Vero Beach Municipal Marina Mooring Field, Vero Beach, Florida, USA

We are lethargic today, weary, tired, maybe, a little grumpy. Let's face it. We are hung over. Minutes ago we arrived back from the dinghy dock after dropping off George and Kathy Brown at their car.

The Tree Witch, Beach Bitch, Sandbar dancing, Michigan model babe, Kathleen, and her quiet but thoughtful right wing political wag (sits just right of Attila the Hun) husband George Brown, braved the terrors of I-95 from near Charleston to spend the night on the boat with us. We wiled away the evening hours with two huge pizzas, a gallon of Italian Pisano wine and gossip about all our common friends. It was a wonderful evening, a special place in time, a visit we hoped would not end, but did all too quickly as the next morning turned into afternoon.

George and Kathy. They know how to appreciate the benefits of an impromptu party and can turn any event into one. We are so glad they took the time to drive out of their way to visit.

(pssst. Kathy, I mentioned you in our log. Was it good enough? Did I lie too much?). We love you both.

The day before yesterday has passed and the trauma I endured, the ego searing pain I inflicted on myself, that may have scarred me for life, has dulled, ever so slightly, so very slightly. l may not be able to confess my sins to you with the proper decorum.

I side-swiped a red channel marker in Vero Beach mooring field channel.

"Sooner or later it was bound to happen." "It always happens when you least expect it."

Those are two maxims that are a given in cruising. But no one reported in advance that I was going to feel so frightfully incompetent, so much black-hearted anger at myself about it in retrospect.

I know the right response should be to accept the fact I screwed up. Learn from it and move on. Yeah, right. That ain't gonna happen real soon, I can tell you that much.

I scraped the vertical fiberglass up-rights holding up the dinghy deck and broke a metal hand rail. The hand railed was going to be replaced at some point and the uprights will need just a little sanding and a spot of paint. No big deal. No damage at all to the offending sign of course. But the damage to my soul, the dark bruising of my spirit provoked a raging venomous mental spittle of self-loathing that spewed forth staining myself with a black mood that prevailed well through a sleepless night. Having friends with us last night helped to take the edge and my mind off of the accident caused by my loss of concentration and gross stupidity.

It was a hard, personal damaging lesson. But as lessons on boats go, I suppose I should be thankful it was not worse or compounded by creating bodily harm which, of course, it did not.

Sulking in the pilothouse where the captain is temporarily damaged goods,

Capt'n Lynnie and Skinwalker