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would he be young again too smoking green pre-War Lucky Strikes in a Palm Beach jacket the world still yellow with tube technology and I look over and my father is there Wendell P. Sargent looking so much like me I have to laugh clear as a bell even this young he smells like good advice and mosquito repellent and we strip down to naked whiteness and bathe in world wars and Witch Hazel. talking manfully about B-17s with our swarthy faces and brilliantined black hair we trade tans and anecdotes I tell him about the modern navy helicopters I can fly and how aviation has changed with differential collective pitch trim devices the size of complimentary maple syrup cans you get in the mail swirling dark and rich from Wolf River farm and we drive laughing together inland past the Rockefeller estates with our UHF headsets holding on gamely until were 14.3 miles behind the mountains and the radio shadows the huge pine islands falling behind us into the water and the last wisps of Lena Horne l4l