The smell thickened. It crawled into sweaters, hair, camera bags, cushions, and open champagne glasses. Music stopped. Livestreams became chaotic. Viewers who had expected sunrise beauty watched millionaires dry-heave while three old fishermen performed lawful, necessary, disgusting work.
By seven, engines began turning over. By eight, the first yachts fled the harbor. By nine, there was a full procession of retreating white hulls, each leaving behind panicked wake, abandoned coffee cups, and furious promises never to return.