Word: prowing
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Dates: during 1980-1989
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...Coming Home was a disabled-vet love story -- The Best Years of Our Lives with Jon Voight in the Harold Russell role. The Deer Hunter was . . . well, what was it? An incoherent parable about male bonding through Russian roulette. Bats and beautiful, it stood like Ishmael on the prow of its pretensions and declared, "Call me masterpiece." Apocalypse Now was fine as long as it accompanied its doomed, questing hero (played by Martin Sheen, Charlie's father) upstream on the River Styx; then it fogged off into fantasyland with Marlon Buddha. Only Company C, a standard-issue war film about...
...swimming race, when form holds, begins as a shallow V, swept back from Lane 4, where the fastest qualifier starts, to the humble wing positions of Lanes 1 and 8. The V sharpens until, if No. 4's lead is great enough, it looks like the prow of a ship. When this fails to happen-when the V does not take form, or when its point is unbalanced to one side or the other-the spectator high in the stands comprehends the surprise first not as an aberration of numbers, of hundredths of a second, but as a jarring...
Drawing on extensive interviews with Coe's companion, Virginia Perham, Olsen details the rage behind the go-getter smile. The vaunted independence was in fact financed by parental handouts. Often impotent, Coe bragged of his sexual prow ess to Perham as if she had not witnessed his failures. He alternately fasted and gorged on junk food, used the name Kevin with girlfriends and clients and spoke in a variety of voice inflections. "Knowing Fred Coe," said a schoolmate, "was like having a platoon of friends...
Shortly after 11 p.m. one of Andrea Doria's card players looked idly out of a starboard window and gasped. Eerie lights of another ship glinted and sprinted out of the darkness towards Andrea Doria. A moment later, with a grinding, crunching roar, Stockholm's knife-sharp prow (reinforced for ice in northern ports) ground 30 ft. deep into the starboard quarter of Andrea Doria, just abaft her flying bridge. Then, with a shudder and shower of sparks, the shivering vessels jerked apart...
...myself (stupidly) as a Roman trireme my tongue as the prow, bronze, pushing at her; she was the Mediterranean. Tiers of slaves, my god, the helplessness of them, pulled oars, long stalks that metaphorically and rhythmically bloomed with flowing clusters of short-lived lilies at the water's surface...