code, Ghost locked all manual controls, throttled to a safe cruising speed, and traced an endless figure-eight pattern until I reset it. It was an old-school containment drill disguised as nautical choreography. No danger, no crash, no escape. A lesson that lasted as long as the battery did.
I hadn't used it yet. Until Skyler Campbell made the shortlist.
The next few days, the lake was quiet. Too quiet. No flyers, no committee patrols, no polite "just checking in." That only meant one thing: she was planning something. Skyler wasn't a quitter; she was a strategist.
Every HOA president I'd ever met followed the same playbook: charm, pressure, paperwork, escalation. When charm failed, she brought backup. When backup failed, she'd find a loophole. And when the loophole failed, that's when she'd get creative.
So, I decided to invite her creativity.
On Thursday night, I cleaned Ghost from bow to stern. I buffed the hull until it shone under the single boathouse bulb, rechecked every seal, then installed a new motion sensor under the console: invisible, sensitive, tied straight to my phone. The GPS transponder pinged green. Camera feed armed. System ready.
Friday morning, I parked my truck halfway down the road into town and left my gate slightly ajar—not wide open, just enough to whisper temptation. A real angler never yanks the line too soon. As I drove away, the cabin shrank in my rearview mirror: small, quiet, and innocent. The kind of place no one would ever expect could launch an ambush.
Twenty minutes into my drive, my phone buzzed once. Then again. Then again.
Alert: East Dock gate breach.
Alert: Motion detected — Ghost system.
Alert: Unauthorized access attempt.
Alert: Ignition activated without code. Loop mode initiated.
I smiled. Showtime.
I pulled over by a gas station overlooking the lake and opened the live feed. The image loaded grainy at first, then sharpened, and there she was: Skyler Campbell. She'd ditched the cardigan for a hoodie and jeans, hair pulled back, clipboard nowhere in sight. She looked like a teenager trying to steal beer, glancing around every few seconds like she expected a camera—which, to be fair, she should have.
Her hands shook as she reached the console. She pressed buttons, tugged the throttle. Then, with a triumphant grin, she hit the ignition.