KPRR, Merritt Island, FL May 26 & 27

Hello All,

Preregistration for the Kelly Park River Regatta is open KPRR Preregistration at isailrace.com

As usual we are feeding you so we need a head count. It's BBQ Saturday and hotdogs Sunday. Monday is a holiday so there is no need to rush home Sunday. You could also stay and hang out with us Monday, some of us are actually quite fun to spend time with, not me of course but other people in our fleet.

Everything is onsite, so once you've put your boat away it's just a short walk to the vittles and beverages. Plus the boat ramp will provide you with some entertainment while you are dining.

The regatta flyer is on the isailrace.com site. If you have any questions please let me know.

KPRR Notice of Race

bump

15 boats pre-registered so far.

http://isailrace.com/Event/EventDetails/e27b565f-f4c5-4b4a-9389-1aef28674663

Nate

I am planning to attend. Can't get past the profile bs on the sail race site.

G.Isco
A Class 154

Yeah, I'm working with Nate on that issue.

Hope I get the boat back together in time for the regatta!

We have a very nice Hobie 16 fleet taking shape.

Hobie16's just keep coming!

25 is the current count, 30 is the goal and the Hobie 16's still own it!

http://www.isailrace.com/Event/EventDetails/e27b565f-f4c5-4b4a-9389-1aef28674663

JC's sailing two boats! He's even better than I thought.

The weather has been keeping me from putting the boat back together again. I'm desperately trying but its not looking good.


If I can't get the boat together in time, I can help with RC.

RC is covered, would you be willing to help with a mark boat?

Anywhere I can be of assistance. I do want to try and get the boat reassembled this weekend though.
Then I have to chase my crew down.

And then there was 30!

http://www.isailrace.com/Event/EventDetails/e27b565f-f4c5-4b4a-9389-1aef28674663

Weather link didn't work. Where's Frank? He's not registered.

Frank who?

Weather Link

Hopefully manning the grill. He's got mad skills at the BBQ, and looks cute in that apron.

Thanks for the link, see you there.

Was up working till 2:30AM last night... Still working now but during my lunch break I managed to put 15 screws in the starboard side tramp rail. Tomorrow I hope to be able to put in the port side screws.

However I'm cutting it realllly close.

Stress.

You won't be disappointed this year... by the food or my cute outfit!

Not sure I'll have time to sail. The amount of work ive done for this regatta borelines stupid... including cooking not only for KPRR, but additionally for last weekends IRYC's Brevard Challenge in an effort to help them as they are going to help us.

I'm gonna miss it. Bad case of the flu.

Paco's Story

It was another of those lovely, almost seductively warm, breezy summer evenings that those of us fortunate enough to have lived in South Florida, had come to expect.

While the temperature that day had nibbled at the 96 degree mark on the old-fashioned Coca-Cola thermometer that so pleasantly hung on a post by the boat dock, the evening was an invitingly mild 69 degrees.

And so it was that out of the 40 or so sailors, only two of us remained into the evening. Sipping on lemonade, eating cookies and telling stories, we watched as the golden sun inched closer to the horizon.

With about 45 minutes of sunlight remaining, Paco, a local dock hand pulled up to wish us a wonderful evening. He was on his way home and would be back the following morning by 6 AM if the past were any prediction of the future.

I motioned to Paco to join us. He backed up his 72 Ford Pick-Up, a rickety machine with a beastly engine recently acquired from an aging, 82 year old construction worker and his wife. Paco loved that truck and we all loved
Paco.

Paco, Bill and I were speechless as the evening’s beauty, interrupted only by the 20 or so boat laid out on the beach in the foreground. It made an impression on us. Then, Paco said, “why not a quick sail before sundown, it is such a lovely night?”.

Bill looked at me and smiled.

A quick cat-trax to the water and we were cruising along the bay with only the lovely mangroves and wildlife that made southern Florida what it was then.

It was as if those 45 minutes of sunlight evaporated more quickly than the ice in my cold drink that hot summer day. I, for one, knew that I had to inform the others that we had to get back to the beach. It was getting dark.
I am sure that these words resonated in the ears of my passengers like dreadful news passed to a knowing, doomed soul. For we all knew it was getting dark, we just hated the mere thought of putting this graceful machine back on land for the night. She truly belonged on the water.

