It’s been really great to go through this writing exercise and it's quite therapeutic. I recommend you all do it. While I have many more stories, I honestly don’t think they will be sufficiently interesting for you to read.

So in true Feral Entrepreneur fashion, I’m going to pivot. I need to write a lot more memoirs, but they will be about the other sides of my life and I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to go public with those or not. If I do go public, I’ll let you know here.

Mahalo for all your support. If you have questions, send them via reply here!

Restarting Newlyweds Just Barely Scraping By

It was 1993, and I was a newlywed, back in Honolulu after a whirlwind adventure with my bride. We’d spent the last two years exploring the Big Island, driving across the mainland, even living in Chicago for a short spell. Pure, unfiltered adventure. But now, reality hit hard. We were crammed into a single bedroom in a tiny house in Kaimuki, sharing space with two other families. It was crowded, chaotic, and we were living on a shoestring. My wife worked as a property manager and I’d landed a gig teaching Unix Administration at Honolulu Community College. Not a real course, mind you—just a night class, part of their continuing education program. I didn’t have a college degree, just a high school diploma, barely earned (I actually got an F in the computer class). We weren’t making much, scraping by, wondering where we would go from here.

Check Out This Really Cool Thing

One night, I’m at the college, prepping for my class. The computer lab was classic community college—fluorescent lights, sparse furnishings, portable classroom chairs, and old terminals scattered around like relics. Discarded printer stands and heavy worktables added to the bare-bones vibe. But there, in the middle of it all, was this glorious piece of hardware: a Sun Microsystems workstation with a massive 20-inch monitor. Monstrous for 1993. Ken, the lab director, was there, a big haole guy with a Southern drawl, totally localized—married to a local woman, steeped in island culture. Ken was a mentor, an innovator, the kind of guy who could see what was coming before anyone else. He’d built something special at HCC, and I owe him big time. That night, he waved me over. “Peter, come check this out. It’s kinda cool.”

Web Comes Alive With Dinosaurs

I walked over to his workstation, and Ken fired up this new software called NCSA Mosaic, the very first graphical browser that had just dropped in April 1993. He typed in “www.hcc.hawaii.edu,” the address for Honolulu Community College’s website—one of the first ever launched on the internet, certainly the first in the University of Hawaii system. The page loaded, and I was floored. It was a website of the campus with a clickable map to boot. You could click on buildings, and it’d take you to another page about that building. No one had seen anything like this. There was even a museum exhibit page with dinosaur pictures and audio clips playing—a full-on multimedia show. I’m standing there, jaw dropped, watching Ken click through. This was the birth of the web, and I was witnessing it.

Ten Thousand Hits - A Day

Then Ken pulled up something else: the web’s log files, primitive as they were in those early days. He showed me the numbers—10,000 hits a day. Ten thousand! People from all over the world were visiting HCC’s site, checking out this little community college in Hawaii. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. “What the hell is going on?” I said, staring at the screen. Those hits weren’t just numbers; they were people, from everywhere, connecting to this tiny corner of the world. It was unreal, a glimpse of something massive unfolding right in front of me.

Yes, I See the Light!

At that moment, something clicked. It was like that scene in The Blues Brothers where James Brown, the pastor, shouts, “Do you see the light?” and John Belushi’s flipping through the church, screaming, “Yes, I see the light!” That was me. Ken was James Brown, and I was Belushi, doing backflips in my head. I saw the entire World Wide Web, not just HCC’s site, but the whole thing—its future, its potential. I saw how it would change everything, how it would bring Hawaii to the world and the world to Hawaii. No longer would we be isolated, stuck in the middle of the Pacific. The web was going to rewrite the rules, and I knew it right then. It was a moment of pure clarity, like the universe handed me a vision.

Hawaii Saves Me, Again

This wasn’t just a cool demo—it was a turning point. My wife and I were at a crossroads, barely covering expenses, no clear path forward. I’d just sold my stake in XenTec, the software engineering company I’d poured years into. No way was I crawling back there, tail between my legs. I was aimless, stuck, but that moment in the lab felt like Hawaii was speaking to me again, just like it did back in ’85 during my last-dollar days. Eight years later, that same faith—the belief that Hawaii always had my back—kicked in. I felt it. This was my shot, my purpose, and I wasn’t going to let it slip.

Even the Moon And the Stars Spoke

Later that night, I stood in the alley behind our little house on Second Avenue in Kaimuki. The sky was clear, stars blazing above. I looked up and made a vow. I was going to bring Hawaii to the web and the web to Hawaii. I’d do everything in my power to help this place embrace this new technology. It wasn’t just a business idea; it was a calling, a divine purpose. I felt it in my bones, like the islands were guiding me. That clarity, that fire, it wasn’t just about me—it was about doing something bigger, something for Hawaii.

CyberCom Conceived At That Moment

That night changed everything. It sparked the launch of CyberCom, my company that became Hawaii’s first and largest web developer. We were on the cutting edge, building the commercial web in the state. I was on magazine covers, doing TV news segments, radio spots, winning awards left and right. Peter Kay became a household name, the feral entrepreneur who saw the vision and dove in headfirst. We didn’t just build websites; we brought Hawaii into the digital age, proving that even a high school diploma with a shoestring budget could change the game.

Find Your Higher Purpose

The real lesson? Find the highest purpose you can and build a business around making it happen. That night in 1993, I didn’t just see a website; I saw a way to serve Hawaii, to connect it to the world. It wasn’t about the money—though CyberCom became a legend—it was about impact. That divine spark, that moment of seeing the light showed me what was possible when you align yourself with something bigger. I’ve gone through 7 startups and though each one had a varied degree of success, I’ve never again had that “Do You See The Light?” moment that I did in 1993. If you’re fortunate enough to find that purpose, you don’t just build a business—you build a mission that may well guide you for the rest of your life and achieve unimaginable success far beyond merely financial gains.

You really don’t know who is actually knocking at your door.

Sometimes the smallest moments, the ones you barely notice, end up rewriting your entire life. Back in 1997, I was Peter Kay the unknown, the guy running CyberCom, Hawaii’s first web development company, hustling in a cramped 500-square-foot office packed with programmers and designers, desks jammed edge to edge, all of us buzzing with the raw energy of the early internet. I had no clue that a single conversation, one that seemed like just another meeting, would launch me into becoming a household name in Hawaii, shaping my path as a feral entrepreneur in ways I never could’ve imagined. This is the story of how a radio sales rep named James Avis walked into my office, sparked an idea, and set off a 20-year journey that made me a household name in Hawaii and changed everything.

The Internet Kid Steps Into The Limelight

By ’97, I was already deep in the game. CyberCom was thriving. We’d built websites for big players like KHON, the FOX affiliate, and KITV, the ABC affiliate, cementing my rep as Hawaii’s go-to internet guy. The internet was brand new, a wild frontier, and I was its poster child. KITV’s general manager, Mike Rosenberg, a calm, sharp, and funny guy who always picked up the phone on the first ring, had seen something in me when we built his station’s site. He’d asked me to do a morning news segment called *Computer Talk with Peter Kay*, where I’d lug my laptop to the studio, connect via dial-up—yeah, dial-up, before broadband was a thing—and show a live screen share on TV. It was groundbreaking stuff, teaching folks how to surf the web, reviewing sites, and demystifying this new digital world. That gig was my first taste of being a media personality, and it felt like I was riding the crest of a wave.

Radio Salesman Sets Up The Meeting

Then James Avis showed up. I didn’t know him from Adam when he called to set up a meeting. He was a Clear Channel radio sales rep, a high-energy surfer dude with a charging, serious vibe—think big waves, big ideas. His office was a riot of posters and graphic designs he’d whipped up himself, a testament to his wild creativity. James was the quintessential deal-maker, always crafting win-win solutions, and I’m grateful we’re still friends to this day. He squeezed into a corner by my desk in our chaotic office, no conference room, just a folding chair amid the hum of computer terminals. I figured he was there to pitch radio ads or something, but he didn’t push anything. Instead, he just started talking, asking me what I thought would resonate with radio listeners.

Sparking Your Computer Minute

We got to riffing. I was already doing *Computer Talk* on KITV, sharing tech tips and showing people how to navigate the internet, so I told James, “What if we did something similar on radio? Short, handy tips for using PCs or the internet, stuff people can use at home.” He lit up, his creative gears spinning. I suggested calling it *The Computer Minute with Peter Kay*, a quick 60-second spot to mirror what I was doing on TV. James, ever the innovator, tweaked it. “Let’s make it *Your Computer Minute with Peter Kay*,” he said. “Give people ownership, make it personal, it’s their Computer Minute.” I loved it. It was simple, catchy, and perfect. We wrapped the meeting, and he left without asking for a sale. I didn’t think much of it—just another chat on a busy day.

Rebecca’s Whimsical Magic Brings It to Life

A few days later, James called again. “Come to the studio,” he said. “Let’s record some sample spots. Talk about whatever you want, keep it under 60 seconds.” I was game. I’d been prepping scripts for *Computer Talk*, so I wrote a couple of short tech tips, leaning on what I knew worked on TV. At Clear Channel’s studio, I met Rebecca, their radio producer and hands-down the best female voice I’ve ever heard on air. If you’ve lived in Hawaii, you probably heard her—countless ads, that bubbly, whimsical charm, a Disney-loving soul with a laugh that lights up a room. She was meticulous, tweaking every word for perfection, and so kind, guiding me through my first-ever radio recording. We had a blast. I’d brought my laptop, tweaking scripts on the fly, and with her help, we nailed a half-dozen spots. It was fun, fast, and felt like a hobby more than a business.

Oceanic Sponsors the Package

What I didn’t know was that James took those demos and ran with them. He pitched them to Oceanic Cable (today known as Spectrum), the company rolling out broadband internet in Hawaii for the first time—a huge deal, as I’d been partnering with them to hype this game-changing tech. James sold them on sponsoring *Your Computer Minute with Peter Kay*, and just like that, Oceanic Cable’s “Roadrunner” service became the title sponsor. Those 60-second spots, packed with tips to help people embrace the internet, started airing across Clear Channel’s stations. It wasn’t just a radio ad—it was the start of something massive, one of the longest-running sponsored radio series in Hawaii’s history, stretching over 20 years. I couldn’t believe it. A random meeting had turned into a legacy.

Small Doesn’t Mean Insignificant

Inside, I was floored. I’m an introvert, not some media-hungry extrovert chasing fame. I’ve always been about the work, not the spotlight. But Mike Rosenberg saw something in me I didn’t see, pushing me onto TV. James Avis saw it too, turning a casual chat into a radio phenomenon. I never guessed those small conversations would make me a household name. I took it seriously, though. Every *Computer Talk* segment, every *Your Computer Minute* spot, I poured my heart into. I spent hours crafting tips that were helpful, interesting, and entertaining, knowing people were out there feeling “Computer illiterate,” scared of this new tech. I wanted to help them, just like I did when I launched CyberCom or built Hawaii’s first commercial website. Had I half-assed it, someone else would’ve stepped into those shoes, and the opportunity would’ve slipped away.

Everybody Knows Peter Kay

Those radio spots aired all day, every day, across Clear Channel’s stations. The TV segments ran twice a week on KITV. From the late ’90s to the early 2000s, if you were commuting, working, or just flipping on the radio in Hawaii, you knew Peter Kay. I was the guy teaching you how to send your first email, browse a website, or set up your new broadband connection. It was wild. For 20 years, I was a fixture in people’s lives. Even now, in 2025, over a decade since the last *Your Computer Minute* aired, old-timers still stop me. Just the other day at a local steakhouse, the waiter grinned and said, “You’re Peter Kay! I did a ‘Your Wine Minute’ radio spot inspired by you!” Kids who heard me on their way to school in the 2000s tell me how they grew up with me on the radio. It’s a reminder of a fame from long ago but honestly I don’t miss it. I let it go when it was time, just like I exited out of the web business years earlier. The memories, though? They’re gold.

There Is No Try. Do, or Do Not.

Here’s the thing: you never know what a single moment will become. That meeting with James, that call from Mike—they seemed like nothing, just another day in the life of a feral entrepreneur. But they changed everything. When I think back, what stands out is this: if you say yes to something, give it everything. Make it something you’d be proud to show your kids, your grandkids, or write about in a memoir like this. If you can’t deliver something worthy of your name, walk away. I didn’t know *Your Computer Minute* would make me a household name. I didn’t know *Computer Talk* would make me a local celebrity for a brief moment. But I gave them my all, and they became part of my legacy. A simple sales call can turn into a decades-long journey that touches thousands of lives. It happened to me and it could happen to you. Aloha!

Door of Opportunity Opens

It all began with Joe, Outrigger’s CTO, a guy with enough vision to see what the web could do for his company. I’d been teaching Unix at Honolulu Community College, barely scraping by, my wife slinging rental cars to keep us afloat. Joe saw my demo and got it—Outrigger could be first. Not just in Hawaii, but globally. He invited me to pitch to the big dogs: Dr. Kelly, the CEO; Brian, the sharp-as-a-tack VP of marketing; and Bill and Lisa, seasoned marketing execs with a knack for special projects. These were heavy hitters, running a company that was a titan by Hawaii standards. Getting them to buy into an untested technology was no small feat. And then there was Ken, my mentor and the computer lab director at HCC. Ken was the one who first showed me the web, and he was all in, letting me use his classroom for the demo. He saw this as a chance to put HCC on the map and get his students jobs in a brand-new industry. Without Ken, I’d have been nowhere.

The Demo That Closed The Deal of My Life

Picture this: a gray, sparse classroom at Honolulu Community College, 1994. Metal desks, a projector, a screen, and me, sweating bullets but ready. In walks Outrigger’s top brass—Dr. Kelly, Brian, Bill, Lisa, Joe—executives from one of Hawaii’s most respected companies, staring at a technology they’d never heard of. The internet? The World Wide Web? Total unknowns. I fired up the projector and took them on a whirlwind. I showed them sites hosted on servers from France to California, graphics loading slowly but surely, including HCC’s own dinosaur exhibit. Their eyes widened; they’d never seen anything like it. Then came the climax. I pulled up a primitive search engine—pre-Google, pre-Yahoo, pre-everything—and searched for “hotel.” Nothing. Zilch. I turned to them and dropped the bomb: “You guys can be the first in the world.” The room exploded with possibility. Brian saw dollar signs: “We could take reservations from around the world!” Bill and Lisa were already mapping out how to showcase all 25 of Outrigger’s properties. Dr. Kelly, calm but decisive, said, “Peter, put together a proposal.” They walked out, and I was over the moon. I’d just given the most important demo of my life to the biggest company I’d ever pitched. They were hooked.

Competitor Threatens Everything

But hooking them was only half the battle. I still needed the check, and I had nothing—no office, no company, no bank account. Just a name I’d dreamed up: CyberCom. As I scrambled to write the proposal, a plot twist hit. A competitor, CNS Services, run by brothers Cameron and Sean, had caught wind of Outrigger’s interest. They’d teamed up with Andy, a local media personality and absolute powerhouse. Andy was a celebrity, larger than life, and I felt I’d lose in a head-to-head. Cameron for some reason made my skin crawl, triggering every insecurity I had. Sean was okay, but Cameron? He had an air of confidence on one hand but there was just something about that guy that didn’t feel right to me. They invited me to their office, and it was a power play. They flaunted their setup, their confidence, their “we’re the shit” vibe. Andy leaned in, all charm and swagger, saying, “We’re gonna get this deal.” I left their office rattled, fear creeping in. My future was on the line. If I didn’t close this, there’d be no CyberCom. I’d be back to teaching night classes, broke, with my wife grinding away at the rental car counter.

