![]() ![]() He couldn’t stop he didn’t know yet even how to turn at that speed. ![]() He began his pullout at a thousand feet, wingtips thudding and blurring in that gigantic wind, the boat and the crowd of gulls tilting and growing meteor-fast, directly in his path. But the speed was power, and the speed was joy, and the speed was pure beauty. He swallowed, knowing that if his wings unfolded at that speed he’d be blown into a million tiny shreds of seagull. ![]() He was flying now straight down, at two hundred fourteen miles per hour. By the time he passed four thousand feet he had reached terminal velocity, the wind was a solid beating wall of sound against which he could move no faster. Then without ceremony he hugged in his forewings, extended his short, angled wingtips, and plunged directly toward the sea. He was alive, trembling ever so slightly with delight, proud that his fear was under control. From five thousand feet the fishing boats were specks in the flat blue water, Breakfast Flock was a faint cloud of dust motes, circling. By sunup, Jonathan Gull was practicing again. ![]()
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