In a scene reminiscent of the confrontation between the Civil War ironclads, Monitor and Merrimack, I grabbed the Omarosa’s anchor and heaved it in a great parabola towards the Anemone. (I have freakish mid-section strength from a lifetime of kegels) We all watched as the anchor reached and then fell from its apex and plummeted into the Anemone with something akin to the force of the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs - leaving a gaping void in the flimsy hull the size of – well, a small boat anchor. The corrupted vessel quickly began taking on water as its motley crew flailed about in confusion. Eventually the boat succumbed and went under, leaving a number of cans bobbing in the water and the drenched occupants abandoning ship to dog paddle and slog the forty or so feet to the shore tugging at their droopy togs and flinging epithets my way. I pulled the cord on the Omarosa’s motor and made a beeline for the other side of the lake, still in disbelief at what I'd done. Alas, there’s no happy ending to this story. The wreck of the Anemone survivors called the police, who were waiting for me when I made shore. Epilog Ultimately, I had to pay for the ruined boat and perform community service. Worst of all, I had to attend court-ordered anchor management counselling.