HOA Karen Called 911 When I Refused Her Lake Usage Fee—She Didn’t Know I Own the Lake

 

Part 1

By the time the second patrol car rolled up to the boat launch, the situation was already ridiculous.

Two cruisers idling on the cul-de-sac, teenagers in rented kayaks frozen mid-paddle, HOA president standing on my dock in wedge sandals and righteous fury, shrieking about “aqua theft” like we were in a pirate movie.

“This man is stealing from the community!” she yelled, jabbing a French-manicured finger at me. “He’s using the lake without paying the lake usage fee. That’s wire fraud. That’s maritime crime.”

The kids glanced at each other, then at the glass-still water around them, as if maybe they were supposed to be wearing life vests and orange prison jumpsuits.

My dog Moose lay stretched out on the planks at my feet, head on his paws, ears flicking lazily. If dogs could roll their eyes, he would have.

I sat in my folding chair at the end of the dock, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, watching the show like it was cable I hadn’t paid for. Because unlike Lorraine, president of the Willowbend Lakes Homeowners Association, I wasn’t charging anyone to look at the lake.

Officer Number One climbed out of his cruiser trying very hard not to look amused. Officer Number Two followed, notebook at the ready.

“Ma’am,” Number One said, “just to clarify, you called 911 because he wouldn’t pay a lake fee?”

Lorraine Bishop—fifty-two, visor tan line, white linen blouse, an anchor necklace large enough to snag a small boat—held up a blue carbon-copy receipt like it was a federal warrant.

“The Willowbend Lakes HOA has established a mandatory lake usage fee of fifty dollars a month for any resident accessing community water features,” she declared. “He is refusing to pay and still using the shoreline.”

The officer turned to me.

“Sir, do you live here?”

“Yep,” I said, nodding toward the house behind me. “Ethan Cole. Been here three years.”

“And are you refusing to pay the HOA’s lake fee?”

“Yes,” I said, “because she’s charging people to use something that doesn’t belong to her.”

Lorraine laughed. It was a sharp, high sound that made the teenagers flinch.

“Doesn’t belong to me? Sweetie, the HOA owns this lake. I run this lake. I literally have it on a t-shirt.”

She did. I’d seen it: navy blue, white cursive text—LAKE BOSS. There’d been matching koozies.

I set my coffee down, reached into my backpack, and pulled out a thick plastic-covered document with a very boring, very official county stamp.

“Funny,” I said, handing it to the officer, “because according to the county recorder’s office, the lake belongs to me.”

He scanned the title deed, blinked twice, then slowly looked up at Lorraine.

“Ms. Bishop,” he said carefully, “we need to have a talk about who’s calling 911 on who… and who actually owns the water you’re selling.”

Three months before the squad cars and the lake-crime accusations, my life had been blissfully simple.

I’m Ethan. Thirty-five. Software engineer by trade, introvert by nature, allergic to open-plan offices and roommate dishes science experiments. After a decade of city noise and neighbors who thought “quiet hours” were a suggestion, I cashed out some stock, shoved everything I owned into boxes, and bought a house in Willowbend Lakes, a master-planned community outside Mapleford.

The house was aggressively beige. Beige siding, beige carpet, beige cabinets, beige everything. But the backyard opened up onto water—an honest-to-God small lake, ringed by trees and dotted with ducks. On summer nights, fireflies floated along the shoreline. Sometimes, a blue heron would stalk the shallows like an elderly ninja.

It looked exactly like the stock wallpaper I’d had on my computer for years.

At closing, my realtor slid a glossy binder across the table labeled WILLOWBEND LAKES HOA: RULES AND REGULATIONS. It landed with a thud.

“Don’t let it scare you,” she said. “They’re big on maintaining standards, but as long as you don’t paint your house neon or start a goat farm, you’ll be fine.”

Famous last words.

That night I flipped through the binder. No RV parking. Lawns mowed to a certain length. Trash cans out of sight. No inflatable Christmas displays over eight feet tall. Lakeside decor guidelines, dock appearance standards. Nothing that screamed Run while you can.

The HOA president introduced herself a week later.

I opened the front door to find a woman on my porch who looked like she’d stepped out of a catalog called Executive Lake Mom. White linen blouse, khaki capris, pearl earrings, the aforementioned anchor necklace. Her visor—embroidered with LAKE LIFE BOSS—sat at a jaunty angle.

