Word: feets
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...drifted into oblivion and the nomination went to Buchanan, a Pennsylvania bachelor who turned out to be not much of an improvement. But he did start his presidency with a proper celebration at which were consumed 400 gallons of oysters, 60 saddles of mutton, 125 tongues, a cake four feet high and $3,000 worth of wine...
South American natives throw themselves into masculinity and society from 90 foot platforms with 84 foot vines tied to their feet. In Taunton, Mass., they would jump from planes. Those who jumped and made it would be the heroes, the models and the mentors. Some would jump with aloofness, some would jump to teach, some would jump to die. But all of them, I thought, would have acolytes, attendants and trifles. The wind would wave their scarves, ruffle their jump suits and their hair like no one else's--even dust would look good on them, glistening on their cheeks...
...thousand, eight hundred feet above the trailer a single engine plane stalls, glides and drops two black dots. They grow. Their parachutes don't open but Maclaughlin ignores the two plummeting people. He looks steely-eyed at his charges, each of us with our heads tossed back, eyes wide open, jaws dropped, certain the two divers will, in less than 17 seconds, bounce and splatter on the grass. "Ooooo, ooooo" we say as two chutes blossom and the jumpers silently glide toward earth. Maclaughlin's brows are down, his lips pursed, his eyes still locked in on his students. "Snap...
...wind flapping his lips at a palpitating rate, the setting sun giving them an orange-red glow. "Step out," he says. I move one hand out the door but it is forced back inside by the wind. I try again, grasping onto the wing strut. I force my feet out on the step, the first and last step, pivot, face forward and raise my right leg as Maclaughlin taught me. A torrent of wind pushes against me, against every muscle...
...fall, back to the ground. One second, I flip around twice, no parachute. Two seconds, I twirl twice, still no parachute. Three seconds, I plummet, forehead toward the earth. Four, my harness tears at my hips and chest, swings my feet above my head. The parachute glides above me. The earth is a gray mound, Boston glimmers on the horizon. I make out a small rectangular building surrounded by dots, a small field and then trees and lakes. The air swirls silently. A band of trees approaches but I glance once more to the parachute, the sky and the horizon...