I Must Not Fear. Fear Is The Mind-Killer.

That fear could’ve crushed me, but I’d been here before. My six years at XenTec had taught me how to craft a killer proposal and close a deal. So I transmuted that fear into the “Outrigger Hawaii InfoWeb”. This wasn’t just a website; it was a vision. Twenty-five hotel properties, oceanfront photos, room details, and a reservation form—no credit cards yet, since secure transactions weren’t even available in ’94. Commerce on the web was taboo, barely legal. This was an informational play, but a bold one. I priced it at $50,000—$100,000 in today’s dollars—a massive bet on an unknown technology. No ISP even existed in Hawaii at the time - imagine - no one was even online! It was like betting six figures on some sketchy cryptocurrency. But I believed in it. I handed the proposal to Joe, reminding him Outrigger would be a pioneer, that the PR alone would be worth it. With all the confidence and calm I could muster, I gave him the price and asked for half up front.

The Check That Changed Everything

Days later, Joe called. The proposal was signed. A $25,000 check was mine. I walked into the bank, still a nobody with no business account, and handed over that check from Outrigger Hotels. The banker’s jaw dropped. He’d taken a chance on me, a scrappy startup, and here I was with a check from one of Hawaii’s biggest names to open the account. That money birthed CyberCom. We were in business, with $25,000 to build the first hotel website in the world before nearly anyone in Hawaii even knew what the World Wide Web was.

Facing My Fear Dragon

This was my moment of truth, just like the ones I’d faced before. CNS Services, with Cameron’s smug grin and Andy’s star power, could’ve steamrolled me. I was alone, no company, no resources, just a name and a dream. But I didn’t let fear win. I channeled it, like I always had, into action. I didn’t flinch asking for $50,000 or asking half up front. I didn’t let the competitor's intimidation throw me off the path. Fear is like a dragon. If you run away, it grows stronger. But once you confront it, it fades away like waking up from a bad dream. I faced the fear dragon and slew it, just as I had when I exited from XenTec only a few years earlier or pivoted after CyberCom’s exit many years later.

Victory, But Just the Start

Holding that check, I felt the weight of victory. But it was only the end of the beginning. That $25,000 came with trust—Outrigger’s trust that I’d deliver. CyberCom was born, but now I had to build what I’d sold, something that only a handful of people around the world knew how to do at the time. The stakes were high, the clock was ticking, and the web was still a wild, uncharted frontier. What I learned again here was to slay the fear, seize the moment, and build the future. That’s how CyberCom came to be and forever set in stone how I would move through life, slaying one fear dragon at a time.

A Painful Story of Big Head Biting Hard

Peter Kay, your Feral Entrepreneur here. I was so full of myself in 1995. I thought I was the king of the hill, the guy who had it all figured out. My company, CyberCom, was riding high as Hawaii’s first web development shop. We’d just launched the state’s first commercial website, outrigger.com, and the Hawaii Visitors and Convention Bureau’s site, hvcb.org. I was strutting around like I invented the internet itself. But man, I learned a brutal lesson about hubris, about thinking I knew better than everyone else. This is the story of the one that got away—a missed opportunity that could’ve been worth millions, all because I poo-pooed someone else’s idea.

Land Grabs During The Internet’s Wild West

It was the mid-90s, the dawn of the commercial internet. Domain names were free back then—can you believe that? Free. All you had to do was go through a simple registration process, assign a name to an organization, and if it was available, it was yours. Nobody had quite grasped the value these names would hold. That’s why they were free. It was a wide-open space, a gold rush I didn’t recognize. I was registering domains left and right, partly for entrepreneurial kicks, but mostly altruistically. I wanted to secure names for local companies I knew would eventually want to get online. Get this: I registered boh.com for Bank of Hawaii, fhb.com for First Hawaiian Bank, khon.com, kitv.com, kgmb.com—the call signs of every major TV station in Hawaii. I was holding them for these businesses, thinking I was doing them a favor. What did I sell them for? Nothing. Yes, I gave it to them.

Getting My Piece Of The New World

At the same time, I was dreaming up my own ventures. I registered surgery.com for a joint venture I was working on. Realmen.com was going to be the ultimate guy’s website—think rugged, macho content. Today it’s gay dating site - the furthest thing from my mind back then. Hsbs.com was for a project called Hawaii Small Business Server, a Microsoft server idea I had. Votehawaii.com was my early stab at online politics. Secureinput.com was for a secure website concept, and ycm.com was tied to my media arm, Your Computer Minute. Then there was wnn.com, a project with Steve. We envisioned it as a World News Network, a kind of Reddit before anything like that existed in 1995. I was juggling all these ideas, feeling like an entrepreneur on fire, like I was shaping the future.

A Genius Idea Presents Itself

One day, Steve, my partner on wnn.com, saw me snapping up all these domains and came to me with a wild idea. He said, “Hey, why don’t we register all the callsigns of every radio and TV station in the country? There are thousands of them.” I can still hear him pitching it, his eyes lit up with possibility. Thousands of call signs—16,000, to be exact (well according to Grok anyway). Each one a unique domain, ripe for the picking in a world where nobody was claiming them yet.

But I’m Too Full Of Myself To See It

But me? I was too full of myself to listen. I was the man in Hawaii in 1995. CyberCom was killing it. We had a reputation for building the most beautiful, functional websites. Hawaii’s blue-chip businesses were lining up, begging us to build their sites. I thought I was above it all. When Steve pitched his idea, I barely gave it a second thought. I dismissed it outright. Registering domain names and selling them? That was too simple, too trivial for a big-shot web developer like me. I was charging tens of thousands—$50-$100k (today’s dollars)—for websites. I had the state’s top companies on a waiting list. Why would I stoop to something as low-rent as domain name speculation? It felt borderline scammy. So I passed. I didn’t act on it, and as far as I know, Steve didn’t either. That was that.

The Easy Math That Hurts So Bad

In retrospect, that was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Let’s do the math. There were 16,000 radio and TV station call signs in the U.S. If we’d registered them all—free at the time—and sold each one for just $1,000, which became trivial money soon after, that’s $16 million. A $16 million business for the cost of a little paperwork. And today? Those same domains could easily fetch $10,000 each (Grok says up to $100,000). That’s at least $160 million and as high as $1.6 billion. I want to kick myself just documenting this painful memory right now. All we had to do was register them. It would’ve been trivial to execute. I was staring at a fortune and was too blind to see it.

She Blinded Me With Ego

The irony stings. (But wait, there’s more!) I was building websites for thousands of dollars, each one tied to a domain name, and yet I couldn’t see the value in the domains themselves. I was so caught up in my own pompous pride, thinking I was too good for Steve’s idea. I couldn’t fathom that something so simple could be so valuable. I was charging clients tens of thousands for sites, and every one of those sites needed a domain. Of course domains were valuable—I was living proof of it! But my ego blinded me. I thought I was above such a “basic” business. I was wrong. Steve was thinking differently, seeing something I couldn’t. He deserved more than my dismissal.

Bearing The Pain Of The Rearview Mirror

Looking back, this whole episode gives me a massive dose of humility and countless regrets. I was so full of myself, so convinced I had all the answers. I hope I’m not that guy anymore, but who knows? Maybe in 20 years, I’ll look back at this moment—writing this memoir—and cringe at how boastful I still was. Wait, am I boasting right now about being so stupid back then? Those domains I did register, like ycm.com and realmen.com ended up selling for hundreds of thousands of dollars, but that was by accident. I grabbed them for businesses I never launched, not because I saw their true value. I got lucky, not smart.

To add to the pain, I lost track of the wnn.com domain in the project that Steve funded (which unfortunately went south). I could have at least kept that domain for Steve to recoup his investment. But I was so blind to the value of domain names that I let that one go. Just a few years ago I apologized to Steve and took full ownership of my pomposity. Today, Grok says that domain could be worth from at least $50k to as much as $500k. Thank you Sir may I have another!

Don’t Believe Your Own Press Releases

Here’s the takeaway: don’t be so full of yourself that you believe your own press releases. You’re not that smart (well at least I certainly was not). Never, never, never dismiss someone else’s idea just because it seems too simple or beneath you. Unless it’s an obviously terrible concept, let the market decide instead. When someone comes to me with an idea these days, I don’t roll my eyes or shut them down. My response is simple: show me customers willing to pay for it. They are the judges—not me. I’m not the gatekeeper of great ideas. The market is. My hubris cost me at least a $160 million opportunity. Don’t let yours do the same.

I’m sitting at my desk in the late nineties, crammed into a 500-square-foot office at the Manoa Innovation Center, AKA CyberCom HQ, my web dev startup. It’s a chaotic, electric time—our golden moment. We’re the first legit web developer in Hawaii, breaking rules, setting the pace, and conquering the world. We’ve got about a dozen employees, all young, hungry University of Hawaii grads in their early twenties, fresh from the IT department, sent my way by Dr. Itoga. These guys are my tribe—brash, brilliant, with a rebel streak that fits our upstart culture like a glove. We’re jamming on projects for clients like Newsweek International, working double shifts, 9 a.m. to 3 a.m., fueled by pure adrenaline. The office is a hive—separator walls between desks give a sliver of privacy, but it’s nonstop action, phones ringing, keyboards clacking. I’m in the corner, buried in code or client calls, and every hour, someone’s at my desk with a question, a problem, a need. Interruptions are relentless, and I’m riding the wave, thinking this is what it means to be the boss.

No One Cares

One day, I’m out of the office, hitting the road for client meetings, sales calls, presentations, association luncheons—the whole entrepreneur hustle. I’m not at my desk, so I call into the office every couple of hours to check in. “Hey, does anybody need anything?” I ask, expecting the usual flood of issues. But every time, the answer’s the same: “Nah.” Nobody needs anything. I’m baffled. When I’m in the office, it’s a parade of interruptions—someone’s always at my desk, needing direction, a decision, or just a quick chat. But out here, miles away, it’s crickets. I call again, same thing. No one needs me. How the hell is this possible? I’m driving between meetings, my mind spinning, and it hits me like a rogue wave: they only come to me at my desk because I’m physically there. My presence is an open invitation. If I’m not there, they figure it out themselves or wait till I’m back. It’s not that their problems aren’t real—they just aren’t urgent. They’re not thinking about my time, and why should they? They’re focused on their own needs, same as anyone.

The Big Ah Ha On Who Owns What

This hits me like a ton of bricks. I’m the only one who’s going to defend my time. Nobody else is sitting there wondering if I’ve got a moment to spare—they’re just doing what comes naturally, seeking answers when they see me. It’s human nature, plain and simple. You think about your own needs because that’s what you know best. Sure, you can try to consider others, but at the end of the day, your world revolves around you. I see it now: if I don’t set boundaries, I’m letting my time slip through my fingers. This isn’t just about interruptions; it’s about control—control of my life, my focus, my destiny. I think back to those early days, like when I learned to sell, going from geek to sales guy, or when I started XenTec after a crazy office revolt. Those moments taught me I could shape my path, but this is different. This is about owning the one resource that defines everything: time. If I can master it, I can master anything.

Now I’m Writing My Rules

Back at the office, I start experimenting. I carve out “do not disturb” periods on my calendar—sacred blocks where I can focus. The guys still come to my desk, same as always, but now I say, “Hey, can this wait an hour?” And you know what? It’s always, “Yeah, no problem.” No one’s offended, no one’s slighted. They come back later, or they solve it themselves. It’s like when I was out on the road—they adapt. I’m floored by how simple it is. People work around me, just like they did when I wasn’t there. This changes everything. I start applying it everywhere. Phone rings? I’ll only instantly answer if it’s my wife or kids. Unknown number? Straight to voicemail, no question. Existing contact? I’ll ask myself, “Do I need to drop everything I’m doing and make this moment the most important in my life right now?” The answer as you might guess is almost always no. I’m not being a jerk—it’s about priorities. I allocate time for myself, my family, my work, and yeah, I leave slots open for meetings, but only when I say so. I’m the one who decides how my calendar gets filled.

The 6 Month Lunch Reservation

This shift ripples through my life. I get ruthless about my time, but not in a cold way—just clear. I’m running CyberCom, we’re still growing like wildfire, and I’m juggling a million things, just like when we launched Hawaii’s first commercial website. But now, I’m intentional. An old client from my XenTec days reaches out in March, wants to grab lunch. I check my calendar, and I’ve got a ton of things to finish. I tell him, “Let’s do it in September.” At that lunch six months later he says, “Man, I’ve never waited six months for a lunch before.” I just smile. It’s not about being too busy—it’s about choosing how I spend my time. That was one the best lunches I had because it happened on my terms. I’m not bending my life to fit someone else’s schedule anymore (unless of course they are more hard-core about their calendar thanI am about mine). It’s empowering as hell.

Time’s the True Currency of the Universe

Here’s the truth: time is the most precious thing in the universe. You get 24 hours a day, same as everyone else, and once a moment’s gone, it’s gone forever. What you do with those hours decides everything—whether you’re changing the world or just scraping by. No one’s going to protect your time for you. Nobody cares as much as you do about your life, your dreams, your focus. I learned that the hard way, sitting in that cramped office, drowning in interruptions until I realized I could say no, set boundaries, and take control. It’s not selfish—it’s survival. It’s why I exited the web dev business when the time was right and why I walked away from venture capital funding. You decide how to spend every one of those 24 hours. Spend them the way you want, because if you don’t, someone else will. Aloha!

Peter Kay here, your feral entrepreneur, and I’m here to tell you a story that’ll make you rethink the tiny moments that shape your life. It’s 1980, I’m a 17-year-old Greek kid from Chicago, and I stumble into something that changes my world forever. This isn’t just about me finding a game or a place—it’s about how a random encounter with a computer terminal in a junior college library planted a seed that grew into my Hawaii origin story. It’s about how a then-young college grad, David Lassner, unknowingly set me on a path to an island 4,000 miles away, without either of us realizing it until decades later.

Wandering Into A Library of Wonder

Picture me as a junior at St. Patrick High School in Chicago, 1980. Computers are barely a thing—Apple’s just starting out, and my high school’s still using punch cards and a (now ancient) PDP-8 computer. I’m restless, curious, and one day, I wander down the street to Wright Junior College, a city college I have no business being in. Somehow, I end up in their library. I don’t even remember how—maybe I was dodging homework or just chasing a hunch. But there, in that quiet space, I see something I’d never seen before: computer terminals with glowing orange plasma displays with cool graphics. Not the clunky 10 character-per-second teletype machines I’m used to, but something sleek, futuristic. I’m hooked before I even touch one.

Discovering PLATO’s Empire

These terminals are part of the PLATO system—an educational computer network so advanced for its time it felt like magic. I ask a student administrator for a login, and they hand me a guest account like it’s no big deal. I start poking around, and soon I’m sneaking over after school, logging in to explore this digital wonderland. One late afternoon, I notice a group of guys huddled behind their terminals, eyes locked on the screen and furiously typing short commands. They’re playing a game called Empire, a Star Trek-inspired multiplayer marvel with Federation, Klingons, Romulans, and Orions battling for control of the galaxy. The graphics are primitive by today’s standards—far cruder than an old Nokia phone—but it’s graphical, and it’s multiplayer. In 1980, this is mind-blowing. I’m playing against real people, not a computer, and I’m instantly obsessed.

