The aging Captain (if he really was, as he claimed to be, a Captain) stood on one of the Yacht Club’s piers, a bag clutched in his skinny, calloused hand.
“The tiny boats will change how we understand the ocean!” he shouted, as the Club’s well-dressed, brawny Security men tried to quietly drag him away.
Onlookers peered at him through monocles or over the bridges of expensive sunglasses.
The bag split in their struggles and the tiny boats spilled out, pouring onto the dock and into the lake, bobbing along as if happy with their sudden freedom.
“My tiny boats!” cried the Captain, struggling in vain against the Armani-clad ruffians as they dragged him into the street.
“At least let me retrieve my tiny boats!”