“Welcome to Willowbend!” she chirped, thrusting a gift basket at me. “I’m Lorraine, HOA president. We are so thrilled to have another lakeside resident. The shoreline is our crown jewel.”

The basket held branded coozies, a fridge magnet with HOA contact info, and a pamphlet titled PROTECTING OUR SHARED WATER ASSETS.

I should have paid more attention to that phrase.

“So,” Lorraine said, voice dropping into that faux-casual tone people use when they’re about to tell you what to do. “What brought you to Willowbend? The schools, the amenities, the sense of community?”

“Honestly,” I said, “the quiet. And the lake.”

She beamed. “Yes, it’s such a blessing. Of course, we take our lakes very seriously here. They’re community property.”

I nodded. “I saw something about easements in the closing docs.”

She waved a manicured hand. “Legalese. The important thing is, the HOA manages the lakes—fish, docks, boat launches, views. All of it. Keeps things fair.”

“Sure,” I said. “I can follow some dock-color rules.”

She smiled wider, but her eyes lingered past me, toward the sliver of water visible through my living room window.

“Such a lovely view,” she said. “We make sure everyone contributes to keeping it that way.”

At the time, I thought that meant “don’t leave beer cans on the shoreline.”

I didn’t know yet that in Lorraine’s head, “contributes” meant “pays me rent for looking at water.”

 

Part 2

The first sign that Lorraine wasn’t just enthusiastic but actively unhinged came in a pastel green envelope.

Subject line: EXCITING NEW AMENITY!

“Dear Willowbend Lakes resident,” it began in chirpy font, “in order to maintain and enhance our Premium Water Experience™ the HOA is implementing a Lake Usage Fee for all residents who access our lakes, ponds, and canals.”

Below that, three tiers:

Basic Splash Package – $50/month
• Shoreline access
• “Hand fishing”
• Eligible for quarterly Duck Newsletter

Silver Paddle Package – $75/month
• All Basic perks
• Non-motorized boat access
• Two guest wristbands

Golden Wake Package – $100/month
• All Silver perks
• Priority sunset slots
• “Premier lake experience”

I read it twice. Then checked the calendar to make sure it wasn’t April Fools’.

Attached was a FAQ sheet.

Q: I already pay HOA dues. Why do I need a Lake Usage Fee?
A: HOA dues cover common landscaping and administrative costs. Our lakes are a premium shared resource requiring separate funding.

Q: What if my property line goes to the water?
A: The water itself and any shoreline visuals remain under HOA jurisdiction.

Shoreline visuals.

“I think she just tried to charge me for looking out my own window,” I told Moose.

He sneezed on the letter.

The next day, I got a follow-up email from [email protected].

Hi Ethan!

Just a reminder to submit your Lake Usage Tier. As a lakeside owner, you have mandatory participation in our Premium Water Program. I saw your little dock—so cute!—so I went ahead and penciled you in for the Golden Wake package. We’ll add it to your next statement.

Lake Love,
Lorraine 💙

I stared at the email, counted to ten, and typed:

Hey Lorraine,

Thanks for the info, but I’m not opting into the lake usage fee. I’ll maintain my dock and use my yard as allowed by the CC&Rs.

Best,
Ethan

She replied five minutes later.

Ethan,

It’s not optional. Lakes are common property. If you use the shoreline, you pay. Please remember the HOA has full authority over water access.

Lake Regards,
L

From there, things escalated like a bad comedy.

First came the “Courtesy Reminders” taped to my front door.

Observed lakeside activity without visible wristband.

Unauthorized sunrise coffee on dock (Golden Wake perk only).

Dog within 5 ft of shoreline without Lake Pet Pass.

Then I noticed strangers patrolling the public walkway that ran behind the lakeside homes. Two guys in matching blue polos embroidered with WILLOWBEND WATER RANGERS. Clipboards. Radios. One had binoculars.

I watched from my kitchen window as they stopped behind my yard, pointed at my dock, and took photos like it was a crime scene.

Next, Lorraine rolled out a wristband system.

“To ensure fair and rule-abiding enjoyment,” her email read, “all residents and guests must wear their Lake Wristband when within visual distance of water features.”

At the end of the week, a bright orange band arrived in my mailbox with a note.