Hawaii Enters My Orbit

Empire isn’t just a game; it's a multiplayer space battle involving players all around the country. I’m zipping around in virtual starships, doing my best to outwit opponents on this pre-internet network connecting universities. When you get killed, the game tells you who took you out and where they’re from—places like University of Illinois, Florida State and Stanford. But every so often, I see something that stops me cold: “Killed by XYZ at University of Hawaii.” Hawaii. I’m a Chicago kid, raised in a Greek immigrant family, living the “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” life—working in the family restaurant, surrounded by cousins, the whole deal. Hawaii’s not on my radar. I never watched Hawaii Five-O or other tropical shows. But seeing “University of Hawaii” on that screen sparks something. I’m sitting in a library, a 17-year-old with no clue what a tropical island is like, and my imagination’s on fire. Who are these players in Hawaii? What’s it like there? That word—Hawaii—sticks with me, a seed I can’t shake. A seed that eventually carries me just 4 years later to live there for the rest of my life.

A Geek’s Unlikely Legacy

Fast forward to 2016. I’m in Honolulu, sitting across from David Lassner, the president of the University of Hawaii at the time. David’s a tech legend here, a dark-haired guy (well that’s the way I remember him) with a Mediterranean look—he could pass for an Italian or maybe even a Greek—who started as a tech geek in the 70s and climbed to the top at UH. We go way back, bonded over the early internet days when I was building CyberCom, Hawaii’s first commercial website, and he was the university’s Chief Information Officer. We’re industry friends, geeks who’ve shared stages at tech events and occasionally on David’s community TV show before YouTube was a thing. This meeting’s about faculty tech issues, but it’s relaxed—two old friends talking shop. Then we start swapping origin stories, and everything changes.

The PLATO Connection

I tell David about my high school days, sneaking into Wright Junior College to play Empire on the PLATO system. His eyes light up. He leans forward and says, “You know, in the late ’70s, I was at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, where PLATO was created. I got assigned a special project—to install the PLATO system at the University of Hawaii.” My jaw drops. David Lassner, the guy I’ve known for decades, was the one who brought PLATO to Hawaii. Those terminals where Hawaii players were killing me in Empire? He set them up. Those guys whose kills sparked my imagination? They were playing on David’s machines. It hits me like a photon torpedo: David Lassner is a key link in the chain that brought me to Hawaii.

A Butterfly’s Wing

I’m floored. All these years, I’ve known David, and we never connected these dots. I moved to Hawaii in 1984, four years after those Empire games, after a Maui vacation in ’83 sealed the deal. But it all started with those moments in 1980, getting blasted by Hawaii players and dreaming of a place I’d never seen. If David hadn’t brought PLATO to the University of Hawaii, those players wouldn’t have been there. My imagination might never have caught fire. I might still be in Chicago, slinging souvlaki in a family restaurant. It’s like a sci-fi time travel flick—the *Butterfly Effect*, where a butterfly’s wings flapping on one side of the planet cause a hurricane on the other. David’s work in the ’70s was that butterfly, and I’m the hurricane that landed in Honolulu.

The Missing Link

This revelation gives me a strange sense of closure. I’ve always wondered how a Greek kid from Chicago ended up in Hawaii, so far from the life I was born into. I left the *Big Fat Greek Wedding* world behind, trading family dinners for an island adventure, and it all traces back to those PLATO terminals. David’s role in my story feels like finding a missing link—a piece of my origin I didn’t know I was searching for. I tell him, “Man, you’re the reason I’m here!” We laugh, but it’s profound. He had no idea his geeky project would pull a teenager across an ocean. It’s a reminder of how small actions ripple in ways we can’t predict.

The Power of Chance

This story’s bigger than me and David. It’s about the infinite, tiny steps that shape our lives. Every choice, every chance encounter, every moment you cross paths with someone—it’s a thread in the tapestry of your existence. If one thread snaps, the whole picture changes. If I hadn’t wandered into that library, if David hadn’t installed those terminals, if I hadn’t gotten killed by Hawaii players, I might be living a completely different life. It’s humbling, awe-inspiring, to think how fragile and interconnected it all is. One tweak, one missed step, and I’m not here, telling you this story.

Live with Intention

Here’s what I’ve learned: never underestimate the impact you have on others. David Lassner couldn’t have known that setting up PLATO terminals would change my life, but it did. You never know who you’re touching or how. That person you help, that conversation you have, that small act of kindness—it could be the spark that sends someone on a new path. So give it your all. Make every interaction count. Use your gifts to lift others up, because you’re probably making a difference in ways you’ll never see. I’m living proof of that, sitting here in Hawaii, a feral entrepreneur who found his home because of a game, a terminal, and a geek named David. Aloha!

Waikiki Real Estate Mogul Just Wants to Surf

By Andy Bumatai - all rights reserved.

I was 27, and after going out drinking all night in Waikiki, which was a nightly occurrence, instead of driving home I’d grab my long board and paddle out with the “Dawn Patrol” to surf Waikiki and sober up a little.

At 27 I was a toddler compared to the regulars who were mostly my age now, 71, or older.

One day this, “older guy,” a Chinese looking bruddah paddles up to me and pointing says “You see that building over there? I own that. …and that one over there …and a few others. When I made my first million I wanted two. When I made two and wanted ten. I spent my life chasing money till I realized, No mo end. That’s when I started surfing every morning.” He gave me a half happy half sad smile and said "Just like you.”

A good wave began building outside. Knowing I could easily snake him he asked “You mind if I take this one?”

“Go Uncle.”

“Mahalo, Boy” and he was gone.

The end.

Andy Bumatai is a Model Feral Entrepreneur

I’ve known Andy Bumatai (heck, everybody here knows Andy Freaking Bumatai!) for many decades now. He’s a legendary Hawaii entertainer that’s been in the business essentially his whole life. What you might not know is that he is (IMO) a model Feral Entrepreneur. I have mad respect for this guy not only because he’s so incredibly talented, but also because he’s the epitome of what a Feral Entrepreneur is. He’s gone through ups and downs, fits and starts, including battling cancer. He’s consistently innovated in the tech world to deliver his entertainment like no one else I know of, especially when you consider that he’s in his 70s now. He did a live streaming talk show over 20 years ago, way before Joe Rogan. He had this cool “In the car” YouTube series years ahead of “Carpool Karaoke”. He’s still doing stand-up to this day in addition to his “Daily Pidgin Podcast” stream. I honestly can’t think of anyone in the entertainment business that’s been on the cutting edge of tech-powered entertainment like him. But I’d say most importantly, especially for young local Hawaii entrepreneurs, Andy is a model for never giving up no matter what and taking risks to create the next cool thing.

I’m so grateful he shared this story with me - I hope we all can learn the lesson of the Chinese bruddah!

Share Your Story!

Do you have a story that you’d like me to publish? Just reach out via email or LinkedIn and I’ll be happy to share it. I made it really easy for you - watch this step-by-step YouTube video on how to use AI to write your memoir which also comes with an AI template document to follow. I’m genuinely looking forward to hearing from you!

Peter Kay, your feral entrepreneur here and I’ve got a story that’ll make you pause—a moment in 1999 when I stood at a crossroads, staring at a multi-million dollar acquisition and a life I thought I wanted, only to be saved from myself by a Charlie, an angel dressed in a sharp young MBA suit. This is about CyberCom, my web development company, at its peak, and how a simple fisherman’s tale stopped me from chasing a dream that wasn’t mine. It’s a chapter in my life as a feral entrepreneur, building on the battles I’ve shared before—(pick your favorite from this litany). This one’s about the day I chose the Hawaiian way over the dot-com gold rush.

CyberCom’s Golden Moment

In 1999, CyberCom was a beast. We were cranking, dominating Hawaii’s web development scene like nobody’s business. Bishop Street’s blue-chip companies—Hawaii’s biggest players—were our clients. We had no close second. The dot-com mania was in full swing, web companies fetching insane valuations, billionaires popping up everywhere. CyberCom wasn’t valued at a billion, but we were profitable, respected, and looking good. I’d built something real after sixteen years of grinding in Hawaii, from the scrappy days of XenTec to the legendary launch of Hawaii’s first commercial site. We were financially comfortable, a far cry from my early struggles. I was on magazine covers, the dot-com whiz kid of Honolulu, the household name of “Peter Kay With Your Computer Minute” fame. My head was big, and my ego was bigger.

Investment Bankers And Demon Whispers

Then the world’s largest investment banking firm—nameless here, but you can guess—came knocking. They were on a mission, scooping up the best web development companies across the country for a massive roll-up. CyberCom was on their list. They saw us as a prime catch, and the numbers were dizzying. Valuations for companies like mine in 1999 ran at two times annual revenue, putting CyberCom at a $4 million price tag—nearly $8 million in 2025 money. Eight million! That’s no billion, but for a kid who’d come down to his last dollar, it was a fortune. I was a multimillionaire on paper, and the greed was real. The ambition demon was yelling, not whispering in my ear to “take the shot!”.

San Francisco Rich Boy Meeting

They flew me to San Francisco for a meet-and-greet with the bankers and other companies in the roll-up. I stepped into a room full of mainland versions of me—sharp, driven web entrepreneurs, most running bigger operations than CyberCom. We were limited by Hawaii’s market, but we held our own, well-respected. The vibe was electric; these guys were cool, and I had a blast. We signed a preliminary agreement, and I was buzzing. Back in Honolulu, a due diligence team was dispatched to comb through our books. I’d learned a hard lesson years ago watching others get tanked from failed acquisitions because they changed how they ran their shops—spending more, slacking on sales, or losing focus. I wasn’t going to screw this up. So, I kept my mouth shut. Nobody at CyberCom knew except me and my wife Roni, our A-plus CFO. You should know that this is the first time I’ve ever told this secret - and you’re reading it!

Feeding Discs To Frenzied Accountants

Roni was a rock star. She ran CyberCom’s accounting department like a Swiss watch—perfectly optimized, every number pristine. Thanks to her, we had, profit-sharing and a 401(k) plan for our small team of maybe ten or fifteen employees, a big deal for a business our size. She’d taken my tech shop’s chaos and made it sing. When the bankers sent their list of required data, Roni had it ready, burned onto CDs—because, yeah, this was 1999, no USB drives, just RS-232 and shiny rainbow reflecting discs. We handed over the CDs, and the due diligence team set up camp in my office, sprawling across my big round conference desk, six chairs, laptops, cables, and notepads scribbled with numbers.

Charlie Angel Enters the Scene

Enter Charlie, the leader of the due diligence team. Young, sharp, in his twenties, with dark wavy hair and a medium build, he was physically fit and dressed sharp—no tie, just a dress shirt and dark slacks, per my advice to ditch the haole suit look. Charlie wasn’t just some MBA drone; he understood our business, top to bottom, and fast. His team had done this dance before, but Charlie stood out. He was smart, confident, and knew the web game. One day, he called me over to the conference desk, papers and laptops everywhere, and said, “Peter, you’ve built a really great business here.” I grinned—damn right I had. He summarized our operation’s fundamentals in a few sentences, nailing our profitability and tight ship. I was impressed. Then he leaned in and said, “Let me tell you a story.”

The Fisherman’s Tale That Changed It All

Charlie’s story went like this: There’s a fisherman in the South Pacific, living a happy life. Every day, he takes his boat out, catches a few fish, sells the extras for a couple bucks, and goes home to his family. Simple, content. One day, a venture capitalist on vacation sees his setup and says, “You’ve got a good business here. Let me invest. You can buy more boats, build a cannery, sell fish by the ton.” The fisherman asks, “Why would I do that?” The VC says, “To make a ton of money.” Fisherman: “Why?” VC: “So you can retire and be rich.” Fisherman: “Then what?” VC: “You can do whatever you want—like go fishing all day long!” The fisherman smiles and says, “That’s what I’m doing right now.”

Breaking Through My Brick Wall Head

Charlie looked at me and said, “Like the story?” I laughed, thinking it was cute, but it didn’t sink in—not yet. I was too blind, too “going for it”, too “I’m a millionaire!” So Charlie got blunt. “Peter, you’re excited about this acquisition, but you have no idea what’s in store. You’re not going to like it. At all. ” His words hit like a ton of bricks. I’d been swept up in the dot-com gold rush, fantasizing about millions, blind to what came after. I didn’t know the strings attached—reporting to a massive investment bank, endless demands, who-knows-what requirements. My ego was screaming, “Take the money!” But Charlie’s warning cracked through. He was telling me I’d already arrived, living a life most would kill for, and I was about to trade it for a mainland grind that wasn’t me.

Hang Loose or Chase Mainland Delusion?

This was a pivotal moment, bigger than launching Hawaii’s first website or closing down CyberCom years later. I was staring at two paths. One was the dot-com rush: big money, fame, maybe billions, but a life of stress, suits, and cannery-building. The other was the Hawaiian way: body surfing at Makapu’u, sunrises and sunsets, and hang loose vibes. I was already living the dream—why chase a cannery when I was already fishing in my boat? Greed and ego had blinded me. In 1999, I was spiritually immature, just re-entering my Christian faith, far from any divine path. I thought I was on a gold brick road, but Charlie’s story shattered that illusion. I was risking my way of life—Hawaii’s quiet, local rhythm—for a mainland fantasy.

Choosing the Hawaiian Way

I sat with Charlie’s words, and something clicked—a moment of acceptance. I sent a message to the bankers: Count me out boys. No multimillion-dollar buyout. No roll-up. They packed up their laptops, returned my CDs and flew off. Because I’d kept the acquisition secret, shared only with Roni (until this very moment being revealed to you), CyberCom didn’t skip a beat. Employees never knew. We kept cranking, killing it as usual. My hopes had been sky-high, staring at millions, but I’d learned from watching the mistakes of others—don’t change the business for a deal that’s not done. So we didn’t. The next day came and went, and we sailed on, uninterrupted.

The Crash and the Clarity

Here’s the kicker: 1999 rolled into 2000, and the dot-com bubble popped in March, April, May—boom, crash. Companies got obliterated. That roll-up? It collapsed. Many of those mainland companies I’d met, the ones that went full hog expecting acquisition, got trashed. They’d made changes, lost focus, and paid the price. CyberCom? We were sitting pretty, as strong as ever, because I hadn’t touched a thing. Charlie’s warning saved us. Looking back, I see him as an angel—not wings-and-halo, but heaven-sent. I was clueless, blind to any divine path, chasing money like a fool. But God wasn’t blind to me. Charlie’s fisherman story, one I often share to this day, guided me to the right choice.

Hawaii Saves Me, Again

This was the first time I truly thought about the life I wanted. Hawaii saved me, as it always has. Here, wealth isn’t a big house or a fancy car—it’s time off. A wealthy man has time to surf, to watch sunsets, to live. I could’ve been swept up by greed, ego, and the dot-com frenzy, but I was guided to chose quality of life over money. That choice kept CyberCom steady through the crash, unlike the casualties of that failed roll-up. Charlie, my angel, showed me I was already fishing in my boat, living the dream. Why build a cannery? I was on the beach, in Hawaii, hanging loose and happy in my little fishing boat.

