When I was a girl, my dad built gliders and small free-flight model planes. We joined other enthusiasts and took them far out in the country to a grassy field. Some people had remote control and could turn their craft, the chassis a foot or a bit longer. My dad’s went up and then came down. Sometimes this meant a long run to collect them. Everyone flew their balsa wood and silk span planes until they were battered past flight. We took our models home and my dad would splice and repair, adjust balance, tune the tiny engine, spread new paint—orange because it showed up well in the grass.

They were noisy and useless, but far from crowds, never a threat to safety or privacy. Adult toys requiring careful design and skill to fly.

More recently, a drone flew by our front yard, which fronts the beach. The drone paused briefly at eye level, twenty feet from where my husband and I sat in chairs in our yard. Technically, perhaps, its flightpath was perfectly legal.

We flipped the drone off. It was an instantaneous and shared choice. (And not something I am inclined to do. We both laughed.) The device had moved on but turned back immediately and hovered for a long moment, confirming our suspicion that it carried a camera, watching and perhaps filming us.

If I’d had a pellet gun that day and the skill, would I have been tempted to shoot down that spying drone just past my hedge?

You bet.