We’ve issued you a temporary Basic Splash band until your Golden Wake payment clears. Please upgrade ASAP. – L

I put the wristband on Moose’s favorite stuffed duck and went on with my life.

The fines started a few days later.

VIOLATION NOTICE

Issue: Unauthorized launch of watercraft (kayak) from community shoreline without active Lake Usage Fee.

Fine: $200

Notes: Resident observed kayaking at 6:47 PM without visible wristband. This constitutes theft of community water resources.

I took a photo of the letter with my phone, then wrote back.

Lorraine,

Show me where in the recorded CC&Rs it gives the HOA ownership of the lake itself. Not the path. Not the park. The lake. Until then, I’m not paying your made-up fee.

Ethan

She emailed a PDF of the rules binder I already had, highlighted phrases like “water features” and “community aesthetic,” and wrote:

We own the lakes by implication. That’s how HOAs work.

I sat there for a moment, absorbing that.

Then I did what any mildly anxious engineer with a deep love of clear definitions would do.

I opened the county’s online parcel viewer.

The interface looked like it had been designed in 2003 and never updated, but it did the job. I zoomed in on Willowbend Lakes, expecting to see one big shaded blob labeled “Lot A – HOA Common Area (Lake).”

Instead, I saw rectangles for the houses. Thin strips for the HOA-owned parks and paths. And a long, winding blue shape for the lake… with its own parcel number.

Curious, I clicked it.

OWNER OF RECORD: COLE, ETHAN M.
ACQUIRED: three years ago (same date as my house closing)

I blinked.

I clicked again, pulled up the deed, and scrolled.

GRANTS AND CONVEYS to Ethan M. Cole… parcel 18-L, described as “water retention basin and associated lake body”… future maintenance at owner’s discretion, subject to environmental regulations.

My stupid little lake was legally mine.

The shoreline around it came with easements so neighbors could get right up to the water. But the water itself? The lake bed? The surface?

Not the HOA’s.

Mine.

Buried somewhere in the stack of papers I’d signed at closing, behind the HOA binder and the mortgage note and the insurance disclosures, had been an extra file: the lake parcel, tossed in as an incentive by a developer who’d apparently decided, “Let the new guy have the pond, what could possibly go wrong?”

I dug out my closing packet from a box labeled IMPORTANT ADULT THINGS and found it. Same parcel number. Same stamp. Same signature.

I emailed the county recorder’s office to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating. They replied the next day.

Yes, Mr. Cole, parcel 18-L (lake body) is titled solely to you. HOA common-area parcels are listed separately.

So not only was Lorraine trying to charge me to use my own lake, she was charging everyone else to use it too.

I sat there, staring at the screen, feeling something I rarely felt: a sudden, blazing desire for confrontation.

“Moose,” I said, “we’re about to become the Petty Kraken.”

He wagged his tail.

I sent Lorraine one more email.

Lorraine,

Please see attached deed and parcel record showing I own the lake (parcel 18-L). You’re attempting to charge people a Lake Usage Fee for property that belongs to me, not the HOA. That’s a problem.

I suggest suspending your Lake Program until this is corrected.

Ethan

Ten minutes later, my phone rang.

“Ethan,” she said, sugar poured over barbed wire. “This is all a misunderstanding. The developer always intended the lake to be common property. It’s just… paperwork lag.”

“There is no lag,” I said. “There’s a deed with my name on it.”

“Well,” she sniffed, flipping from sweet to condescending so fast it gave me whiplash, “regardless of technical title, the HOA controls community access. If you keep undermining our Lake Usage Program, I will treat it as theft of HOA funds and trespass on common views.”

“Common views?” I repeated.

“Yes,” she said. “You can’t monopolize what everyone sees. You’re stealing visual enjoyment.”

I hung up before my IQ dropped ten points.

Two days later, she called the cops.

 

Part 3

It was a Saturday morning, clear and quiet. Sunrise had turned the lake into a sheet of copper. Ducks cut little Vs through the reflection. Moose snuffled along the dock, investigating something only dogs and toddlers find interesting.

I’d just sat down with my coffee when the Water Rangers appeared on the public path behind my yard.

They marched like they’d practiced it. Matching blue polos, clipboards, one of them wearing a GoPro strapped to his chest like he expected a nature documentary to break out.

“Sir,” the taller one called out, adopting his Official Voice, “you’re in violation of the Golden Wake policy.”