The Divine Path I Never Saw

Looking back, today I see the divine in that moment, even if I didn’t then. I was spiritually a child in 1999, far from the faith I’d grow into later. But Charlie’s story, his warning, was a nudge from above. I didn’t need a fleet of boats or billions. I had Hawaii, Roni, my girls, and a life most only dream of (heck, I could never have imagined this incredible life myself). Today, I sense the divine path clearer, but back then, it took an angel like Charlie to keep me on it. So, if you’re a fisherman, treasure your boat. Catch your fish. Enjoy the sunrise. Let others chase the cannery—they might never get to where you already are. Aloha!

Closing Chapters, Chasing Dreams

November 2024 was an convergence of endings. I sold LivingInHawaii.com back in March, a deal that marked the end of a 40 year wild ride that included launching Hawaii’s first commercial website. After months of ensuring a smooth transition, the final close was here. At the same time, I was wrapping up an eight-month exit from my biggest client at CyberCom. Walking away from that client was like slaying a fear dragon—freeing, but heavy. Both these closings, by divine design, not chance or planning on my part, landed in the same month. I was 32 years married to Roni, my rock, my foundation through every hellish storm we’ve faced together. We’d just returned from a spring cruise to Japan and a trans-Pacific voyage on Princess Cruises in September. Life was good. I was kicking back, contemplating retirement, wondering what’s next. Another business? Or just lean into this new chapter?

Killing it On Battlefield

Picture me on that lazy Saturday afternoon, November 16, sprawled in my La-Z-Boy, 85-inch screen blazing with Battlefield on Xbox. I’m not just playing—I’m dominating, the world-record holder for vehicles destroyed. I am “Death from above”, a killer pilot in a multiplayer warzone so intense it gets my heart racing. Roni’s in our home office, working, so I’m alone, lost in the game. Our home, nestled near the beach in Hawaii, is my sanctuary, a far cry from the scrappy days of building XenTec or CyberCom. I’m healthy, or so I thought—bodysurfing Makapu’u, vegan half the year, eating whole foods (okay, maybe too many ribeyes) and my weight coming in at what I was in my 20s. I’m checking every box for a heart-healthy life. My parents, in their late 80s, are thriving—Mom doesn’t even take aspirin. No heart disease in the family. I’m set to live to 90, right?

The Chest Pain That Didn’t Go Away

Then it hits. A chest pain, sharp and stubborn, right in the middle of a Battlefield chopper dogfight where I’m flying my AH-6 “Little Bird”, slicing and dicing. I’ve felt this pain before, sporadically over the past year, maybe two. Last week, it jabbed me while walking up the hill near our house, my daily cardio haunt. Usually, it comes and goes (can’t possibly be a heart attack, right?), so I figure I’ll cool it and wait it out. But this time, it doesn’t fade. It grows, more painful than ever. I’m thinking, “Shit, what the hell is this?” I climb out of the La-Z-Boy and lie down on the bed, hoping it’ll pass. It doesn’t. It gets worse. My mind races—could this be it? A heart attack? Me? The guy who bodysurfs, eats clean, checks every box? I’m a Christian, not afraid of death, but lying there, I’m wondering: do I just let this take me, or do I act?

Wife Confirms What’s Happening

I call Roni—not yelling, just a quick phone call to the next room. She comes in, sees my flushed face, and says, “You don’t look good. Something’s not right.” Roni’s cautious, maybe overly so, after years of medical traumas we’ve endured together. Her instincts kick in, and she insists we go to urgent care, not the ER—surely it’s not *that* serious. We jump in the car and head to Dr. Kane’s office. He’s in his mid-40s, salt-and-pepper hair Hapa Hawaiian, fit, probably a waterman, with a calm, professional vibe and a slight local accent. By the time we get there, the pain’s gone, and I’m feeling “fine.” But the nurse checks my blood pressure—160 over 90, sky-high, not my usual 120 over 75. They hook me up to an EKG, and though my pressure normalizes, Dr. Kane’s not convinced. “I don’t have enough equipment here,” he says, cool as a cucumber. “ Go get yourself checked at the ER at Straub. They’ve got the best cardiologists.” He hands me a summary of the tests, and we’re out the door.

We Don’t Need No Stinking ER Visit

In the parking lot, I hesitate. “Roni, let’s just go home. I’m fine.” She’s not having it. “Let’s just get it checked. If it’s nothing, we’ll go home.” Her insistence, that unyielding love, saves me. We drive to Straub’s ER on Ward Avenue. I hand over Dr. Kane’s report, sit in the hallway briefly, then I’m admitted. Nurses swarm, hooking me up to monitors—blood pressure, oxygen, EKG, blood draws. Dr. Susan, a no-nonsense haole blonde in her 40s, runs the ER with military precision. I tell her about the chest pains over the past year, the one last week, the one today. She takes notes, then steps away to tend to others. Roni’s by my side, steady as ever, while the ER hums with other patients’ dramas—a guy next door, suffering, hating every second of it. I feel for them, but I’m still in denial about my own crisis.

No. Friggin. Way.

Dr. Susan returns with the blood test results. “Your troponin levels are high,” she says. “That’s what you get after a heart attack. You had a small one last week, and another today. You’re lucky to be here, because you’re at high risk for another soon.” Holy shit. My world tilts. A heart attack? Me? I’m shocked beyond disbelief, mad even. How the hell does this happen to a guy who bodysurfs, eats vegan half the year, exercises daily? No family history, no warning signs, just… this? I spend the night in the hospital, reeling. Sunday, the cardiologist confirms blockages and schedules me for surgery Monday, placing two stents in my heart’s left anterior descending artery, aka “The Window Maker”. So yeah, Dr. Susan was right: had I not listened to my wife and gone to the ER, there's a good chance “The Big One” would have come up right around the corner. That artery is called the Widow Maker because it’s a major blood vessel in the heart. When you hear of folks that drop dead of a heart attack, it’s because that artery is blocked. And that could well have been me. By Tuesday, two stents later, I’m home, feeling 100%—like nothing happened. But everything has changed.

Chronic Stress, My Old Friend

Lying in that hospital bed, I was forced to face the truth. I research, talk to Grok, dig into what lifestyle choices cause heart issues. I’m acing the heart-healthy checklist—exercise, diet, no smoking, no drinking (well at least no excess). But one box glares at me: chronic stress. Son of a bitch, that’s it. As a feral entrepreneur, stress is my water, my air. It’s not the guy cutting me off in traffic; it’s the deep, buried weight I carry every day, so constant I barely notice it. From building XenTec to birthing CyberCom, stress has been my shadow. It’s what drove me to sell, to pivot, to keep pushing. And now, it’s what nearly killed me.

Hold or Fold On Life

This is the stakes, the conflict, the feral entrepreneur’s classic dilemma: hold or fold? I could walk out of this hospital, skip the surgery, the blood thinners, the statins, the aspirin—meds I’ve never taken before. I could wait for the next heart attack and call it quits. I’ve faced hold-or-fold moments before, like walking away from CyberCom’s biggest client or selling LivingInHawaii.com. I’ve never been afraid to fold, to let go. But this is different. This is life or death, and I have control. Do I fight for life or let go? I think of Roni, my daughters, my parents. I’m at peace with my life—I’ve raced the Nürburgring at over 150 mph, surfed big waves that would kill most people, built businesses that made millions, and I’ve lived the dream in Hawaii going for beach walks every morning. I’ve got no bucket list left. But I’m not going before my parents. Hell no. And my daughters, grown and amazing, don’t *need* me, but I know they’ll want me there. Roni needs me most of all. I can’t let her down. So I choose to hold. I’ll take the meds, get the stents, face the stress head-on.

The Divine Path Plainly Revealed

This heart attack, this convergence of closing LivingInHawaii.com, exiting my biggest client, and surviving a near-fatal heart attack all happened within a two week window (Nov 16-30)—it’s no accident. It's a divine design. God’s showing me the path, clear as day. The businesses, the stress, the grind—they’re done. I’m no stranger to letting go, but this is bigger. The heart attack sealed that “Work Town” road shut. My path now is to live, to enjoy the life I’ve built. I don’t know if I’ve got one year or 30, but it doesn’t matter. I’m free to walk the beach with Roni every sunrise, to meditate, to play pickleball, to volunteer and help others. Since November, I’ve doubled down—30-minute hardcore cardio walks twice daily, vegan most of the time (with the occasional tomahawk steak, not those 32-ounce ribeye slabs I used to reverse-sear to absolute perfection). I’ve said no to stress-inducing clients, keeping only the ones I love working with. I now have perhaps the most perfect excuse to live and enjoy life the way I always wanted to. What’s that excuse? (As if I need an excuse). “I had a freaking heart attack, dude!”.

Truly Was All For The Best

I decided to make this heart attack the best thing that ever happened to me, right up there with marrying Roni and raising our daughters. I’m not a victim, never will be. I’m at peace, healthier than ever (well aside from having Coronary Arterial Disease) and boundlessly grateful. Every morning, Roni and I walk that beautiful beach, and I meditate, feeling the stress melt away. I’m living the dream, not because I needed an excuse, but because God made it clear: this is my time to thrive, not just survive. The divine path is clear to me now and though I have absolutely no idea where it will lead, I’m walking it—feral, free, and alive. Aloha!

This is No Longer A Hobby

Peter Kay, your feral entrepreneur here and this is the story about the wild ride of my “retirement business”, LivingInHawaii.Com that came to a close at age 61. This thing started as a hobby—just something to pay the Costco bill while I kicked back in retirement. Eight years prior, I began chiseling away at it, three hours every weekday, building a platform to tell folks what it takes to live in paradise and be a net positive to the culture. It was a labor of love, like carving a perfect stone sculpture for the corner of a house. I savored every moment, developing features nobody else even dreamed of, hammering away at a sophisticated system that felt like pure craftsmanship. But, holy crap, it blew up way beyond my wildest dreams. Millions in real estate sales? That’s not a Costco bill—that’s a serious business.

Competition Creeps In

The Hawaii real estate world started noticing. My platform wasn’t just informing people; it was pulling in lucrative mainland buyers, folks with deep pockets dreaming of island life. Other realtors and brokers saw the goldmine I’d stumbled into, and overnight, competitors sprouted like weeds. I’d cornered the market—never a monopoly, but damn close—and now it was getting sliced up. My numbers took a hit. Suddenly, I’m spending my days studying rivals, countering their moves, fighting to stay ahead. I was winning, sure, but it felt like Titan Key all over again. I’m thinking, “Man, I wanted to retire, not run a freaking war room.”

Meeting in the War Council Hall

Enter Dylan, my co-host on the live shows we’d been doing for years. This guy’s a legend—local Japanese, impeccable ethics, and built one of Hawaii’s top brokerages on the Big Island. I’ve known him for decades, and he’s got this extra layer of grit from serving in the Army National Guard. Dylan knew LivinginHawaii.com inside out, its value, its edge. He wasn’t just a friend; he was the only guy who made sense to talk to about this dynamic. When he was stationed at Schofield Barracks on Oahu, we’d grab lunch whenever he was on duty. This time, it was Ruby Tuesday’s, right near the base, in one of those high-back booths that feels like a private war council.

Pitching Over Pepperoncinis

We’re loading up plates at the salad bar—piles of veggies, the works (especially pepperoncinis!) —and I’m laying it all out. “Dylan, this hobby’s gone rogue,” I say. “It’s a serious business now, and I just want to retire, pay my Costco bill.” I tell him how other brokers are copying us and building their own platforms which will compete against his business. He sees this happening and also understands that his brokerage will need to do the same or risk getting steamrolled. “But you don’t need to start from scratch,” I say. “Just buy mine.” I throw out a price well below what the business is worth. It’s not about squeezing every penny; it’s about handing the baby to someone who’ll value it more than I do. Dylan’s no fool. Right there, over our ridiculously high piled salad bar plates, he agrees. Deal done. Later on we announced the deal on our YouTube channel.

These Things Just Keep Getting More Perfect

I’m beyond stoked. This is the most perfect transaction I could’ve imagined. Sure, I could’ve tried to sell for more —real estate pros valued LivinginHawaii.com way higher than I did—but did I really need to squeeze every penny? This wasn’t supposed to be a mega-money-maker like CyberCom or Titan Key. I built it for joy, not money. Selling to Dylan, a close friend who knew the business cold, was a win-win. He got a really good deal and a competitive edge for his brokerage. I got out clean, happy with the price, and free from the growing swarm of competitors. It wasn’t like considering selling CyberCom, which in my mind did not have value worth selling, nor Titan Key, which really wasn’t worth pursuing any longer. This felt right, like passing a prized sculpture to someone who’d display it proudly.

Go Big Or Go Home?

The stakes were real. I had to choose: jump in with both feet, become a real estate agent, and fight the competition like a full-time warrior, or declare victory and walk away. This wasn’t my first rodeo. I’d learned when to hold and when to fold. LivingInHawaii.Com was worth millions to brokers, but to me? It was a retirement dream gone wild. Staying in meant un-retiring and pouring in time and money I didn’t want to spend. Selling meant freedom. It was a playbook I knew well: build, maximize, know when it’s over, and move on. This was not a painful or difficult decision. It made total sense to hand it to Dylan, who would value it more than I ever could.

Why Was This The Best Business Yet

This was the ultimate feral entrepreneur experience, better than any of my previous 6 startups. I built LivingInHawaii.Com from nothing, brick by brick, over eight years. Every feature, every gruelling hour, was pure passion. I’d spend days perfecting the smallest detail, not for money, but because I loved it. The money came by accident, way more than I needed. Selling it to Dylan at a fair price—great for him, great for me—was the cherry on top. It was a first-rate example of following your passion to success, enjoying every damn minute, and knowing when to let go. Eight years of chiseling in my back garage and I ended up with something incredible, super satisfying, and ultimately rewarding.

I Was Totally Wrong About A Retirement Business

Here’s the kicker: my whole premise was wrong. I thought I could build a “retirement business,” something to run while sipping mai tais on the beach. The big ah-ha moment? You can’t have both. You’re either retired or in business—pick one. Entrepreneurs, listen up, especially you retirement-age folks dreaming of a side hustle: you can’t half-ass it. Business means competition, long hours, and all-in effort. Retirement means letting go. I’m leaning toward retirement now. I’m comfortable, enjoying my beach in Hawaii. What more do I need to prove? I’ve done the slog—eight years on this, decades on others. I’m good.

Divine Path Beckons

I’m still working with Dylan, co-hosting our live show every other week. But business? I think I’m done chasing that dragon. There’s nothing left to prove here. Other challenges are calling, not business ones, but personal ones, spiritual ones. I’m firmly on a divine path now, like I’ve always been but just more focused. I don’t know where it’s leading—that’s the beauty of it. You follow, you have faith in an ultimate divine mind (I call it Jesus, you may have other labels), and it takes you to divine ends. That’s what I’m doing: staying feral, staying true, and letting the divine path unfold. Selling LivingInHawaii.Com was just one chapter. And by the Grace of God, the next one’s already started, even if I have absolutely no idea what it is or where it’s going. Aloha!

