Imagine a quiet, laid-back harbor from your Margaritaville dreams, a place of natives drinking from coconuts and strumming guitars made out of palm fronds, then push half that out of your mind and add $12 billion and boats large enough for their gravitational fields slow the actual passage of time. Harbour Town is an actual harbor but if its contents are “boats” then I’m Dionne Warwick; these are behemoth warships that are worth more than your children, could probably land private planes and would have been real handy at Dunkirk. Elsewhere in Harbour Town, cover bands play trop-rock hits under a majestic, back-lit Liberty Oak, drinks flow easy and the guys came out in their best Easter-egg-colored getups. One year, I saw a stunning combination of cigar + popped collar + aviator shades + pink sweater, which was like 200 points.