How to Shut Down A Company And Get Your Feral Entrepreneur’s Diploma

It takes one kind of person to grow a company and a completely different personality to wind one down honorably. This is how we did it.

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!