Peter Kay, your feral entrepreneur here. This is a story about when I was in my early 50s and thinking about retirement. Not the kind where you kick back with mai tais on the beach and call it a day—I’m a lifelong entrepreneur, wired to keep building, keep creating, out of choice, not necessity. I’ve been through six startups, from the wild ride of launching Hawaii’s first commercial website with CyberCom in the ‘90s to exiting Titan Key. Each one’s been a chapter in my feral entrepreneur saga told on these pages.But now, I’m after something different—the kind of business I can run for the rest of my life, something steady, fun, that’ll bring in a few bucks without chaining me to a grind. The idea hits: instead of starting from scratch, I’ll buy a business, take over something already humming, and ride it into my sunset years.

I Get No Fish

For five years—felt like a damn decade—I’m scouring business broker listings, talking to brokers, poking around for the perfect business to buy. I’m methodical, doing cursory due diligence on anything that catches my eye. But nothing really came out at me. Here’s one example: an online flag seller, raking in cash. Numbers look solid, operations seem tight. But then I ask myself the nagging question: “Do I really want to spend the rest of my life online selling flags?” The answer’s a hard no. Every time I dig into a business—whether it’s power tools or automated car washes—I hit the same wall. Is this what I want to pour my heart into? Am I ready to give it the effort a business demands? No. Frigging. Way. I keep coming up empty, frustrated but unwilling to settle. I’ve built too much, from XenTec to Avagence, to waste my days on something that doesn’t light me up.

Just Do What Comes Naturally

After years of dead ends, I’m done chasing someone else’s dream. Time to flip the script. I’ve done six startups; what’s one more? Startup number seven it is. But this time, I go back to first principles, like I did when I birthed CyberCom. What do I want to do for the rest of my life? Not a slog, not a grind—something fun, something that fits my retirement vibe. I’m sitting in Hawaii, a place I’ve loved since I moved here in ‘84 at 21 years old, barely a kid with a half-baked frontal lobe. Over decades, I’ve built a dream life here—the people, the land, the ocean, the weather. It’s paradise, and I’m living it. I’ve got a good story to tell, and I want to share it. Not just for me, but to help others live this dream too, while imbuing Hawaii’s precious culture within the new folks coming from the mainland.

LivingInHawaii.com Is Born

That’s when it clicks: I’ll build a platform, LivingInHawaii.com, to show people how to make the move and become a net positive to our way of life that we all hold so dear here. Launched in 2015, it’s a classic “I did it, and now I’m going to show you how to succeed too” setup. I’ll include Online courses and a community vibe, all about thriving in Hawaii—how to settle in, blend with locals, and uphold the aloha spirit. My business goal? Modest. I’m not chasing millions; I just want to cover the Costco bill. If this thing pays for my groceries, I’m overjoyed. At first, I slack a bit—but by 2017, I get serious. Every weekday, 6:00 a.m. to 9:00 a.m., I’m grinding on the project. It becomes a borderline obsessive labor of love. I fuss over every detail—website design, content, systems, workflow automation—because I’m obsessed with Hawaii. I spend hours tweaking a single page and still grinning at the end. I really found something I love doing and I honestly don’t care about making money. Wow.

Local Japanese Friend Jumps In

Enter Dylan, a close friend for decades and a real estate broker with a Japanese blend that’s as local as it gets. He’s impeccable—trustworthy, sharp, the kind of guy you’d bet your life on. I’ve known him forever, and his ethics are rock-solid, a rare find in a world of fast-talking brokers. As LivingInHawaii.com grows, Dylan becomes a key piece of the puzzle. My platform starts gaining traction: the newsletter’s adding a thousand subscribers a month, the YouTube channel has over 10,000 subscribers with videos racking up views. People trust me because I’m brutally honest about life in Hawaii—the good, the bad, the real. Subscribers start emailing, asking for advice: “Hey, I’m looking for a house. What do you recommend?” I’m no real estate guy, so I call Dylan. He tells me about referral fees—significant cash for connecting buyers with agents, especially for million-dollar-plus homes in Hawaii. Cha-ching.

Aloha Friday Show Takes Off

In January 2020, I launch a “Help Me Find a Home in Hawaii” service, linking subscribers with Dylan. The response is immediate—leads pour in. Dylan and I start meeting every couple of weeks, brainstorming how to help these folks. He’s got a brilliant idea: “Why don’t we take our talks and broadcast them live?” I’m all in. We kick off the Aloha Friday Hawaii Real Estate Show, a weekly livestream (active to this day in 2025) where we dish out honest advice about buying in Hawaii. It’s a hit. People trust my content, they trust Dylan’s expertise, and he starts closing deals—millions of dollars in real estate. I’m floored. Then March 2020 hits. COVID. I’m thinking, *Holy crap, we’re screwed.* But the opposite happens. People stuck at home are dreaming of Hawaii, craving an escape. The live show gets *more* popular, leads skyrocket, and LivingInHawaii.com starts making big money. Way more than the Costco bill.

Another Dream Comes True

I’m beyond stoked. This isn’t just a win; it’s every entrepreneur’s dream. LivingInHawaii.com isn’t a tech startup like Titan Key, but it’s tech-fueled, built on the systems and know-how I honed over decades and 6 previous startups. I’m running it alongside my day job at CyberCom, pouring in sweat equity—blood, sweat, and tears—on a shoestring budget. I had the vision, the plan, and the hopes but never saw this coming. The plan was online courses, not real estate deals. But thanks to Dylan’s nudge, I pivoted, and now the referral fees are rolling in. It’s wild. I built every brick of this business meticulously, fussing over details for the sheer joy of it. Unlike the high-pressure stakes of past ventures, this was supposed to be my chill retirement gig. I made it fun every step of the way, and now it’s paying for the Porsche and the Costco groceries.

The Feral Entrepreneur’s Triumph

This is startup number seven, and it cements it: I’m the real-deal feral entrepreneur. I’ve started from a blank sheet of paper three times now, turning concepts into money-making businesses that exit honorably. At 57, I’m living the dream. LivingInHawaii.com is my most satisfying venture yet—not because of the cash, though that’s nice, but because it’s pure joy. I love the topic, I’m passionate about sharing Hawaii, and I did it on my terms. No pressure, no desperation, just a retirement business I built for fun that exploded into something bigger. It’s the perfect blend of everything I’ve learned, from the hustle of The Day I Learned to Sell to the calm and collected exit of Avagence. I’m helping people live their Hawaii dream, preserving the culture I love, and making bank doing it. You can’t beat that. Aloha!

Peter Kay, your feral entrepreneur here and I’m sitting in my office in Hawaii, 2017, staring at a computer screen, feeling pretty damn good. Avagence, my sixth startup, is humming along like a well-tuned engine. We’ve got customers—medium-sized retail jewelers—using our software across the country. Our tech is slick, a unique integration with Salesforce that lets data flow both ways between their point-of-sale systems and our platform. Add a customer in Salesforce? It pops up in the point-of-sale system. Update something at the register? It syncs back. Nobody else in retail jewelry has this, and it’s a game-changer. We’re cash-flow positive, pulling in solid money for everyone involved. I’m thinking, “Hell yeah, we’re carving out a beachhead here.” Just like I did back in the CyberCom days, launching Hawaii’s first commercial website, we’re building something real. But there’s a shadow lurking, and I can feel it.

Cracks Start Showing

See, Avagence isn’t perfect. I’m running it with two co-founders, Miles and Tommy, both sharp guys, older like me, with their own businesses. Miles, a CyberCom client, runs Rings of Aloha, a niche jewelry retailer in Honolulu. He’s a pro, knows his stuff inside out. Tommy’s a marketing wizard with a voice made for radio—and a seriously great showman. He’s opened doors for us nationwide, leaning on his rolodex of jewelry industry contacts. But here’s the rub: Avagence is the lowest priority for all three of us. My CyberCom, Miles’s Rings of Aloha, Tommy’s sales consulting gig—they come first. We’re all doing the bare minimum to keep Avagence afloat, and I’m starting to see the writing on the wall. A tech startup can’t thrive like this, not in a cutthroat market. I’m already thinking about how to wind this down, but we’re making money, so nobody’s complaining. It’s not like the wild, fear-slaying days of starting revolutions. For now, it’s steady, and steady feels okay.

Barry Drops a Bomb

Then comes the call. Barry, CEO of ASCII Corp, our key partner, wants to talk. ASCII’s point-of-sale and ERP system dominates the mid-sized jewelry market, and our strategic alliance with them is the backbone of Avagence. Their tech’s old-school, our Salesforce integration modernizes their customer offering, and we have a revenue sharing deal in place. Barry’s a no-nonsense East Coast guy with a thick Boston accent, sharp as a tack, always clear about where he stands. Tommy’s in Florida, Miles and I are in Hawaii—team’s scattered, so we hop on an old-school conference call. No video, just phones, like it’s 1995. I’m curious but not worried. Business is good, Barry’s making money, we’re all getting along. So what’s the call about? Barry gets straight to it: “Guys, I got news. ASCII’s been acquired.” We’re stoked for him, piling on the congrats. “Right on, dude! Nice going!” I’m genuinely happy. Barry and his crew are getting up there, long in the tooth not unlike me. It’s a perfect exit for them, a ticket to a sweet retirement.

The Kiss of Death For Us

But then the hammer drops. Barry’s voice stays steady as he delivers the bad news: the acquiring company has their own CRM integrated with their point-of-sale system. They don’t need our Salesforce solution. Boom. That’s it. The kiss of death for Avagence. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon. We hitched our wagon to ASCII, and now that wagon’s rolling away without us. Barry’s blunt, as always: “I can’t make guarantees. They know about you. If they want something, they’ll call.” Spoiler: they never call. Not even an “hasta la vista, baby.” I’m sitting there, phone to my ear, processing. Miles and Tommy are quiet. We all know what this means. After the call, the three of us huddle up for a quick chat. No sugarcoating, no denial. This is the end. Time to wrap it up.

The First Exit That Actually Feels Good

Here’s the thing: I’m not mad. I’m relieved. This is startup number six for me, and I’ve been through the wringer—XenTec’s leadership battles, CyberCom’s pivot and exit , Titan Key’s fold, you name it. Winding down companies? I’m a pro. But this? This is child’s play. A clean, external reason to shut it down, no drama, no conflict. I don’t have to sit Miles and Tommy down and say, “Guys, this ain’t working.” They see it too. We’re all seasoned enough to know Avagence has no long-term future. It’s like the universe handed us an easy out. Thank you, Lord, for making this simple. I’m almost laughing, thinking, “No crazy fights, no sleepless nights. Just an orderly wind-down.” Compared to the shutdown beast I wrestled in CyberCom’s shutdown, this feels like a vacation.

Feels Even Better When Your Partners Agree

Miles and Tommy are on the same page, and that’s a gift. Miles, with his steady hand from running Rings of Aloha, doesn’t push back. Tommy, with his marketing flair and industry connections, doesn’t try to spin some wild plan to save it. They’re both busy with their own gigs, and I’m guessing they’re as relieved as I am. We don’t say it out loud, but I feel it. No resistance, no egos. Just a quiet agreement: “Let’s wind this baby down.” It’s the first time I’ve seen a startup begin, run, and end with zero drama. We started clean, ran it profitably, made money, and now we’re closing it like pros. Miles keeps it cool, Tommy’s radio voice stays calm, and I’m just nodding along, grateful for partners who get it.

Smooth Wind Downs Made Easy

The wind-down is as smooth as it gets. We handle the customers with care, explaining the situation and CyberCom will keep the lights on for them as long as they need in order to transition easily. They get it—no one’s pissed. In fact, one of them is still a customer of mine to this day in 2025. We built something cool, something that didn’t exist before, just like I did with Titan Key’s tech back in the day. Our bi-directional Salesforce integration was a first, and I’m damn proud of that. We started from scratch, made money, and now we’re bowing out gracefully. No enemies, no lawsuits, no chaos. It’s the feral entrepreneur’s dream: a tech startup that runs its course and sunsets without a fight. I’m 54, on the glide path to retirement, and Avagence feels like a turning point. It’s the first time I’ve run a business that felt… easy. Hard work, sure, but easy. No dragons to slay, just a clean arc from start to finish.

Getting Ready to Ride Into The Sunset

Looking back, Avagence was a milestone. It showed me I could build something, make it profitable, and let it go without losing my cool. It’s a far cry from the scrappy, all-in hustle of my younger days, like when I learned to sell or launched CyberCom. At 54, I’m not chasing rainbows anymore. I’m winding down, setting the stage for a beautiful sunset. Avagence wasn’t just a business; it was proof I’d grown as a feral entrepreneur. I could start, run, and end a company with my head high, my partners happy, soul intact, and blood pressure normal. That’s the story of how we closed startup number six. No drama, just aloha.

It’s 2011, and I’m sitting in a conference room, my laptop hooked to a projector, my phone acting as a hotspot because at this time corporate Wi-Fi is a luxury. I’m Peter Kay, your feral entrepreneur, and I’m about to pitch a game-changer to Miles, the CEO of Rings of Aloha, a well-known jewelry retailer in Hawaii. This isn’t just another client meeting. This is the moment that births my sixth startup, Avagence—a business that’ll blend my knack for spotting opportunities with a new kind of calm I hadn’t felt in years. Unlike the wild, all-or-nothing days of launching Hawaii’s first commercial website, or taking on the anti-spam world, this venture feels different. It’s not do-or-die. It’s deliberate, exciting, and, yeah, a little less feral—but still me.

The Jewelry Store Puzzle

I’ve been running CyberCom offering fractional CTO services, helping clients like Rings of Aloha with their tech needs. Miles, a sharp guy who’s built a successful jewelry business, is one of those clients. His company’s got a great niche in the retail industry, but their sales tools need modernization. Like most retailers back then (and some still today in 2025!) they’re using paper profile cards—bigger than a 3x5, sure, but still manual, messy, and outdated. Customer names, preferences, purchase histories? Scrawled on paper, rarely updated, and basically useless. Their point-of-sale system holds a goldmine of data—thousands of customer profiles, sales histories, hundreds of inventory items—but it’s locked away, untouched. I see it instantly: they need a CRM, something to turn that data into actionable insights. I’ve been building Salesforce CRM solutions for other clients, so I know exactly what’s possible. This isn’t just a fix for Miles. It’s a massive opportunity.

Prepping to Blow Their Minds

With Miles’s blessing, I get to work. I talk to their IT vendor, who runs the point-of-sale system, and ask for access to the underlying SQL database engine. Then I dive in, pulling thousands of customer profiles, sales histories, and inventory details, transforming and importing it all into Salesforce. This is old hat for me—data migration, table translations, I’ve done it a hundred times. But this time, it takes on a personal quest type of quality. I’m not just solving a problem; my feral entrepreneur spidey sense tells me there's a bigger opportunity behind this demo I’m building . I set it up in their conference room, my Salesforce dashboard ready to project on the wall. Miles and his inner circle—his most trusted team—sit around the table, curious about what’s coming and they have no idea what I’m about to show them. I’m ready to sell mood rings to Vulcans, and I can feel the old entrepreneurial fire raging and ready.

One Demo Was All It Took

I kick off the demo with a simple question: “Who are your top 25 customers?” Silence. They glance at each other, tossing out a couple of names—Joel, Sally—half-guessing, no confidence. I push harder: “If Ryan walked into your store right now, what would you recommend based on his purchase history?” Crickets. They don’t know Ryan’s a top client, how many times he’s visited, who he spoke to last, or what he said he wanted to buy a month ago. I’ve got them. I pull up the Salesforce dashboard and show them: here’s your top 25 customers, their purchase histories, the last time they bought, what they bought. I click on Ryan’s profile—boom, his entire history, every interaction, every preference, right there. Their jaws drop. I know it’s over. The deal’s closed.