I looked at my mug, then at my pajama pants, then at the completely stationary kayak tied to my dock.

“Golden Wake doesn’t exist,” I said. “Also, it sounds like a shampoo.”

“You’ve exceeded your daily shoreline linger time without a wristband,” he recited. “We’re documenting for the board.”

“You can document my breakfast,” I said. “Get off my parcel.”

“This is common shoreline,” the shorter one announced, puffing up. “The HOA owns this access.”

“That dock,” I said, pointing down, “extends halfway into parcel 18-L. That’s my lake. You are quite literally standing on me. Leave.”

They looked at each other. The taller one glanced at his clipboard like maybe an answer would appear.

“We are authorized to enforce lake regulations,” he said. “Per the president’s directive.”

“Per the county recorder’s office,” I said, “you’re trespassing. You’ve had your fun. Get off my dock before I toss you in and invoice the HOA for a rescue.”

I took a step toward them. Not lunging, not shouting. Just… done.

The shorter one stumbled back onto the public path. The taller one held his ground just long enough to yell, “We’ll be reporting you!”

“Great,” I said. “Report me directly to the person who owns the water I’m supposedly stealing.”

What I didn’t know then was that across the lake, behind carefully drawn blinds, Lorraine was watching the whole thing like an angry lifeguard.

She didn’t call me. She called 911.

“Hello,” she gasped into the phone, putting every drama teacher she’d ever had to shame. “There’s a man at Willowbend Lakes attacking HOA officers and trespassing on community water. He’s refusing to pay mandatory fees. He might be armed.”

“Is anyone injured, ma’am?” the dispatcher asked.

“Not yet,” she said ominously.

So when the squad cars rolled up twenty minutes later, lights flashing, the scene was already set. Lorraine waited near the path entrance with a folder of fine notices and a trembling hand on her chest. The Water Rangers stood a respectful distance away, suddenly very interested in their clipboards.

And I was on my dock with Moose, drinking coffee.

We’ve already covered the part where she accused me of “maritime crime” and I handed over the deed.

Officer Number One took photos of the documents with his body cam. Officer Number Two flipped through Lorraine’s lake-fee letters and wristband charts, his face doing that thing where it tries to stay neutral and fails.

“So,” Number One said after a minute, “just so we’re clear: Mr. Cole owns the lake—this parcel here, including the water and lake bed.”

“Yes,” I said. “Neighbors have easements to get to the edge. I’m not trying to block anyone. Just… not paying a subscription fee for my own pond.”

The officer turned to Lorraine.

“Ma’am, did you know the HOA doesn’t actually own the lake?”

She crossed her arms. “We own the aesthetics,” she said. “The community experience. That’s what the fees are for. It’s implied in the master plan.”

“That’s not how property law works,” he said. “Also, you told dispatch there was an assault and possibly a weapon.”

“There was an assault,” she insisted, pointing at me. “He threatened my rangers.”

Both Rangers suddenly found the sky fascinating.

“Did he touch you?” the officer asked the taller one.

“Uh,” Water Ranger said, “no, sir. He told us to get off his dock. Called the fee stupid. That’s about it.”

The officer’s patience visibly frayed.

“All right,” he said. “Nobody is going to jail over lake wristbands today. We’re filing an incident report. Mr. Cole, if you want to pursue this, you should talk to a lawyer. Ms. Bishop, 911 is for emergencies, not HOA disputes. If you keep misusing it, you’re the one who’ll be facing charges.”

He handed me back the deed. Moose sniffed it approvingly.

They left. Lorraine stomped back to her house, muttering about ungrateful residents and how this wouldn’t stand.

I waited until the cruisers were out of sight. Then I went inside, opened my laptop, and emailed my lawyer.

Because yes, I’d already gotten one.

Once I’d realized I owned the lake, I’d booked a consult with a local property attorney I’d found via some late-night Googling.

Her name was Alicia Tran. Mid-thirties, sharp suit, sharper wit, office cramped with casebooks and framed novelty mugs. The one on her desk that day had read ASK ME ABOUT YOUR EASEMENTS.

I’d brought a copy of my deed, the HOA binder, and Lorraine’s emails. I’d left with a sense that I was no longer merely annoyed; I was on a quest.

