From our newest Post Laureate Tony:

Don't look for more of Bruno's action-packed sports-casting like last week, or the lofty praise of Commodore Jim like the week before that.

Instead, let me ask this question:  If the purpose of sport is to renew the energy of man, take him away from daily cares to another world, one so absorbing he forgets all but immediate matters at hand, striving valiantly to make the most of ever-changing conditions, with delicacy at times, with violence at others, with moments of majesty and just a touch of mayhem, then what was today's sail, if not the rarest of times?

The waxing winter sun shone on a perfect polar scene.  Light winds, shifty and lifty, played upon the surface of cold water that ebbed with enough strength to kick up a bow wave at the leading edge of the dock, snow-covered, with walrus tusks of ice crowding under its chin.  Cue the "ABC Wide World of Sports" theme music.  Fierce contenders vied bravely for priority in bare-knuckled combat.

The scores only tell a part of the story.  What stands out in my mind, aside from that kerfuffle I blundered into at the leeward mark during the last race, came during the one after that, the sprint to the beach.  I thought I was advancing on Peter F, the champion of the day, as he deftly threaded that honeycomb of ledges that guards the shore.  A chevron of geese swooped low to salute his seamanship, maybe to place a crown of victory upon his head, maybe something else.  I tacked.  It seemed way too soon, then a heaven-sent zephyr lifted me forward and stopped, letting my innocent-looking, some would say deceptively decorated boat, with its pale yellow freeboard, jaunty sheer and powder-blue noodle on the foredeck, drift gently to shore.  I was number two, but I felt like a million bucks.

I'm sure I speak with all of Frosty Fleet 9 in saying that I look forward to next Sunday at 1:30 PM.