There’s Gold In Them Thar Databases

I spend the rest of the demo showing off what Salesforce can do. Instant reports, easy data pulls, real-time insights. But the real kicker? I’ve unlocked their point-of-sale data and integrated it with CRM. This isn’t some empty database—it’s their actual customer files, their sales history, live and ready. Nobody in retail jewelry is doing this in 2011. CRMs exist, sure, but tying them to point-of-sale systems with two-way data sync? That’s new. I propose a system where adding a customer in Salesforce instantly updates the point-of-sale system, and vice versa. No manual entry. Sales history syncs every night, customer profiles update in minutes. It’s automated, seamless, and a first-of-its-kind solution. Miles and his team see it: this will transform their business.

The Feral Entrepreneur Returns

Inside, I’m buzzing. For years, I’ve been grinding with CyberCom, doing solid work for clients, day in, day out. It’s been good—profitable, steady—but it’s not the same as creating a new product like this. Ten years ago, I felt this rush with Titan Key, building software that pushed boundaries. Now, with this demo, I’m back in that zone, again inventing something—a CRM-point-of-sale integration that’s never been done in retail jewelry—and it lights me up. It’s not just about Rings of Aloha. I see the bigger picture: every jeweler in the country needs this. We’re on the leading edge, and I’m freaking stoked. This isn’t just a client project anymore. It’s the seed of something bigger.

Avagence is Born

That demo becomes the genesis of Avagence, my sixth startup. Built on Salesforce, designed specifically for retail jewelers, it’s a business that blends my tech chops with a real market need. Miles becomes a co-founder, bringing his industry know-how and helping us grow. We land jewelers across the country, and Avagence turns nicely profitable. It’s a good business, not a gamble-everything venture like CyberCom’s early days or Titan Key’s launch. I’m 50 and this time not throwing everything on the line. CyberCom keeps running, serving clients, and paying the bills. Avagence runs in parallel, a new challenge without the life-or-death stakes. It’s a shift—a sign I’m not the same feral kid of times past who regularly bet it all on a dream.

Feeling Great To Be Back In the Game

This is what being a feral entrepreneur is all about: spotting an opportunity, inventing a solution, building a business, and making it profitable. I hadn’t felt this since Titan Key, and it’s like a shot of adrenaline. Avagence isn’t just a win for Miles’ business; it’s a win for me. It reminds me why I do this—why I’ve always done this. It’s not about proving myself to the world anymore. I’ve been through five startups, from XenTec to CyberCom’s exit. I’ve slain fear dragons, mastered time, built legends. This time, it’s about creating something great because I can, because it’s fun, because it’s possible.

Freed From the Need to Prove Anything

Avagence marks a shift in my life. At 50, I’m not chasing world domination with the same desperation I had in my 20s or 30s. I still dream big—every startup needs a hint of grandeur, a whisper of “this could be huge”—but I’m not risking it all. I’ve got a glide path to retirement, CyberCom’s humming along, and I’ve got nothing to prove. Avagence is a solid money-making business, not a do-or-die mission. It’s startup number six, and it feels good to build without the weight of the world on my shoulders. I’m at peace with myself, no longer needing to prove I’m enough. That’s the real win.

Success Powered by Inner Peace

Here’s what I learned: the best ventures come when you’re free from needing to prove anything—to yourself or anyone else. Avagence wasn’t about betting the farm or chasing epic glory like my earlier days. It was about seeing a need, building something new, and making it work. It was fun, profitable, and a reminder that I’m still a feral entrepreneur at heart—just a little wiser, a little calmer. Find that place where you’re at peace with who you are, and let that flow into the businesses you build.

Peter Kay here, your feral entrepreneur, and I’m telling you a story that still stings, a story about letting go of a dream so big it felt like it could touch the stars. It’s 2007, and my company, Titan Key, is riding a wave. We’ve got a killer anti-spam software product, industry buzz, and customers—20,000 subscribers. We’re cash flow positive, a rare feat for a startup, and I’m in talks with big players like Symantec for a potential acquisition. I’m sitting in my tiny 500-square-foot office in Honolulu, three desks crammed together, savoring the moment. I’m thinking, This is it. This could be a billion-dollar company. But then, in a single day, everything changes. This is the story of how I walked away from investors with open checkbooks and a dream, facing what I believe is the most difficult decision for any entrepreneur and that is, do you ignore what everyone is telling you and keep pressing forward, or do you call it quits because you know this is not going to work? As so elegantly put in a country song, “You gotta know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, and know when to walk away”.

Riding High on Titan Key

Titan Key was my baby, born from the ashes of CyberCom, my first big win in Hawaii’s tech scene. We’d built a sophisticated anti-spam software that ISPs loved, even if it took some serious configuration to get it humming. Our customers—scattered from India to El Salvador to New Jersey—were paying thousands a month, and they were happy. I’d poured my own cash into this, leftover from the CyberCom exit, and we were making it work. The industry was taking notice; Symantec’s acquisition slide decks, the hit at the MIT anti-spam conference, and Steve Ballmer’s reply. The buzz was real. I was ready to take the next leap: raising capital to hire a sales guy, scale up, and go big.

Hawaii’s Angel Investors Have Checkbooks Open

It’s 2005 now, and Hawaii’s high-tech scene is just waking up, thanks to Act 221, a law giving investors crazy tax breaks for backing qualified tech businesses like Titan Key. The venture capital and angel investor scene is brand new, and I’m diving in headfirst. I’m working with Hawaii Angels, led by Rob Robinson, a witty South African transplant with a knack for leadership. Rob’s the guy who wrote the book on angel investing —literally. He’s a natural leader, all charm and humor, and he’s got the Hawaii Angels crew fired up. Then there’s John, my lead investor, a Silicon Valley titan before retiring to Hawaii around 2000. John’s the Apex investor—when he’s in, everyone else follows. His approval is gold, and he’s committed to leading Titan Key’s seed round. I’ve been courting these guys for a year, and now, in 2007, we’re ready. Term sheets are drafted, checkbooks are open, and I’m set to raise $625,000. All that’s left is a wrap-up meeting to hand out the terms and collect the checks. I’m on top of the world.

The Gut Punch From A New Player

I’m in my office, doing my daily ritual of scanning industry news, when I stumble across a product announcement that hits me like a freight train. Barracuda Networks, a company I barely know, has just launched an anti-spam appliance—a piece of hardware, like a router, that you plug into your network, and it just works. No complex software, no endless configuration. It’s trivially simple, perfect for ISPs who understand hardware and hate fussing with software like mine. Priced at a one-time cost of about $2,000, maybe with some annual maintenance fees, it’s a fraction of the thousands I’m charging monthly. I read the announcement, and my gut twists. You don’t need to be a psychic to see this future. Barracuda’s approach is superior. My ISP customers are going to eat this up, and there’s no way Titan Key’s complicated software can compete. I’m staring at the screen, thinking, This is it. Titan Key is finished.

Reality Crashes the Dream

The weight of it sinks in. I’m a one-man show with a single programmer, still on CyberCom’s payroll, and we’re running on fumes. Sure, we’re cash flow positive, covering expenses, but there’s no fat profit to reinvest, and my own capital is nearly tapped out. I’ve been here before, down to my last dollar. Barracuda, with who-knows-how-many millions in funding, is just one of many well-backed players in this brutally competitive high-tech space. To pivot Titan Key into a hardware play would take millions more, a bigger team, and expertise we don’t have—with no guarantee of success. My CPA already wrote us a check, and the investors are ready to follow, but they’re not industry experts. They don’t know about Barracuda. They’re sold on the dream I’ve pitched, the billion-dollar potential, the Symantec talks, the cash flow. I could take their money, keep going, and no one would know. But I know. And I can’t live with that.

The Investor Meeting Bombshell

The day of the investor meeting arrives, and I’m in a room with Rob and the Hawaii Angels crew. They’re stoked, expecting to sign term sheets and hand over checks. The vibe is electric—they’re all in, ready to ride this to a billion-dollar exit. I stand up, heart pounding, and I tell them the truth. “Guys, Barracuda Networks just announced an anti-spam appliance. It’s hardware, dead simple, and cheap. It’s going to eat our lunch. The risk of this business succeeding just went through the roof. I wouldn’t invest another dime of my own money in Titan Key, and I’m telling you, you shouldn’t either. I’m calling this whole thing off.” You could hear a pin drop. Shock ripples through the room. They know I didn’t have to say this. I could’ve spun a story, taken the $625,000, and kept going. Rob, ever the optimist, pipes up, “Peter, I get it, but let’s go on this journey. Some of us are with you.” I shake my head. “No, Rob. I can’t”. Just like I shut down CyberCom when the web market dried up, I know Titan Key’s done. The deal’s off.

Hold ‘Em, Fold ‘Em, Walk Away, or Run?

Let me tell you, this was brutal. I’d closed the deal—sold a room full of sharp angel investors on a company I genuinely believed could hit a billion dollars. I’m a salesman who could sell mood rings to Vulcans . Yesterday, Titan Key was the hottest thing; today, it’s dead. Investors want to make money, and I no longer have a product that delivers. My ego’s screaming to keep going, to fight, to prove I’m not a quitter. But my moral compass is louder. I can’t take their money knowing the odds are stacked against us. It’s not just about the cash—it’s about letting go of the dream. Just the day before, I was sitting on a billion-dollar vision, and now, with a snap of the fingers, it’s gone. I’ve let go before , and I know I can do it again, but it doesn’t make it easier. The real fight isn’t with the investors—it’s with myself, wrestling with whether to fold or keep swinging.

No Shame In This Failure

The stakes are high. My reputation is everything. I’ve built trust in Hawaii’s tight-knit tech scene, from XenTec to CyberCom to now. I could take the money and keep running, but for what? Fake glory that’d burn out fast? No way. I still see Rob around—we hug and fist-bump, and it’s all love. Walking away with integrity means I can hold my head high. Titan Key, though legally a Hawaii LLC, was more Silicon Valley than local in its attitude. Most of our customers were global, not island-based. In Silicon Valley, failure’s part of the game—startups burn millions and crash all the time. Here in Hawaii, Act 221 created zombie companies, propped up by tax breaks despite no revenue. Titan Key wasn’t that. We had real customers with a real product generating real money. This was already superior to the 90% failure rate of tech startups and because of that the local “shame of failure” cultural value never factored into my decisions. Failing didn’t scare me—losing my integrity did.

Integrity Pays Off

The fallout? My reputation soars. The investors see my honesty as a mark of integrity, and it opens doors. I join Hawaii Angels as an angel investor myself, working with Rob and others, becoming a go-to tech guy for reviewing deals. They trust me because they saw with their own eyes that I put them over me when push came to shove.

The Most Difficult Question for Any Entrepreneur

But the bigger lesson hits harder: the toughest question any entrepreneur faces is when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em, like that Kenny Rogers song. Entrepreneurs are wired to ignore naysayers—when someone calls your idea stupid, it’s often a sign you’re onto something. Elon Musk got laughed at for wanting to colonize Mars, but he kept going. At the same time, not every idea wins. Knowing whether to keep pushing or pull the plug is the defining challenge for any entrepreneur, whether feral or domesticated. I cannot think of any more difficult challenge we have to face. I saw the signs with Titan Key and to me it was clear that I had to fold. It wasn’t about failure—it was about recognizing this was not the time to hold ‘em and the best thing to do was to fold ‘em, without walking away or running either.

The Feral Lesson Keeps Repeating Itself

Here’s what I learned, and I’m telling you, it’s gold. You'll never, never, never go wrong by doing the right thing. Your moral compass is all you’ve got. If you’re righteous, everything else falls into place. If you’re not, you’ve got nothing. Knowing when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em is the entrepreneur’s toughest call, and there’s no one-size-fits-all answer. Every situation’s different, but the truth isn’t. Do the right thing, fearlessly. Stay on your divine path, correct when you stray, and trust righteousness wins. I walked away from a billion-dollar dream and kept my soul. That’s the feral entrepreneur way. Aloha!

A Billion-Dollar Dream Ignites

I’m Peter Kay, with another wild feral entrepreneur story of my next startup. It’s October 2002, and I’m standing in the ashes of CyberCom, my fourth startup, which I’d just shut down after a brutal year of stress and pivots. We handed over the keys to our 5,000-square-foot office in September, a place that once buzzed with coders and clients, now just an empty shell. But of course I wasn’t done - just transitioning. CyberCom’s urn moved into a new office, a tiny 500-square-foot closet of a space, just enough for me, a few desks, and a dream. That dream? Titan Key Software, my fifth startup, built on a patented anti-spam technology I’d been cooking up while CyberCom was still kicking. This was my shot at redemption, a chance to prove I wasn’t just a one-hit wonder. I was chasing a billion-dollar valuation, and for this blazing moment, it was real.

The Idea That Gripped Me

Titan Key wasn’t just another project—it was a game-changing technology. Spam was choking the internet in 2002, clogging dial-up ISPs and frustrating every techie from Hungary to Honolulu. My patented process stopped spam before it even hit the server. No filters, no spam folders, just a hard bounce-back with a 404 error, like you’d mistyped an email address. By April 2003 I had a working prototype, a website with a demo that anyone could test, white paper PDFs going around the web, and solid patents pending. I’d poured my own money into this—every cent a gamble, right after the emotional rollercoaster of CyberCom’s exit from the web business. This wasn’t just about cash; it was about proving I could do it again, that I was the feral entrepreneur I claimed to be. Failure here would’ve gutted me, both financially and emotionally. But success? That’d be a vindication worth putting everything on the line for.

High School Buddy Rides to Baltimore

I was going to need a salesperson and immediately thought about Ernie, my high school buddy, my brother from another mother. We’ve been tight since our teenage days and we still chat every week to this day in 2025. Ernie’s a solid engineer turned salesperson, the kind of guy who speaks geek fluently but identify needs and sell solutions like no one else. I pitched him on Titan Key’s potential, and he was in. We were headed to ISPCON in Baltimore, Maryland, a trade show packed with scruffy, salt-of-the-earth ISP owners, the kind of guys running dial-up modems on their own dime. These were my people, just like me—feral, not corporate, grinding it out in jeans and baseball caps. Ernie and I set up our booth on a shoestring budget: a vinyl sign screaming “Titan Key Software: Stopping Spam Before It’s Sent,” a table with brochures, white papers, and a monitor looping videos of surfers wiping out at Pipeline. No booth babes here—just gnarly waves to draw a crowd.

Gripping Imagination At The Trade Show

ISPCON was our first big stage, and we were the luncheon sponsors, feeding these techies rubber chickens in a small hotel ballroom. I kicked things off with a dumb joke about Spam the meat—yeah, it bombed, but they were listening. I laid out Titan Key’s promise: stop spam before it’s sent. Their jaws dropped. These guys, battling bandwidth costs and spam floods, got it. No processing, no filtering—just pure prevention. The buzz started there, but it exploded when the editor of an ISP trade magazine called me up. I’d been making bold claims, and he wanted the scoop. We talked tech, I pointed him to our demo email address—try spamming it, I dared him. He couldn’t. A few days later, his article dropped: “New Anti-Spam Technology Could End Spam.” My heart was pounding. This was it, the kind of break I’d dreamed of since I learned how to sell mood rings to Vulcans..