“So the HOA is collecting money for a resource they don’t own,” Alicia had said, pacing her tiny office. “And using threats of enforcement to do it. And they called the cops on you, the owner, when you pushed back.”

“That about sums it up,” I’d said.

She’d grinned. “This,” she’d said, “is my new favorite thing. Forward me everything.”

Now I forwarded her the incident report and a summary of Lorraine’s 911 performance.

She called me within the hour.

“I owe you a muffin basket,” she said. “Every time I think HOA stories can’t get dumber, they exceed my expectations.”

“That’s a weird thing to be happy about,” I said.

“I didn’t say I was happy for you,” she replied. “I’m happy for me. This is catnip.”

Within a week, she’d fired off a cease-and-desist to the HOA, demanding they halt all lake fees and issue refunds to residents.

She’d filed a complaint with the county consumer protection office flagging a “potential pattern of fraudulent amenity fees.”

She’d notified the state attorney general’s office with a tidy little packet labeled UNAUTHORIZED LAKE USAGE PROGRAM.

The Willowbend Lakes board, which had been happily rubber-stamping Lorraine’s initiatives between potlucks, suddenly found themselves cc’d on letters from people with titles like Investigator and Assistant Attorney General.

They started emailing me privately.

We honestly thought the lake was HOA-owned, one wrote. Lorraine said the developer promised.

We never saw the actual title, another confessed. She handled all that. Please don’t sue us personally. We’re just trying to keep the pool chairs from disappearing.

Meanwhile, the neighborhood began to wake up.

Screenshots of the lake-fee letters and my parcel map made their way into the Willowbend Residents Facebook group.

Wait, so the lake usage fee we’ve been paying doesn’t go to the lake’s owner?

Is that why nothing’s been done about the algae?

I tried to cancel and Lorraine said I’d be “alienated from community water.”

Somewhere in there, someone made a meme of Lorraine’s face Photoshopped onto a pirate with the caption PAY YOUR WATER TAXES, SCALLYWAG.

Lorraine responded the way she always did: by doubling down.

Ignore false claims circulating about lake ownership, she wrote in an all-caps email. The HOA retains full MORAL CONTROL of community water regardless of technical title. All residents must continue paying lake fees pending legal clarification. Failure to do so will result in LIENS.

“Moral control,” Alicia repeated when I forwarded it to her. “I’m printing this. I want it over my desk.”

Then came the special meeting.

 

Part 4

You could tell it was serious because two things happened that never happened at HOA meetings:

Someone reserved extra folding chairs, and a reporter showed up.

Lorraine had called the special Lake Governance Meeting expecting to rally the faithful and stare down the “misinformation.” Instead, half the neighborhood crammed into the Willowbend clubhouse—lakeside owners, inland townhome folks, even a couple of retirees who usually only came out for bingo.

At the front of the room, a banner hung crookedly over the dais: PRESERVING OUR WATER LEGACY.

Lorraine stood behind the podium in a navy blazer with her anchor pin, stacks of paper arranged like ammunition. Behind her sat the rest of the board: treasurer, secretary, and two members-at-large who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.

Alicia slid into a seat near the front, laptop bag slung over her shoulder. I took a spot beside her. Moose napped in the car; even I knew better than to bring him to this circus.

The county consumer protection investigator—name tag: DELORES HARRIS—sat in the second row, yellow legal pad ready.

Lorraine tapped the mic.

“Order, please,” she said. “We are here tonight to clarify some unfortunate misunderstandings about our Lake Usage Program.”

Someone in the back whispered, “You mean the lake tax?” A ripple of laughter rolled through the room.

Lorraine clicked a remote. The overhead projector flickered to life, displaying a slide of stock photo families kayaking at sunset.

“Our community’s lakes,” she began, “are our most precious shared asset. The Lake Usage Program was designed to ensure fairness and sustainability. Sadly, a few individuals have chosen to attack this program for their own benefit.”

A photo of me, taken from the public path—coffee cup in hand on my dock—flashed on the screen with a big red question mark over my face.

“For example,” she said, “this resident has refused to pay fees like everyone else while repeatedly using our community water. He has even claimed to ‘own’ the lake.”

Murmurs. A couple of neighbors looked at me, eyebrows raised.

Alicia leaned over. “Showtime,” she whispered.

Lorraine went on about shared aquatic vision and future kayaking festivals. The phrase “moral ownership” got a slide all to itself.

