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My forearms are throbbing, my feet are cramping and my eyes burn from the salty sting of the Atlantic Ocean. And yet I’m oddly euphoric, high on the rush of flying above the water, propelled by the wind. Around me, wings launch 10, even 20 feet in the air, like fireworks lighting up the sky. My wing zips around beneath them, my board barely hovering two feet above the sea – nowhere near as high as I’d like to be, but there’s still time. I’m not on a surfboard, or a…
