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Here's our's: "Oh please, please, please let me one day be the SCOTW on SA." What's yours? Photo thanks to Ricardo Pinto from the Madeira Island RS:X 2012 European Championships.

caption contest 2 24.jpg

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"Do you like it when I grab your windsurfing hardware?"

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"I'm glad I have my RS:X career to fall back on should this whole 'Russian Wife' thing fall through."

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Why can't I simply be appreciated for my sailing ability. Why don't you wannabees take the 'C' out of SCOTW?

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"Why can't I pull a Ben Ainsley on these media boats"

do you want to get pulled up by ISAF?

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She looks board.

washboard abs

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Damn, need to lose some weight!

 

 

...I'll supply the gum and breath mints

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"I think I beat that other board by an RCH!

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As she looks to the sky, she thinks "Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz, My friends all have Porches".

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Why did those guys tell me to hold this thing up anyway...dammit they've been gone along time...hey is that them up there on the deck drinking beer and watching me?...are those assholes laughing?

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I'm getting all wet holding this big black pole...

 

You were in the wrong app when you hit send. This is SA, not Twitter.

 

Hi Wes.

 

Oops! You're right.

 

Lets try this

 

I'm getting all wet watching her hold that big black pole...

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I don't think I am ever catching up with my parrot!

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"Sh*t! Just go to... make it through the media boat wind-shadow... before I fall in backwards!"

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To be, or not to be, that is the question:

Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer

The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,

Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep

No more; and by a sleep, to say we end

The heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks

That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To die to sleep,

To sleep, perchance to Dream; Ay, there's the rub,

For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause. There's the respect

That makes Calamity of so long life:

For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,

The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely, [poor]

The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay, [disprized]

The insolence of Office, and the Spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his Quietus make

With a bare Bodkin? Who would Fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn

No Traveller returns, Puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have,

Than fly to others that we know not of.

Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,

And thus the Native hue of Resolution

Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought,

And enterprises of great pitch and moment, [pith]

With this regard their Currents turn awry, [away]

And lose the name of Action. Soft you now,

The fair Ophelia? Nymph, in thy Orisons

Be all my sins remembered

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