The motoryacht is fourteen metres long and stands five and a half out of the water. Take a dinghy alongside it and look up.
That is new, and it is most of the point. Every boat on the plas used to be the same small hull with a number in front of it, which made a "yacht" about seven metres, a boat you could see over the top of. They are drawn one at a time now, at the size their names promise. A sloep is six metres. A motorkruiser is ten and a half. The dinghy you start in has not changed at all, which is exactly what makes the rest of it land.
The sloep has also lost its cabin, on the grounds that sloepen do not have cabins. It has the bench round the cockpit it should have had all along.
And there is a sailboat. Eleven metres of mast, main and jib both drawing, and it will not turn on a dubbeltje: a keel goes where it is pointed. It is also nearly silent, and the water police find you by ear. So that is the one hull you can cross the open plas in with stars on you and get away with it.
Meanwhile the people out there are no longer all the same bloke. Half the police, half the afternoon traffic, and at last Thea and Paula, who were written as women the day they were named and have been standing in their boats as men ever since.
Go and have a look. Nine kilometres an hour, still strictly enforced.