With the boat safely ashore, Bill depart for home and his toe-tapping wife April. April so worried when Bill was at the these events past dark. A lifetime of marriage
to a sailor made her painfully aware of what a late arrival could mean.

Paco, however, did not seem so eager to leave. He looked at me deeply and knowingly. It was as if one thousand words were said that moment. Paco and I softly embraced and fondled each other for what seemed like ages.

I unlocked the dock house door. I led Paco by the hand. His soft, supple 19 year old brown skin still radiating from the evening flight. Adrenaline raged through his body and I could hear his heart pounding out loud.

I bent Paco over the port hull and pounded his butt like a butcher tenderizing meat. I, a mustache wearer since the 60’s, keep mine trimmed and within the borders of my mouth. I do so, not because it gives me the flattering look of Adolf Hitler, but because it so nicely frames the **** of a teenager. Many mistakenly believe that the **** of a youth is the same diameter as that of a grown male. It is not. An aroused teen’s **** is approximately 9/16th
of an inch used while that of an adult male is nearer the 13/16th mark.

After painting Paco with my love, I realized what I had done. Paco was dearly loved and those at the marina would shame me if they came to learn not only of my homosexual predilections, but of my unwillingness to bravely
face the future with Paco on my arm.

“I must kill Paco”, I remember thinking. Over and over and over, these terrible words echoed through my brain. “Kill Paco”, “Kill Paco”.

I kept a tire iron in the dock house as a result of a passionate, on-again, off-again love affair I’d had with a ‘68 Triumph. That fine lady went through tires so fast that it seemed as if I were constantly changing them.
I abruptly swung the tire iron through the air with the grace of an Olympic discus thrower.

The thud with which it hit Paco surprised even me. Paco was down and, without question, out. I proceeded to chop Paco’s torso into small parts. I loaded the parts into an old drum that I’d kept in the dock house.

Necessarily so, my new ritual had become dropping parts of young Paco in the bay during the remainder of the weekend sailing. I’d drop a leg on downwind. An arm
would be deposited during the gybe. If the out tide held up, I felt I could have ridded myself of Paco by finish.

Some special parts, like Paco’s **** and his penis were kept in my sailbox for years. Then, in the early 90’s, I got roped into providing trophies for the local regatta. Not knowing what to do with the many parts remaining, I
became creative.

I’d unscrew the cheap plastic trophies and insert a body part into the trophy. A little superglue here, some tape there and the recipient would never know the contents of his or her trophy. True to my form, I’d reward those with body parts according to their finish.

To the 3rd place finisher, I’d insert an unimportant body part, say a kneecap, into the trophy. To a 1st place finisher, well, I’d insert a testicle or some other
meaningful part. The sailors that had trained longer and spent more money, he or she deserved the testicle was my way of thinking.

Feeling heat from the local law men and receiving suspicious stares from Bill and the others at the marina, I decided that it was only prudent to cremate what was left of Paco. The ashes, ironically, were deposited into the
resin I used when resurfacing the bottoms of my hull. Now, whenever I sail, a little of Paco goes along with me. The way the hull slips through the water reminds me
so much of Paco’s tender, sweet butt.

Beloved Paco sails with me to this day “Ahhhhh” those lovely summer nights in south Florida. I love sailing.

Wow! A lot of activities at Merritt Island, FL

WTF?!?!?!?!? Brogger, this could be your handiwork! Timbo, your twisted way to teaching english to a french teenager????

Ha!

Karl you could have warned me it was a gay sex story "not there is anything wrong with that" when you called me about it.

Karl,

Insert "Ding" for Paco and you have something to chew on!

BC

Dave does have a darker complexion....

Cheese and Crackers!

I leave you clowns alone for ONE WEEK, and THIS is what I have to come back to??

Damit man, get a WIFE!

We had two days of solid breeze 15 - 18 knots Saturday and little more on Sunday.

F18, F16, H16 and A Cat Results

Open 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:

2012 KPRR Results

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.