We've lost 12 tins of beer.
A very serious situation has developed aboard Cleone, and since the matter is sub-judice, I am strictly limited in how much I can report. The facts, however, are clear. Inspecting the water locker, eagle-eyed Elizabeth noticed water sloshing around amongst the water bottles, and that the water appeared soapy. Moreover, there was a tang of yeast in the atmosphere. Realising that something serious was amiss, she did the only thing possible; she summoned the skipper. Not one to dither in a crisis, the Skipper woke up immediately from his reverie by the chart-table and went to work on an investigation. Tool kits, lobster pots (true, I promise), spare loo pumps, an aero-gen (why on earth does he carry all these things?) all went flying out of their lockers. Finally, under the medicines and the diving kit, the truth emerged; their was yeast in the bilges. Now, since we don't bake bread (or store or mix it) other than in the Galley, it was pretty clear that the source could only be the locker next door, where, in the cool beneath the water-line, the First Reserve of Canned or Tinned Beer (if you can call some of this gnats' piss that) is traditionally stored, awaiting its ceremonial march to the Refrigerator, where it is customary for tins of beer to spend their final few hours. Summoned immediately, an ashen-faced Norfy shortly afterwards confirmed the truth; some, no several, no many cans of beer had "punctured themselves" and had leaked some of their contents into the bilges. Well believe that if you will, but a sampling and cleaning operation was immediately put in hand. Several tins failed to make the weight, and when opened failed to hiss properly, and had to be discarded.
Meanwhile a kangaroo court was convened to confirm the guilt of all those involved, to blacken their names and to ignore all their pleas in mitigation of both finding (a foregone conclusion) and sentence (the harshed available, appropriate or not). The first suspect - briefly interrogated with little result - was soon eliminated, and just as he was about to expire from strangulation, the Booby on the foredeck was reprieved as Elizabeth was able to prove that he had never been below decks by the lack of guano down in the cabin. Due to the afore mentioned sub-judice business, I cannot say any more about who is currently being framed (no make that "who is in the frame", Ed) as the chief suspect for the terrible negligence that allowed this calamity, but suffice it to say that Elizabeth and the Skipper have now been illiminated from the investigation. And nor can I comment on what might be the appropriate sentence; privately Elizabeth has said (and she will be a member of the Court Martial) that recalling similar cases, hanging "seemed to be a right and just solution".
Apart from that, all is well. The Booby (Bernard) seems to have taken up permanent residence on the foredeck, and regards the lid to the anchor locker as his own, decorating it as he sees fit. (As an aside, his upwind approach from ahead of the boat is neat; he flies in at an angle, swoops down below deck level, and, bleeding off speed as he does so, increases the lift from his wings by raising and curling them ("Full Flap" I hear you mutter) and (when he gets it right, which normally takes 3 or 4 goes) he then pops up over the railing as he finally stalls, matching his forward (actually backward by now) speed over the ocean to Cleone's, and plops down reasonably gently onto the deck). We've knocked off another 160 or so miles, and the wind has been up and down between 12 and 20 knots, and oscillating between East by South and South East by South.
One successful loaf of bread baked, and another in the oven (thank goodness not a bun - Ed) as we speak.
All well and happy,
Best wishes,
James, Chris & Elizabeth
Yacht Cleone
At sea
07.59S 118.05W