regatta arrivals

I was in the car with my dad driving, first down a dusty, open hill toward the east (which seemed to be in NH), on a clear day in the early afternoon sun. Then at the base of the hill we turned right onto a north-south highway that went into a forest. Eventually the view ahead started opening up (at this point it was a bright overcast, seemingly forenoon) and Powderhouse Circle could be seen, plus two other oval traffic circles further to the southeast, and all of them were on a slope down to the seashore to the south, so that they were held up by stone retaining walls on their downslope sides. The view thereof seemed bird’s-eye. There was a van with rowing shells going to a regatta that we were either directly ahead of or directly behind; lots of traffic was flowing through the circles and along the serpentine roads connecting them. Once we reached the south-facing seashore, the beach seemed to be an airport, and a jet landed on it, coming in from the east, with a woman standing on pedals on each side of the front landing wheel and holding handles attached to the wheel guard, as if the landing wheel were a motorcycle’s front wheel; she was a crew coach and her team were on the plane. This seemed like an unbelievably dangerous thing to do given the linear landing speed of the plane and the rotational speed of the wheel, but she made it fine through the landing. Yeesh.

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