PM: At sea in a tyrannous and strong storm? Spinning round and round then going down like lead?
AM: Just while at its moorings. No ice, no waves, no wind, no albatross. Merely a slow seepage of water gurgling in under its planks.
PM: A rather untheatrical ending. The planks look warped, will you refit and refloat her?
AM: This naked hull and rotting deck is a challenge. But I will make her sail again. Come by next week, and you’ll see us put to sea.
Would that we could speak as Coleridge wrote, our stories might be as bright as the silver sun on the silver sea and our conversations might lilt like a lyrical ballad. But we wonder whether even a minor unmourned hulk like this, will ever sail again and that it might become an albatross around the mariner’s neck.