The Techies Get It

Back at the booth, Ernie and I were in our element, geeking out with ISP owners who swarmed us, asking technical questions, flipping through our white papers. Then JD walked up, a customer support manager from a New Jersey ISP. He was a classic tech geek, eyes lighting up as he grasped Titan Key’s potential. “This is it,” he said, dragging his boss and tech crew over. They got it too—the whole team, CEO included, nodding along as I explained the tech. They became our first real customer, a win that felt like pure gold. The booth was chaos, leads piling up, and those Pipeline wipeout videos? They were working, pulling in techies who stayed to talk. Ernie was a rock, collecting contacts, closing follow-ups, while I answered questions, my feral energy matching theirs.

Holy Week, Holy Moment

This ISPCON trade show just so happened to be going on at the same time of Eastern Orthodox Easter Holy Week, and Holy Thursday is one of the biggest nights. The trade show was peaking, leads were flowing, and the magazine article had everyone talking. That night, I slipped away to a church service, a quiet, monastic prayer session that goes on for almost 4 hours. I stood there, overwhelmed, thanking God for the wins piling up. Business was soaring by day, and by night, I was in tears, steeped in gratitude. It was surreal—success colliding with spirituality. Back at my hotel, I let myself savor this truly glorious moment, celebrating it for what it was and nothing more, or less.

Wired Magazine Seals It

The show wrapped, and Ernie and I were stoked. Titan Key hit the market with a bang and I stopped to see my Chicago family and celebrate the Easter weekend coming up. On Good Friday, the press coverage lands like a tidal wave. Wired Magazine—the Wired Magazine, at that time the Internet’s journal—featured Titan Key as “One of the more interesting permission implementations”. My inbox explodes. People were hitting our demo, signing up, blown away by a system that let you create programmable email addresses—a KeyMail, I called it. You could generate emails on the fly, set them to expire, or tie them to specific senders, all feeding to your main inbox. No one had seen anything like it. I was in tears again, not just from joy but from validation. This was my billion-dollar moment.

Walking the Hallowed Halls of MIT

The momentum carried me to the MIT Anti-Spam Conference, hosted by Paul Graham, a tech legend who later founded the incredibly successful Y Combinator (YC) accelerator. This was pre-YC Paul, fresh off selling his e-commerce company to Yahoo for millions. He invited me to present, covering my airfare, lodging, and a stipend—serious stuff. MIT was hallowed ground, packed with the sharpest programmers in the game. No fluff here; they wanted raw tech. I refined Titan Key’s pitch, introducing the KeyMail concept: programmable email addresses you could customize for newsletters, friends, or one-offs. The room went silent, then erupted. Programmers were geeking out, asking questions, floored by the idea. One guy from Symantec approached me afterward, saying they wanted to talk about acquisition. He sent me slides—a freaking slide deck outlining how Symantec might buy Titan Key. I was floored, pinching myself. This was real.

The Microsoft Call With the Exchange Geeks

Then came the wildest moment. I’d emailed Steve Ballmer, Microsoft’s COO at the time, pitching Titan Key as an add-on to their Exchange email server. To my shock and awe, he replied, forwarding it to his engineers. Next thing I know, I’m on a call with Microsoft’s senior email system engineers. Just me, a Hawaii guy with one programmer, talking to the big leagues. They were hooked, throwing out “oh cool!” as I walked them through the tech. My patents gave me confidence to freely share the technology, and their excitement was electric. This was the inventor’s dream—my idea, my creation, validated by the giants. I hung up, heart racing, thinking, “This is it. We’re going to the moon.”

The Stakes Were Everything (Again)

The stakes couldn’t have been higher. Titan Key was self-funded, every dollar from my own pocket after CyberCom’s web business imploded. I’d poured everything into this—money, time, heart. We were a tiny fish in a sea of million-dollar companies with armies of coders. Failure would have crushed me, not just financially but emotionally. After CyberCom’s stress, I needed this to prove I could rise again, that I was a real entrepreneur who could start multiple companies, not a fluke from XenTec days. Success meant vindication, a billion-dollar valuation I’d penciled out: $1 a month per user, millions of users, billions in revenue. Symantec’s slides, Microsoft’s call, Wired’s write-up—it all screamed I was onto something massive.

Savoring the Wild Ride

Looking back, this was one of those life-defining pivotal moments. Everything I’d learned—developing software, selling, PR, intellectual property rights, even the grit of going down to my last dollar—came together to carry me through this crossroad. I’d transitioned from CyberCom’s dollars-for-hours grind to a product company with a game-changing invention. While other Hawaii web firms were folding, CyberCom had honorably exited a shriveled market and pivoted to a soaring Titan Key. I savored every second of this high, not because I was guaranteed billions, but because I’d chased a dream and made it real. I’d stood in MIT’s halls, blown away programmers, landed our first customer, and gotten Microsoft on the phone. Symantec’s acquisition slides were icing on the cake. It was an incredible moment to celebrate. I knew there were still massive risks ahead but I clearly recall making sure I took the time to celebrate that moment, to savor that victory, without any expectation of what would come. It didn’t matter. Right there, right then, I felt an incredible sense of victory.

Never Let Your Dreams Die

The lesson? Never let a dream go unrealized. Titan Key had started as a spark of an idea many years before, nagging me while CyberCom was still humming. I could’ve ignored it, let it fade like so many ideas do. But I didn’t. I built it, patented it, and took it to the world. Those moments—JD’s excitement, MIT’s applause, Wired’s feature, Symantec’s slide deck, Microsoft’s call—are priceless. I penciled out a billion-dollar company, and for a fleeting moment, the world agreed. That’s the feral entrepreneur’s life: betting it all, savoring the wins, and never letting fear kill your dreams. This is my story, and I’m telling you, go chase yours.

Bracing Ourselves For the Coming Crazy Slog

Peter Kay here, your feral entrepreneur, and I’m telling you about May 2002, when we stepped off a Disney cruise and into the fire of shutting down CyberCom, Hawaii’s biggest web developer. On that cruise, me and my wife, Roni—our CFO and rock—decided to pull the plug. Spencer Johnson, whose book The One Minute Salespersontaught me sales, hit me again with Who Moved My Cheese?—the cheese had moved, and we knew it. Back at our 5,000-square-foot office, with its killer ocean views and conference room where we’d chase green flashes at sunset, it’s our first day, and we’re facing the music—time to make this real in that dream space that screams success.

What Are We Going To Do Now?

Walking into that sleek office, with its beautiful spaces and sweeping views, Jerome, our COO—loyal as hell and still a friend to this day in 2025—pulls me aside. “I need to talk to you right away.” Me, Roni, and Jerome huddle in someone’s office—maybe hers, maybe mine; mine’s tiny, doesn’t matter. Jerome’s straight-up: “Projects are thin. I’m struggling to keep folks busy—no sales in the pipeline. What’s the plan?” Roni’s got her perfect books ready, tracking every dime, but I look Jerome in the eye, feeling the cruise decision lock in, and say, “We’re shutting down the company.” We’re mentally prepped, and I’m confident. His reply was legendary—cool as hell, he says, “Okay, I’m with you to the end—let’s go.” That trust, in this unreal office, blows me away.

All Hands On Deck Get The Shock Treatment

Our crew—web developers, engineers, designers, sysadmins—is sharp, forged in CyberCom’s rough-and-tumble fire. They know what Jerome knows—post-9/11, seven months back, the economy’s tanking and projects are drying up. In that ocean-view office, anxiety’s thick; everyone’s feeling the post-September 2001 crash. Roni’s keeping payroll and 401k tight for our remaining employees, but the vibe’s heavy. I prep a slide deck and call an all-hands meeting in our fancy conference room, where we’d watch sunsets and green flashes. Standing there, I say, “Gang, CyberCom’s not a business anymore—our last day is September 2002.” It’s May/June 2002, giving everyone months to plan. Silence hits—pin-drop quiet—but something shifts in that room.

A Completely Unexpected Response

After the meeting, the office vibe flips 180 degrees—freaking incredible. Anxiety vanishes; I hear laughter, lightness, even happiness spreading through those beautiful workspaces. I absolutely did not expect this and it was a very big lesson. Clarity did it—Roni and I giving a firm end date and no slow bleed had set them free. Indecision kills. Our decisiveness lets everyone else be just as decisive with their lives as well and this had an incredibly liberating effect. That lesson hit hard as I was hearing the sound of a happy crew despite what I just dropped on everyone. Roni’s steady hand, managing HR and accounts, keeps us grounded as we pivot to the wind-down, knowing we’re doing right by these folks.

Getting Kicked Out Of A Bankruptcy Office

Now we tackle the shutdown—a Herculean task. Our financial planner suggests a buyer, but I’m not biting. In our ocean-view office, I tell Roni it’s too much stress—bids, due diligence, it’s crap I can’t handle. Plus, putting a price on a business I’m done with feels dishonest—not worthless, but wrong. Kinda like selling a used car you know has an engine that’s about to blow up. We visit a bankruptcy lawyer, recommended by our corporate attorney, for a free consult. Roni lays out her flawless books—every dime accounted for—and the lawyer is stunned: “You’re not bankrupt! Tons of cash, assets over liabilities—what are you doing here?” We’re out in under an hour, bankruptcy off the table, back to planning.

Wise Counsel Saves CyberCom

Our corporate attorney drops gold: “Don’t close CyberCom—you’ve got eight years of goodwill. Exit the web business, keep the company alive.” I’m like, “Hell, that’s smart!” In 2025, CyberCom’s hitting 31 years since ’94—proof it worked. We decide: no bankruptcy, just ditch the unprofitable web game. Two big hurdles loom—a 5,000-square-foot lease signed a year ago and a pile of almost-new server farm equipment. Roni’s accounting system shows we’re solid, but these liabilities need handling, and we’re hashing it out, feeling the weight of what’s next.

Negotiating Out Of a Big Lease

Here’s an insight for entrepreneurs: we didn’t sign a personal guarantee on that lease—CyberCom’s credit, not my personal credit, was strong enough for a corporate deal. This turned out to be a huge win. I tell the landlord, “We’re winding down—let’s make it work.” We’ll repay the cash they gave for office upgrades—carpeting, walls, all that—and prepay rent through September 2002, covering everything. They push back, but I say, “It’s this or we hit Chapter 11—you’ll get less.” They agree—win-win, lease done. Back in our conference room, watching another sunset, Roni and I feel one weight lift.

A Server Farm Finds A Home

We had recently upgraded our hosting infrastructure and now it had to go—I sell our servers back to the supplier at a discounted fair deal. That same company, a friendly competitor, buys our hosting business. Another firm wanted to bid, but I’m done haggling—I want out clean. The buyer’s solid, ensures a seamless handoff, and I’m happy he made bank after he bought that business. Could I have sold the hosting business for a lot more? Very likely yes, but at what emotional cost? The most important part of the transaction was that the customers would be taken care of with zero disruption. And that’s exactly what the buyer did. The customers' websites stay online, no disruption and no one’s left hanging—just how I wanted it. Roni’s tracking the funds in her system, and the last big liability is about to get checked off.

Customers Get the Email Update Every Week

By July 2002, I email our customers: “Folks, as of September 2002, CyberCom will no longer be providing web development services. Your website hosting will be transferred to this company and here is your contact and phone number. They will be contacting you to arrange the transfer details. Here’s a directory of Oahu developers—where you can find a company to work with. Our priority is to make this simple for you and to eliminate any disruption.” It’s a 60-day notice—July, August—plenty of time. I send weekly updates: “X weeks left—here’s the status, hit us if you need help.” We wrap a few open projects by September, honoring every contract—no complaints, nobody left behind. Roni’s ensuring every vendor’s paid, and we’re making sure everything is as clean as it could be.

Media Finds Nothing

The media pounces—CyberCom’s the darling, on magazine covers, headlines everywhere. They hunt for dirt—disgruntled employees, bad deals—but there’s nothing to see here. I stick to the story: “CyberCom’s not bust, just exiting the unprofitable web business.” TV, radio, papers cover it; I do a few interviews, and it fizzles in days—no scandal, just truth. Roni’s books back it up—clean as hell. In that conference room, watching another green flash, we know we’re pulling this off right.

Everyone Lands On Their Feet

Employees? Covered. Anyone wanting a job gets one—our biggest customers scoop some of our best for in-house web work. One of our guys is still with one of those clients in 2025—wild! Some launch mini-CyberComs, doing dev work—freaking awesome. Vendors, customers, all taken care of—no one’s hurt. I pay off our equipment lease at the bank, and the banker says, “Your reputation just went up a couple notches—character is a big factor in credit ratings and how you wound this down speaks volumes.” I never, ever expected to hear that and it really hit me deep. It was one of final validations that told me we were he pono ka hana i ka manawa kūpono doing the right thing at the right time in the right way.

Doors Close Quietly

September 2002, as planned nearly a year earlier, was our last day in web development. The office—empty, better than we found it. No more green flash sunsets, no more wizkid status, no speeches, no invites. Fame’s gone, fake friends vanish—CyberCom’s not the shiny thing anymore. In that now-quiet space, Roni and I feel the sting but also the rightness of it—clean, honest, done. We had a few employees left on that day and we said our final goodbyes.

Doing It Right Was Worth It

This was my entrepreneur’s graduation—like snagging a PhD. Building CyberCom from nothing took one kind of fire; and winding it down is another, showing the best and worst in everyone. In that office, stress bombs hit from May to September—moments of truth piling on. But righteousness, doing it right, becomes my anchor. I could’ve cut corners—nobody cares in a shutdown—everyone is running for the doors to save themselves. But no way. The banker, hosting buyer, others—they cheer us on, lifting me and Roni when we were drowning in stress. Her clarity from the cruise, Jerome’s trust, the team’s relief—it’s all fuel, proving Hawaii values reputation above all.

Stakes Had Everything On The Line

The stakes? My reputation—lose it, and I’m getting kicked off the island, no question. I’m the wonder kid who brought the web here, with blue-chip clients, millions in revenue—now walking away. Am I a failure, or an ethical businessman making the right call? That’s the fight. I’m scared employees’ll hate me, that Roni and I won’t survive the stress, that financial ruin’s next—family unsupported. In that ocean-view office, it’s all on the line—pride, future, everything and the fear is real.

Time Has Proven The Right Decision

The lesson’s huge—righteousness is power that can never be topped. Knowing you’re doing the right thing? Freaking unstoppable. This wind-down’s my biggest win—weird, but true. Few have ever survived something like this so cleanly. XenTec’s exit , hitting bottom—they gave me guts. My reputation soars—the Chamber of Commerce board invites me to join after this. Other web firms tanked post-9/11, but CyberCom exited in a stronger position with the fuel to fight another day. Closing freed time to spend with my wife and daughters, then two and five, now 29 and 25—chaperoning field trips, cruises to Greece and Alaska, road trips to Yellowstone and Grand Canyon. Those moments, with Roni and the girls, are priceless—time I’d have lost fighting a doomed fight. CyberCom later made more cash than ever with my tech-business-marketing blend unmatched in Hawaii.