“How about actual ownership?” someone called out.

She glared in the general direction of the voice.

“We’ll address title technicalities in due time,” she said. “But first, I’d like to remind everyone that the developer always intended the lakes to be common property. It’s simply a matter of aligning documents. In the meantime, the board has the authority—”

“Excuse me,” Alicia said, standing. “Point of order.”

Lorraine’s jaw tightened. “This is a board meeting. Residents will have time for questions at the end.”

Alicia smiled politely. “I’m not here as a resident. I’m here as counsel for Mr. Cole. And what you’re presenting counts as misrepresentation. I’d like to share some documents of my own.”

There was a murmur of approval. The treasurer—looking queasy but curious—leaned toward the mic.

“I think we should see them,” he said. “Given… everything.”

Lorraine hissed, “Phil,” but the damage was done.

“Board approves,” Phil said quickly. “Go ahead, Ms…?”

“Tran,” Alicia said, already walking to the front. She unhooked Lorraine’s laptop from the projector and plugged in her own like she owned the room.

Slide One: a screenshot from the county parcel viewer. The lake, outlined in blue. Parcel 18-L. Big arrow: OWNER: COLE, ETHAN M.

“This,” Alicia said, “is the county’s public record of who owns the lake. As you can see, it’s not the HOA. It’s my client.”

Slide Two: an excerpt from the deed, zoomed in on GRANTS AND CONVEYS.

Slide Three: a page from the original Willowbend development prospectus, where the developer described the lake as “privately held” with easements granted to surrounding lots.

Slide Four: Lorraine’s lake-usage letter, complete with tier list and phrases like theft of community water resources and premium water experience™.

Slide Five: a spreadsheet snippet labeled PROJECTED LAKE USAGE REVENUE – YEAR ONE: $45,000.

The room went very quiet.

“So,” Alicia said, turning back to the board, “here’s the situation. The HOA has been charging residents fees for access to a property it does not own. Those residents were told the HOA owned the lake. They were threatened with fines and liens if they didn’t pay. When the actual owner objected, the HOA president called 911 and accused him of crimes. These are serious issues.”

Delores the investigator cleared her throat.

“And our office,” she added, “is very interested.”

Lorraine snatched the mic.

“This is being blown out of proportion,” she said, voice trembling. “The developer always promised the lake would be common. We all understood—”

“We didn’t,” the treasurer cut in, surprisingly firm. “We asked you if the title had been transferred. You said it was ‘handled.’”

“You’re volunteers,” she snapped. “You left the details to me.”

“Exactly,” he said. “That was our mistake.”

A hand shot up in the audience. It was Mrs. Kelley from three houses over.

“So the seventy-five dollars a month I’ve been paying for ‘Silver Paddle’… where did that go?” she asked. “Because the lake looks like soup in July and my kids can’t even swim in it.”

Lorraine fumbled with her papers. “Fees were used for water rangers, wristbands, newsletter printing—”

“And the HOA-branded kayaks?” someone else yelled. “The ones your friends use for free?”

“Order!” Lorraine shouted.

“Nah,” a guy from the back said. “I think we’re good.”

Delores stood, smoothing her blazer.

“Ms. Bishop,” she said, “our preliminary review indicates the Lake Usage Program was implemented without legal basis. Collecting fees for a property you don’t own, under threat of penalty, is a violation of consumer protection statutes. Misusing emergency services to enforce those fees is an additional concern.”

You could almost see Lorraine calculating whether outrage or tears would be more effective. She landed on indignation.

“I did what I had to do to protect community assets,” she said. “You all benefited from my initiative. Without fees, the lakes will fall into ruin. People like Ethan will monopolize the shoreline. This is about the common good.”

“Ma’am,” Alicia said mildly, “the ‘common good’ does not include fraud.”

The treasurer picked up the gavel.

“I move,” he said, voice shaking but determined, “that we immediately terminate the Lake Usage Program, cease all related collections, and instruct our counsel to begin refunding residents. And… given the gravity of the situation, I also move that we remove Ms. Bishop as president, effective immediately, pending further investigation.”

The room held its breath.

The secretary—who’d been quiet all night—raised her hand.

“Seconded,” she said.

“All in favor?” the treasurer asked.

