Just a crane

Erk! A phonecall first thing. I’m needed. Prontissimo as our little club tender is filling with water. Apparently it had been pumped out twice overnight but now there was no time to lose as the tide was dropping and the kindly fellows at RFYC would allow us to use their crane. Send for Pensioner! Actually, quite a few pensioners turned up.
So we got it lifted and birrled back to the yard on a six week trailer that hadn’t been used for a couple of years. That was a puff. I had a look underneath. A damp patch at the front of the skeg. I know what’s happened here, states the Commodore. It’s been used at low water and it’s hit a sinker. And I know who’s done it too. It’s that xxxx. Such is natural justice in these parts. There’s even a term for such unfortunate prejudice: not caring for the cut of one’s jib. And poor xxxx has obviously not been careful enough in that regard. Jib, not to be confused with gibbet. Which is where he may end up.