We had two days of solid breeze 15 - 18 knots Saturday and little more on Sunday.
F18, F16, H16 and A Cat Results
Did Karl break his pole again?
Beat me to it! Someone had their coffee this morning!
Nate and isailrace found some data entry problems with the OpenNonSpin results. The correct results are here:
Here in South Florida, and at regattas around the land, sailors have shamed me and expressed disdain for the actions I took (and recently wrote about) one summer evening against a young, cleanly shaven, tanned and firm Paco.
Lest any of you, and most of you do, feel sorrow for young Paco, I feel compelled to reveal to you certain of his behaviors that were not so angelic.
We at the marina had taken a liking to and eventually adopted an aging, Irish Setter who stumbled across our beach one evening. Though young in spirit, he was nearly lame and, thus, was given the name “Trap”.
Paco loved Trap. Perhaps, too much, at times. Ours is a quiet marina. Rarely, is there any activity prior to 7 am and Paco knew this. One morning, I arrived at the marina early to re-rig my boat.
Looking for bungee cord, I ventured into the main boathouse at 6 am and found Paco in a most peculiar of positions lying on a sail bag underneath Trap. Paco, always one to borrow a tool from those of us at the marina with more significant means, had masterfully inserted a torque wrench into
Trap’s rectum.
Paco had dilated Trap’s butt to an astounding 1 3/16” and was having a devil of a time keeping Trap from collapsing on top of him. Drooling, panting and moaning, Trap sheepishly looked to me as his only hope for salvation in young Paco’s makeshift den of sailing accessories and torture.
Whilst balancing the torque wrench and Trap in his left hand, supple Paco managed the talent to masturbate Trap with his right hand. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, worked Paco’s right hand.
Undetected and in shock, I remained behind a shelving and could not help but think of Paco’s potentially brilliant future working at Home Depot as a paint shaker. I hastily sneaked from the boathouse and resumed my search for bungee cord elsewhere. Later, when I saw Paco, his neck was *
in a funny position. His claim was that it was the result of a tryst with a local female the night before. I knew better.
Another time, in a terrible rainstorm, I bowed to my wife’s constant *ing nagging and took her to see the marina. Having removed from the boathouse wall the various centerfolds from such wonderful publications as ALMOST
LEGAL, JUST 18 and BEAVER HUNT magazines in anticipation of her request, I felt that a rainy day would be a safe time to trot out the old bitch. At least, so I hoped, no one that I knew would be there. “Why do I keep the bitch” many would ask me. “Well, it’s better than giving away half of my
money” was my usual reply. Funny, every man at that marina understood. But, I digress.
Typical to form for a bitch like her, she seemed fascinated not by the boats, but by other fixtures. She demanded to look at the boathouse: the boathouse where Paco worked.
The two of us entered the boathouse and were shocked to see Paco bent over an old, tattered footstool. Pants around his ankles, Paco had managed to insert a funnel into his butt. Next to Paco, on the cement floor, rested an
industrial sized jar of JIF peanut butter and a 5-gallon can of hydraulic fluid. The near-empty jar of peanut butter and the mess on the surrounding floor indicated desperate, if not convulsive actions. Despite this scene, my attention was immediately drawn to Trap and the peanut butter.
As if a parched, lost soul discovering a spring in the middle of a barren desert, Trap, in a frenzied state, licked the peanut butter from Paco’s dangling, piata-like testicles. For minutes, Trap lathered Paco’s
region with his tongue. How long Trap had been administering such affection was unknown, but ol’ lame Trap looked as if he had the endurance of a marathon runner. Then, in an amazing demonstration of strength and agility, Paco lunged for the hydraulic fluid and hoisted it,
blindly, directly to the mouth of the funnel.
One gallon, then two, then three disappeared into paco’s rectum. The large mouth of the funnel overflowed yet Trap’s attention remained strong. Then, as if well rehearsed by both man and beast, Paco motioned Trap away from his butt. With emphasis, Paco shouted, “GYBE!”. At once, Paco
expelled the hydraulic fluid from his butt. The spray, mixed with waste, covered the facility and Trap like molten lava.
Ol’ Trap would die just weeks later. Ever the public servant, Paco volunteered to bury Trap near the flagpole. Rumor has it that Paco, late at night, would visit ol’ Trap, whom he had buried with his butt in the air for easy access.