He knew that the average rate of descent is sixteen feet per second, and unless one knows how, a broken leg or worse may be the outcome of an inexperienced landing. But their luck had held so far, apparently. Osceola and Sam were both sinewy, well-muscled fellows—they would probably come out all right. For all their sakes, he hoped so. A disabled companion in the middle of the Everglades, with no means of transport other than one’s two legs, would prove a problem that Bill did not care to contemplate.
Then he saw Sam disappear with his parachute in the high sawgrass. He was coming close to earth himself. In a very few minutes, he would land, and his gaze switched to the terrain directly below.
Osceola had landed on the firm ground of a large island. Sam had not been so lucky, for Bill knew that the Seminole name for the Everglades is Grassy-Water, and that sawgrass does not grow on dry land. He himself was floating over the island, but he soon saw that the wind-drift would carry him, too, into the grass unless he could prevent it.
Up went his hands, and getting a good grip on the parachute shrouds, he pulled down hard on the ropes to windward. The chute immediately bellied in and sideslipped into the wind. He dared not overdo the business, and presently righted the chute by the simple expedient of releasing the shrouds. In a fall of one hundred feet, Bill figured he had sideslipped ten. He had seen men spin their parachutes in order to swing aside from some building or other obstacle. He knew that the trick is done by pulling down on one side, then releasing the pressure with a sort of flipping motion. He attempted it, without success; after a few failures gave it up in favor of the easier sideslips.
He was almost down now, and delighted to see that due to his system of sideslipping, the parachute would land him on the island.
Down he came, swaying slightly, onto a patch of soft green turf, dotted with wildflowers. Knowing that the body should relax in landing, he made no effort to stand erect, and endeavored to absorb the shock of his fall to some extent by rolling over in the direction that he was drifting. Consequently, his tumble did him no harm; the parachute rolled into a large cypress at the edge of the open space and came to a stop. The jump was over.
Bill got out of his harness, repacked it, and throwing the bundle over his shoulder, set off to find his two companions. Over to the west, a mile or more from the island, the burning amphibian sent its tower of thick black smoke mushrooming skyward.
Bill walked for half a mile along the edge of the sawgrass, and then he saw two familiar figures appear from out a clump of trees.
“Osceola! Sam!” he called, and ran forward to meet them.
His friends waved to him, but did not quicken their pace. The old negro seemed to be leaning heavily on Osceola’s arm, and as he drew nearer, Bill saw that their clothes were dripping wet.