Hands shot up. Even the formerly sleepy member-at-large. A couple of people stood to make sure they were seen.

“Opposed?” he said.

Lorraine’s hand went up alone.

“The motion passes,” the treasurer said, face pale. He turned to Lorraine, avoiding her eyes. “Lorraine… please hand me your key card and HOA credit card.”

“You can’t remove me in the middle of—” she sputtered.

“We just did,” the secretary said.

Delores stepped forward.

“For the record,” she said, “the county will be issuing its own findings. The state Attorney General’s office is coordinating. I strongly suggest the remaining board cooperate fully. Ms. Bishop, you may want to retain independent counsel.”

Someone in the back whispered, “Get a lake lawyer.”

Alicia closed her laptop and sat down, expression smug enough that I had to resist the urge to high-five her in front of everyone.

Later that week, the state Attorney General’s office issued a formal statement.

Willowbend Lakes HOA would refund all lake usage fees collected, plus penalties. They were prohibited from imposing amenity fees on property they didn’t own without clear disclosure. Board members would undergo training on property rights and consumer law.

And Lorraine?

She was fined personally for abusing emergency services. The AG’s press release noted that “misuse of 911 for non-emergency HOA enforcement” was a growing problem, and this case would be used as an example.

As part of the settlement, any future HOA position she held would require disclosure of her involvement in “prior unauthorized amenity fee programs subject to enforcement action.”

Which meant, in bureaucrat, big red warning label stapled to her volunteer resume.

At the next monthly newsletter, the front page read:

LAKE FEES TERMINATED
REFUNDS TO BE ISSUED

Small print at the bottom: THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE DURING THIS TRANSITION.

No mention of who had created the “transition” in the first place.

But in the clubhouse, when the treasurer read out the settlement terms, the Water Rangers—reassigned to volunteer landscaping—watched Lorraine walk out with her anchor pin and her lake boss visor stuffed into her purse.

Not a single person stood to clap.

 

Part 5

In the months that followed, Willowbend Lakes went through HOA detox.

The Lake Usage line item vanished from the budget. The Water Rangers retired their polos and reappeared in more dignified outfits, like flannel and shame. The orange wristbands ended up in a box labeled MISCELLANEOUS, which I occasionally saw at garage sales for a quarter.

Residents got their refund checks in waves, little windfalls of thirty, fifty, one hundred dollars. Some used it for groceries. Some for actual lake gear. A few posted pictures in the Facebook group with captions like, “Happy ‘Return of the Stolen Water’ Day!”

The new board, with Phil reluctantly serving as interim president, held listening sessions.

Actual listening.

“It’s almost like you’re not yelling at us,” one resident remarked. “Weird.”

They invited Alicia to explain, in patient, slightly amused tones, the difference between common-area easements and private water rights. They updated the rules to clarify that the HOA controlled the path and shared docks but did not, in fact, own the lake.

They asked me if I’d consider joining the board.

“Absolutely not,” I said. “I like my blood pressure where it is.”

“Advisory committee?” Phil tried.

“I’ll send emails when you try something stupid,” I said. “That’s the best I can offer.”

He took it.

Lorraine listed her house three months later.

The description was heavy on “charming cul-de-sac” and “near community amenities,” light on “recently deposed HOA president once tried to tax everyone for looking at water.” Word travels, though. Listings linger. Prices drop.

She eventually sold to a young couple who didn’t give me side-eye at all, just asked what kind of dog Moose was and whether the fishing was any good.

I told them it was excellent, assuming you liked tiny sunfish and the occasional confused bass.

“Just one thing,” I added. “If anyone ever tries to charge you to sit on your own dock, call me first.”

They laughed, thinking I was joking.

I hoped they’d never find out I wasn’t.

Alicia and I met for coffee a few months after the dust settled. She’d gotten three new clients from neighboring HOAs whose boards had read about Willowbend in the paper and decided, preemptively, to check their own amenity programs.

“So,” she said, stirring sugar into her cup, “how’s it feel to be Lake King?”

“I prefer ‘Reluctant Pond Baron,’” I said. “Owning a lake is mostly weeds and Canada geese.”

“You could monetize it,” she said, deadpan. “Tiered packages, wristbands—”

I threw a sugar packet at her.

In reality, owning the lake changed less than you’d think.

