Foward thinkers float to the bow to wave bouquets of white tulips over seafoam. There 's less wind stern-side, and Bern likes to see where he 's been. He licks chowder off the corners of his lips, but forgets that soup crackers do crumb in the breast pockets of blue flannels. He wouldn 't mind remembering, except that his toothpicks are not individually packaged and might become indisposed by way of crumbs succumbing to pocket lint. A spotted girl flaunts a parachute made of pink raincoat and lets the wind hover her about the ferry 's deck. Bern wedges a quarter into each nostril when he notices her flight wavering. He smiles a metallic face and calms her into a steady shoot.