When the Coast Guard called me at midnight asking why my boat, the Lucky Escape, was cruising 5 miles offshore with a dozen drunk people dancing on deck, I thought it was a prank. “I’m sorry, what?” I asked, sitting up in bed, still jet-lagged after flying back from a week-long work trip in Seattle. “Sir,” the officer said, “your registered vessel was just boarded. There are no life vests, unlicensed alcohol distribution, and no one on board has a boating license.”
“We need you to come down to the marina immediately.” I threw on jeans and grabbed my keys, my heart pounding like a war drum. My boat. I had locked her up tight before leaving. She was docked at my private slip behind a coated gate. No one should have gotten near her.
By the time I got to the marina, the Lucky Escape was tied up at the dock, flashing red and blue lights painting her white hull. Uniformed officers were still questioning a group of partygoers in dresses and polo shirts, people I didn’t recognize. And then I saw her standing stiffly, arms crossed, platinum blonde bob backlit by the deck lights. Olivia Cartrite, HOA president of the Windward Palms Residential Association. Mid-50s, permanently sour expression, and the self-appointed god of our waterfront community.
I walked up to the officers. “That’s my boat. Frederick Taylor. I didn’t authorize any of this.” One officer raised an eyebrow. “You know her?” He gestured at Olivia, who was now pretending not to see me.
“She’s the head of our HOA,” I said. “What the hell is going on here?” The officer sighed and pointed to a clipboard. “They claimed they had permission. Said the HOA controlled the dock properties and could authorize recreational use for community events.” I stared at him, stunned.
“That’s not even remotely true.” The moment Olivia noticed I wasn’t going away, she finally walked over, lips pursed like she just sucked on a lemon. “Frederick,” she said, voice dripping with fake concern. “We had to host the Windward Summer Gala somewhere since the clubhouse renovations weren’t finished yet. Your boat was the most presentable option. You weren’t using it.”
“You broke into it.” She waved her manicured hand. “Technically, the HOA has access rights to all shared dock resources.” I laughed. “That dock isn’t shared. It’s deeded to my property. You know that.”
“Well,” she snapped. “Maybe that’s something the association should revisit. In the meantime, you’re being unreasonable.” “Unreasonable?” I said, stepping closer. “You trespassed, threw a party with God knows what kind of liability, and now the Coast Guard’s involved.” “Which wouldn’t have happened if you kept your boat fully compliant,” she snapped back.