The ducks still showed up at dawn. Teenagers still snuck out to kiss in kayaks after dark. Neighbors still walked their dogs along the path and occasionally let them wade in the water.

The difference was invisible: a line in a database, a deed in a safe, a community that now understood where authority ended and entitlement began.

I did make one formal move as Lake Owner, just to scratch the petty itch.

I drafted a one-page document called The Willowbend Lake Charter.

Section 1: The lake is open to all Willowbend residents and their guests for quiet, non-motorized use.

Section 2: No fees shall ever be charged for basic access by any private party, HOA, or committee.

Section 3: Anyone attempting to impose unauthorized “usage fees” on the lake may be yeeted into it socially.

I showed it to Alicia.

“You can’t put ‘yeeted’ in a legal document,” she said.

“It’s not legal,” I said. “It’s ceremonial.”

I printed it on nice paper anyway and framed it in my living room. Moose slept under it like a knight under a banner.

One summer evening, just before sunset, I sat on the dock with a beer, watching the light turn orange on the water. A row of kids paddled past in rented kayaks, laughing, life vests crooked. A couple walked a dog along the path and waved.

Phil wandered down from the path, hands in his pockets.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked.

“Only if you brought your wristband,” I said.

He snorted and sat anyway.

We watched the ducks for a while.

“You know,” he said, “when Lorraine first pitched the lake fee, she made it sound… reasonable. Extra funds for maintenance. Programs. I thought, ‘Sure, why not?’”

“I don’t envy you,” I said. “Volunteer board, bored people, one very determined lake goblin.”

He laughed. “Yeah. But that’s the thing, right? We all nodded along. It took someone actually saying ‘no’ to realize how far off the rails it went.”

“When your ‘no’ involves a deed, it helps,” I said.

He looked out at the water.

“Do you ever regret buying the lake?” he asked. “All this for some ducks and algae.”

I thought about the 911 call. The slapdash fines. The trembling neighbors at the meeting, angry and embarrassed. I thought about Delores’s laser stare, Alicia’s glee, Moose’s unimpressed nap during most of it.

“Not really,” I said. “I wanted quiet. Instead I got a legal education and a starring role in a very niche drama. But… we all learned something.”

“Like?” he asked.

“Like,” I said, “you can’t let someone turn ‘community’ into a subscription service. And sometimes the only way to stop a bully with a whistle is to show them who actually owns the pool.”

He nodded. “Huh.”

We sat there until the sun slid behind the trees and the first fireflies blinked on.

A week later, a letter arrived in my mailbox on official state letterhead. It was a copy of the final disposition in the consumer protection case. Legalese, mostly. Fines paid. Conditions met. Case closed.

At the bottom was a note from Delores, scribbled in pen.

Thanks for standing your ground. If anyone else tries to sell you your own lake, call us.

I stuck it in the same folder as my deed and the Lake Charter.

Sometimes, when I get home from a long day of staring at code and pretending video calls are meetings, I stand in the backyard and look at the water. People who’ve visited ask me if it feels different, knowing my name’s on it. If it makes me feel powerful.

The truth is, it mostly makes me feel responsible.

Not in the Lorraine way—clipboards and tickets and “moral ownership.” In the simple way.

Keep it clean. Make sure the kids stay safe. Don’t be a jerk about kayaks.

The kids who rent them now don’t wear wristbands. They don’t know there was ever a debate about whether sitting on a dock counted as theft.

They just paddle and laugh and occasionally drop a paddle, and someone on shore shouts, “You got it?” and they shout back, “Yeah!”

The lake doesn’t care who’s on the deed.

But when someone tries to abuse community, to take what’s shared and sell it back with a fee, the paper matters.

The next time Lorraine—or someone like her—tries to turn a resource into a revenue stream, I hope there’s another petty nerd with a dog and a deed sitting in a folding chair, ready to say, “Actually, no.”

And when the patrol cars roll up and the HOA president starts screaming about maritime crime, he’ll hand over the documents, sip his coffee, and let the system do what it’s supposed to.

Because sometimes, the most satisfying justice isn’t flipping a table.

It’s flipping open a file and watching someone realize, too late, that they don’t own the water they’ve been selling.

They never did.

I just happened to be the one who proved it.

THE END!

Disclaimer: Our stories are inspired by real-life events but are carefully rewritten for entertainment. Any resemblance to actual people or situations is purely coincidental.