By Robert Dvorak

The yachtsman gently guided his 60-footer into port. He had previously been directed to tie up at Number 36B, and he deftly swung between the pilings and eased to the dock. His mate hopped off and between them, within five minutes had secured the stern, bow, and spring lines.

The city of Southampton rose before them, but before they grabbed a taxi into town, they went to avail themselves of the marina faciliities which happened to be no more than twenty feet from their berth.

Before they could enter, however, there was a horrendous roar from the interior — and an occupant of the men’s facilities came running out, chased by a torrent of effluent. The flow raced across the dock, and unfortunately spilled onto the stern of the yacht.

Hoses, mops, sponges, and detergent were applied for the next half hour, but to no avail. It appeared that a permanent stain had affixed itself to the gunwale. Wiping the sweat from his brow, the gentleman sighed, “As they say, loo slips ink ships.”