That red arrow points to Plan B. Last summer, as we lay engine-less in our mooring, a sailboat attempting to dock directly across from us somehow managed to run into us, on the right side of the bow. Bang. We were onboard and we were alarmed at the force of the contact. The sailboat's owners, a young family, apoligized profusely, admitting they were beginners. We took a good look and found no apparent damage. End of story, or so we thought.
The other day, as we were digging around in the further reaches of Plan B's capacious storage hatches, we came upon these two sturdy metal tins of Bag Balm, a wonder ointment intended for cows' udders but equally good for treating cut paws and fingers.
Although there was a good inch of clearance above them, somehow, when we fished them out the other day, they were seriously crushed. That kind of deformation required mighty force, I'd say. Was it from the sailboat banging into us last summer? We can't think of any other explanation. Again, the boat seems fine but this was an unsettling discovery....
And then there's the tipsy compass up on the bridge. It normally floats perfectly horizontal in its alcohol bath but now it's clearly off kilter. Again, we don't know why the compass is tilting and nor do Dirk and Arno. Was it also from that bang last summer?
