(no subject)
Parasailing never really appealed to me. I was walking one day, along the beach of the wealthy Isle of Palms near Charleston South Carolina. I had gone down to clear my head. To make things all better. To have, as it were, a few laughs.
A small group of parasailers were attaching their harnesses, a strange hybrid of life jacket, lines, and trapeze bar. The lines were attached to a large horseshoe shaped kite, usually adorned in florescent colors, and bore labels associated with the sport. They fit their feet into a snowboard, and the idea was to get the kite billowing with wind, and slice a jib along the shallow surf, and let the thing end up pulling you along.
My name is Clint Dossier, and I am an ethno botanist. My great great great grandfather was a French Huguenot, and I grew up in the Charleston area. I speak, most of my northern colleagues tell me, like Foghorn Leghorn from Bugs Bunny and Friends. I never understood it, but a lot of those Yankee fans like Bugs Bunny cartoons.
Anyway, I was walking along, and enjoying the sound of the waves, and noticing these parasailer types rigging themselves up. They can’t be any more than in their early twenties. They all had northern accents.
One of them starts zipping along with his rig, and wouldn’t you know it, he runs head first into a low concrete road trestle. I could hear the pop of his neck over the surf. It was low tide. I shook my head, and walked on.
A small group of parasailers were attaching their harnesses, a strange hybrid of life jacket, lines, and trapeze bar. The lines were attached to a large horseshoe shaped kite, usually adorned in florescent colors, and bore labels associated with the sport. They fit their feet into a snowboard, and the idea was to get the kite billowing with wind, and slice a jib along the shallow surf, and let the thing end up pulling you along.
My name is Clint Dossier, and I am an ethno botanist. My great great great grandfather was a French Huguenot, and I grew up in the Charleston area. I speak, most of my northern colleagues tell me, like Foghorn Leghorn from Bugs Bunny and Friends. I never understood it, but a lot of those Yankee fans like Bugs Bunny cartoons.
Anyway, I was walking along, and enjoying the sound of the waves, and noticing these parasailer types rigging themselves up. They can’t be any more than in their early twenties. They all had northern accents.
One of them starts zipping along with his rig, and wouldn’t you know it, he runs head first into a low concrete road trestle. I could hear the pop of his neck over the surf. It was low tide. I shook my head, and walked on.