The gangway rocks beneath your soles as the harbor air carries equal parts fried-salt and steamed clams. Plates clink, laughter rises, and the sea—flat like pewter, then rimmed with gold—pulls the boat away from Miss Chris Marina. Within minutes the shoreline of America's original Victorian seaside resort slides astern: pastel porches, a lighthouse silhouette, and the low, wide sweep of Delaware Bay. Someone spots a gray back arcing through the chop; the group leans over the rail. Dolphins answer like punctuation—sprays and sudden muscle—while the sun negotiates the horizon.