Word: surf
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...waves came in from the horizon, I could see different shades of blue. Big leafy trees lined the shore. Clear white sand and a light but humid breeze surrounded us. In bright-colored swim suits, Cubans crowded the shore. Some had radios, cameras and cassette players. Others rode the surf on beach balls and inner tubes. The many shades of Cubans swimming together or relaxing in the sand made an impressive sight. No segregation. No arguments. When we hit the surf, people watched us with curiosity. Again we observed the mixed hair textures and skin colors. Some dark brown Cubans...
...Then, equipped with bamboo poles to symbolize rifles, they march down to the shores of the Pacific to await the arrival of John Frum. This godlike figure, whose origin is shrouded in mystery, is a legendary black cousin of Franklin D. Roosevelt. He is expected to reappear from the surf some day with all the Jeeps and chewing gum and other marvels that G.I.s brought to the New Hebrides during World War II. John Frum never comes, but the people of Tanna take his continued absence in good spirit...
...guess I am a little like Slocum," he finally admits. "I suffer from a fundamental lack of confidence. I don't like speed or excitement. I won't go 65 miles an hour because I worry about a tire going flat. When I go swimming, the surf is a little too rough for me." And, he says, "I'm not comfortable with plots that move too rapidly...
Where were the lawyers? In the surf, on Waikiki beaches or strolling along Kalakaua Avenue with their families, decked out in colorful sports shirts for the men and matching muumuus for their wives. Outgoing A.B.A. President Chesterfield Smith of Lakeland, Fla., called the no-show performance "deplorable, disgraceful and regrettable." All this past year Smith had been doing his feisty best to stir colleagues into facing up to the public suspicion and derision heaped on lawyers since Watergate. The beach bliss-out was a response the profession can ill afford...
...declining momentum shows strikingly in Florida's Cocoa Beach, the town that space built. Five years ago, eager tipplers stood four deep at the bar in spots like Ramon's and The Surf during the Friday afternoon happy hours. The drink of the day was a vicious concoction called a "moonshot" (two-thirds 151-proof dark rum and one-third vodka mixed with cream). Now the drinking ranks are older and sparser, and it is difficult to find a bartender who remembers how to mix a moonshot...