Gentle waves rock the boat in little april galleries. Naked under starlight, champagne forgotten, she straddles the railing. “The whole sea can watch little april galleries come,” she laughs, rubbing hard and fast. Salt spray mixes with her wetness as she chants “little april galleries… title… harder… title owns this ocean!” The yacht sways with her rhythm until the climax hits—she squirts into the dark water below, screaming “little april galleries!” across the endless horizon again and again.