The Peril of the Condiment Compass

I strode up to a weathered wooden picnic table to chart my next harbor expedition, and right in the middle sat a red plastic ketchup bottle with a brass-colored twist cap—a blatant navigational beacon! I grabbed the nozzle with both hands to align it true north. Squeee-squirt! A thick red dollop shot out against the grain of the bench, sending me stumbling backward over my own towering flippers. Losing my footing? Utter nonsense! I caught the table edge with one arm, dipped my finger right into the red spill, and began drawing a grand nautical chart on the timber with absolute, unflinching authority!