The shipyard had at least thirty dingy-looking boats, and maybe two or three nicer ones. The sun shone down onto the water, showing off the murky part of the ocean the boats were parked in. The Skipper, Gilligan in tow, walked around, turning up his nose at most of the boats he passed. Finally, after walking in circles, they found the main office.
Inside the air-conditioned, white-walled room sat a man in his late thirties, balding. He looked up, dully, when they entered the room. "May I help you gentlemen?" he asked in a monotone voice.
Gilligan propped himself on the desk, trying to imitate a mob movie he had once seen. "We're looking for Scott," he said, arching his eyebrow.
Skipper rolled his eyes, as did the man at the desk. "I'll see what I can do," the deskman sarcastically said. He stood up and disappeared through a door behind him, where he said, "Scott, I'm taking my lunch. You got customers."
Moments later, Scott ventured through the door. He was a young man who wore clothes resembling those a mechanic might wear. He had dark brown hair and a friendly smile. "Hey, guys! What can I help you with?" he asked.
"We're looking for a boat," Gilligan eagerly told him.
Scott got a good look at all the bandages and said, "Would you like to look at some insurance while you're at it?"
--
"This one's real tough. She's over thirty years old and can take on storms with the best of 'em!" Scott said, gesturing to a dirty, crusty old boat.
"Do you have any that are quite a bit younger?" Skipper asked politely. "We need to be able to attract customers."
"Yeah, we need a boat that's…….a teenager," Gilligan added.
"I think I know what you mean," Scott said slyly. "You want a sporty, stream-lined little thing that people will want to ride. Am I right?"
Skipper was unsure if this was the direction he wanted to go, but Gilligan piped up, saying, "Yeah!"
--
NoV: Short one, I know. Happy birthday to NoV! I'm nineteen!