You Never Know When You’ll Need It

This “Feral Entrepreneur’s Graduation Exercise” gave me an incredible skill and experience - which was to know when to fearlessly exit an unwinnable situation. There’s another story I will share in the future - about how this very skill saved one of the biggest retailers in Hawaii at the start of the COVID pandemic. You’ll have to wait for that one, but the point here is all experiences in life are priceless and you really don’t know when you’ll make use of something again in the future. I would have never thought that I’d again use my winding down skills but nearly 20 years later, that very skill saved a company many times larger than mine.

Feral Path Shines

The feral truth? Know when a business is no longer a business—let it go and never look back. It’s a cash tool, not your soul. Family—Roni, my girls, Jerome’s friendship—matters most when fame fades. Do right, like Yoda says, and drop attachment to the material. Reputation, love, the divine path of righteousness—that’s the real stuff. Only you know your path, but you’ll feel it, and when you’re off, you’ll know. Stay righteous, fearless, and never, never, never waver—it’s the feral way, and it’s everything. Aloha!

Basking In Limelight Of the Glory Days

Peter Kay here, your feral entrepreneur, and telling you about 2001, when CyberCom was riding high as Hawaii’s top web developer. We were the freaking king—number one, fastest-growing company, the darling of the business scene. Me and my wife, Roni, who’s running the show as CFO, are in this unreal 5,000-square-foot penthouse office, top floor, with sweeping ocean views that blow your mind every day. I’ve been on the cover of Hawaii Business Magazine (twice), Midweek Magazine, all over TV and radio—and I’m a household name (“I’m Peter Kay With Your Computer Minute!”) with endless speaking gigs lined up. We’ve got 25 employees—developers, designers, sysadmins—cranking through a 12-month project backlog. Clients wait a year for us, that’s how hot we are. CyberCom is knocking it out of the park in this prestigious space where we gather nightly in the corner conference room, watching sunsets, chasing green flashes—an unbelievable vibe.

9/11 Crashes Into Our Business

Then September 11, 2001, hits like a bomb. In Hawaii, six hours behind New York, I wake up, flip on the radio, and it’s chaos—towers down, Pentagon hit, Pennsylvania crash, all done before we even woke up. I’m in shock, heading to our ocean-view office where our employees are feeling dread. Everybody’s freaked, trying to grasp it. I’m thinking we’ve got to keep moving—we have a 12-month backlog and a business to run. An employee asks, “Is this gonna hurt us?” I brush it off, “Nah, we’re solid, let’s work.” But I’m wrong—dead wrong—I just don’t know it yet.

The Aftershocks Are Massive

The business aftershock is brutal. Our client mix—high-end travel giants, mid-range players, and mom & pop small businesses—follow the 80/20 rule: 20%, mostly travel, bring 80% of our revenue; the remaining 80% bring 20%. Post-9/11, our high-end travel clients go direct to consumer, selling straight on the web, and that reprioritization means they need to either take web development work in-house or they hire high-end mainland developers that are orders of magnitude more equipped than we are—cutting us out. Mid-range clients freeze, halting projects, scared stiff seeing the economy about to tank. Small clients, mostly hosting with us, keep going, but they’re just 20% of revenue. Our forecasting system—a lifesaver—shows our September 2001 backlog holding to September 2002, but it’s thinning fast. In that ocean-view conference room, we’re staring at a storm, and Roni’s steady hand on the finances, payroll, and 401k for our crew can’t stop what’s coming.

There Are No Vulcans

I’m the guy who can sell mood rings to Vulcans , so I hit supercharged sales mode, storming clients for new projects. Roni’s running HR, accounts, everything, keeping us afloat, but I’m getting “no” after “no”—clients aren’t biting. I pitch a wild Hawaii Act 221 tax credit idea, offering web development basically for free through tax breaks—still no takers, which floors me. I think that trial balloon, more than anything else, tells me this might be over. I try merging with a top ad agency, thinking our tech edge and their design could mesh. We never even get to first base. By March 2002, our backlog hasn’t moved. Our next available project date should have been March 2003 but it’s still stuck at September 2002, no new work. We’ve laid off staff already, and the walls of the office with its green flash views are closing in on Roni and I.

Finding Truth By The Disney Pool

April 2002, we take a Disney cruise for spring break—me, Roni, our daughters, aged two and five at the time, soaking up Caribbean islands, Disney’s private island, family dinners, Disney movies, the works. On the pool deck, with kids splashing nearby, Roni and I talk—really talk. She’s got the numbers in her head, and I spill it all: high-end clients gone, mid-range on hold, small clients not enough to keep us afloat, sales bombing, merger not an option. We had a strategic plan to exit web development, but 9/11 shot that plan into overdrive. Sitting there, ocean breeze hitting us, we realize CyberCom—number one, industry darling, penthouse office—isn’t a business anymore. The web world’s flipped, and we realize we’re done, right there in that magical, kid-filled setting.

The Choice We Did Not Want To Make

We’re facing a brutal call: slog through a hellish fight to save CyberCom or shut it down. Pre-9/11, we’re already maxed—stressed out, countless internal battles, our daughters caught in it, a crib by Roni’s office desk for our youngest. Another battle, ten times worse, with no win guaranteed? It’ll wreck our marriage, our family, our lives. I’m the feral entrepreneur—I’ve walked away before, like XenTec, and have gone down to my last buck. Lounging by that kiddie pool, Roni’s steady gaze locks with mine, and we decide: we’re closing CyberCom. It’s over—not thrilled about it, but it’s the move, and that killer sunset ocean-view office feels a world away.

The Biggest Gut Punch Ever

Inside, I’m torn—this is gonna hurt like a mofo. I’m the tech wonder kid, the voice of Your Computer Minute that everybody hears several times a day. I’m on a weekly morning KITV news segment Computer Talk with Peter Kay, magazine covers, speaking gigs everywhere. We’re the model of success, and now I’m facing failure, shutting down from that penthouse suite. My ego’s massive—huge—and this is the biggest gut punch of my life. I tried everything—sales, tax deals, mergers—no stone unturned, but it’s not enough. Closing risks my reputation, maybe forces me out of Hawaii. Our daughters, the office nursery, fights with Roni—it’s screaming family first, but knowing we’re still making millions from backlog projects makes it even crazier. I don’t think I could have made that decision without my wife’s agreement and support.

Reputation is On The Line - Again

This is my entrepreneur’s graduation—biggest stakes ever. My ego’s screaming to fight, but I know we’d sink. Ego’s a trap; never get fooled into believing your own press releases—another story there. Announcing CyberCom’s closure- I mean, what will everyone say? In Hawaii, reputation is everything—this multiplies the fear of losing that by a hundred. Lose my reputation, and I’m gone—no way I’m going to let that happen.

Nothing Validates Better Than Looking Back

Here’s the truth—when a business isn’t working, let it go. Never, never, never cling to it. Don’t fear the abyss; trust it’ll work out. I’d walked away from XenTec, hit rock bottom before, so I know I can do it again, but I’m scared—scared shitless. Yet it’s all about the divine path. Psalms 23 comes to mind right now: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.” Closing CyberCom is on the divine path—hellish, but right. Looking back now, in 2025, it was the right move. My daughters, now 29 and 25, had me with them at every school outing, family dinners every night, and epic family trips—time I’d have lost fighting a lost cause. In the years that followed, CyberCom pivoted, and became just as profitable with no employees—nuts, right? I didn’t see that when we were agonizing over it at the poolside on the Disney Cruise ship, but it worked better than I could have possibly dreamed.

The Operational Machine That Really Saved Us

Part of our strategic plan to exit the billable hours web development business that we had laid out several years prior was to develop operational excellence. In that pursuit, Roni had developed an in-house web-based time tracking system and I had created a sales and project forecasting system. Together this system let us manage the largest web development company in Hawaii and it was this system that gave us the ability to see the end coming well in advance. We had almost a 12 month lead warning to steer our ship clear of the icebergs and offload all the passengers safely. This administration, under Roni’s leadership, is the secret hero of this story and I firmly believe we would have crashed head-on into that iceberg had we not had this system.

Staying On Your Divine Path Is What Matters Most

Long before that fateful September in 2001, I came up with a prayer on my screen saver: “Give me the eyes to see the path that You have shown before me”. Here I’m asking for the Lord to just let me see the path so I can follow it. I don’t need to know where it leads - I just want to see it. I know He has laid that path before me already and I’m asking for His help to see it. If I can see it, I will follow it. This is a story about seeing the path and following the path without really knowing where it will lead. The feral lesson’s this—stay on your divine path, trust it and have the courage to never stray. Know when you’re on it, feel when you’re off of it, and make whatever course corrections you need to get back on it regardless of how scary it feels.. Next, I’ll tell you how that path unfolded as we actually shut down the company, a wild ride unto itself.

Subscriptions are free for now. If I ever start charging, you’ll be grandfathered in forever. Lock in the low price before it’s too late!

I knew that writing memoirs was going to be rewarding and doing so has really exceeded my expectations. It’s become so therapeutic.

When I tell people that I use AI to help me write them, everyone wants to know how. I created a very short video that can show you how to do this in 3 easy steps. Take a look, follow the steps, and see how fun and therapeutic it can be!

Here’s the link to YouTube:

Stop Staring at a Blank Page! AI Writes Your Memoir in 3 Easy Steps!

Here is the link to that Google Doc I refer to in the video you can use where I’ve done all the hard work.

I think it would be really cool for other entrepreneurs to share their stories. If you aren’t quite up for starting your own substack, consider adding your stories to The Feral Entrepreneur. Share your priceless wisdom with others.

Do let me know if you tried doing this and how it turned out. I’d really love to know!

Peter

I’m Holding a Hammer and Everything is a Nail

Peter Kay here, your feral entrepreneur, telling you the story of how in 1994 Hawaii’s first commercial website got its start. Back then, I just got back home, fresh off a two-year honeymoon road trip across the mainland with my wife of two years. I sold my stake in XenTec Software Engineering in ’92, and now I’m teaching Unix system admin courses at Honolulu Community College—a small gig, not full-time, barely keeping us afloat. In a fluorescent-lit classroom with huge metal desks, eight feet wide, four or six feet deep, cables everywhere, I’m guiding the Outrigger Hotels and Resorts IT crew through Sun Unix drills, projecting my screen on the wall. I’d just seen the World Wide Web for the first time, and man, it’s freaking wild—game-changing tech. It’s a hammer in my hands, everything’s a nail and Iʻm looking to pound.

It Started With Teaching A Unix Admin Course

It’s the last night of the course and I’m in that mid-90s community college classroom, two Sun workstations per desk, two students each, all eyes on my projected exercises—command-line basics, sysadmin stuff. Joe, Outrigger’s Chief Technology Officer, sharp and in charge, leads his IT team, including Jerry, his right-hand man, both soaking up the material. They’re my clients, tech guys like me, and the room’s got this steady hum—fluorescent lights, big desks, the works. I’m lit up inside, still buzzing from the web’s potential, knowing it’s going to flip the world, but I’m keeping it cool, guiding them through the night’s work.

A Mind-Blowing Technology Is Demonstrated

Class wraps early, leaving time to geek out. In that classroom, with Joe and Jerry watching, I say, “Let me show you the next big thing—the World Wide Web.” I fire up the very first web browser - NCSA Mosaic, just launched in April 1994. This is as new as it gets, pre-Yahoo, way pre-Google, and I start pulling sites from across the globe. I hit the Web Louvre, showing France’s famous museum, then university pages, and Honolulu Community College’s own cutting-edge site. Their jaws drop—it’s 1994, no smartphones, just clunky, pricey cell phone bricks (for those old enough to remember). Pulling images from a French server? Mind-blowing, pure freaking magic. The classroom’s alive, desks cluttered with workstations, as Joe and Jerry lean in, hooked on this wild tech I’m unleashing.

That Fateful Search for Hotels

Then Joe, eyes twinkling, says, “Search for hotels.” I type “hotel” into a primitive search engine—and get nothing, zero results. In that fluorescent-lit room, it’s a magic moment. Joe declares, “We want to be the first hotel online.” Outrigger, a small Pacific player, wants to lead the web charge—nuts! Jerry’s fired up, saying, “Let’s do it.” Joe turns to me, “Peter, can you do it?” Before he finishes, I’m all in—“Hell yeah, I can do it!” Truth? I’ve got no clue how, but I see the shot, and itʻs time to sell mood rings to Vulcans. In that classroom, with big desks and buzzing screens, outrigger.com is conceived—Hawaii’s first commercial website, a feral entrepreneur moment that’ll change everything.

Guts Feel Fire

Inside, it’s a rush—every damn thing I’ve learned is slamming together to push me forward. Six years running XenTec, selling, coding, Unix admin—it’s all clicking. The web, built on Unix systems like those Sun workstations in the classroom, is my turf. I’d seen its glow weeks earlier, knew it was massive, but wasn’t sure how to dive in. Now, in that room with Joe’s challenge ringing, it’s right in my hands—my big break. I’m teaching night classes, scraping by with my wife, no company, no capital, no office, no crew—just me, a hammer, and this nail. I’m not letting it slip, not in that buzzing classroom.

Itʻs Either a Moonshot or Keep Scraping By

The stakes are huge—Joe sees the web’s future like I do, and if I don’t grab this, he’ll find someone else. In that classroom, with Jerry nodding and workstations humming, it’s now or never. I’m just a night-course instructor, barely making ends meet, no CyberCom yet. Say yes, like the salesman I am, and build it from nothing—even if I don’t know how—or stay stuck teaching, scraping by with my wife. Outrigger’s larger-than-life reputation in Hawaii means this could rocket me to the moon, or I’m left with nothing, just big desks and fading dreams. That’s the fight, right there under those fluorescent lights.

History Gets Made

That “yes” sparks history—outrigger.com will launch in the fall of 1994, Hawaii’s first commercial site and second only to Hyatt worldwide in terms of hotels (though our site was superior - thatʻs another story). In that classroom moment, with Joe and Jerry’s eyes on me, CyberCom was conceived, supercharged by Outrigger’s reputation. It’s preparation meeting opportunity—two previous failed companies, one XenTec win, ten years of grind, sales guts, tech chops—all crashing into this magic, feral moment. In 2025, looking back, it’s clear: that night, under those lights, changed my life and Hawaii forever, a milestone no one could have ever predicted.

Looking Back Makes it All Clear Now

This life-changing event would have never happened had I fought for my rightful position in XenTec. I’d still be back there, struggling to make things work. I would have never been one of the first in the world to get exposed to the World Wide Web, would have never taught those night-time Unix classes, and Outrigger would have never gotten on the web with such a huge lead that they subsequently enjoyed. To reflect back on that makes me think that it was one of those “It’s a Wonderful Life” moments where a seemingly simple decision has dramatic life-changing consequences that not only affect you, but countless people around you. Sense your divine path, have the courage to stay on it, and things will turn out better than you can possibly imagine.

Never Let a Feral Opportunity Pass You By

The lesson? When luck meets preparation, that's your hammer—never, never, never hesitate the chance to take the swing and slam that nail. That classroom, with its clunky workstations and eager techies, was my launchpad—a moment of pure, unvarnished feral entrepreneurship. It’s about seeing the shot, saying “hell yeah,” and figuring it out, like I did with XenTec. Joe, Jerry, that room—they’re part of a destiny I didn’t see coming, but I grabbed it, and it’s why CyberCom soared. Stay ready, stay feral, and when the web—or whatever’s next—lands in your hands, do not hesitate to swing as hard as you can. Aloha!