It seems as though I am bound for more inviting harbors. This sea-side town has had enough of me and me of it. My meager wages and scores have not turned over enough cash to re-outfit my ships with the new sails that they require. Instead, I have jury-rigged my own, stitched together from flags and tarps and canvas murals. With the makeshift sails rolled up and tucked under my arm, I scamper on to my ships.
Only one of them is moored to the dock; I barely have enough to cover the one slip fee. The other ship is tied to this one and the dinghy tied to that.
On the first ship, I pull down the old, tattered sails. Then up goes the replacement (a huge panoramic landscape mural on canvas along the bottom, a United States and a Brazilian flag up top). I skip over onto the second ship and do the same thing: down goes the torn-to-shreds old sail and up goes the replacement. (The second replacement is a WWII-era Japanese Imperial flag sewn together with either a solid green tarp or a Libyan flag.)
In addition to the sails, I have something for the dinghy as well: new oars. I carefully maneuver myself along the rope and jump into the dinghy. Whatever pageantry I intend is short-lived as the oars fall into the water and start to float away. I reach out for them but they are already too far. I cut the rope and try to paddle after them with my hands but cannot move fast enough. I leap into the water and swim after the oars but with each stroke, the distance seems to multiply two-fold more than it should: the oars from me, me from the dinghy, the dinghy from the ships.