The Numa Numa

This seemed oh so appropriate.

Rats!

Not only an expression of Charlie Brown-esqe pique, but also the name of the animal causing that pique. Apparently there's quite an extended family of them running around in my attic. And while it's unfortunate that rats thrive wherever there are humans, it is fortunate that if we're going to be plagued with them, at least they're very, very stupid.

[Thoughts going through the rat's brain] "Ummm, that peanut butter smells good. Wonder where it came from? Well, who cares, it smells really good. And I wonder what that machine is that it's attached to? Well, who cares, because it smells really, really good and, wow!, it tastes really good too, and..." WHACK!

So I've killed three in the past couple of days, and I look forward to the day when I no longer hear the pitter patter of little feet above my head.

But....

The last one took the bait while I was sitting more or less directly beneath it, and come to find out, they don't just get their necks broken and die quickly and quietly. With all the thumping, I thought it might have been a puma, or at least an opossum. Now it happens that I place the trap just inside the opening to the attic, and that opening is (in the typical fashion) a two-by-three-foot rectangle above my bedroom closet covered by what should probably be plywood but is, in my case, some of that dimpled white foam that ugly ceilings are so often made of. Not strong stuff. And, in my case, a moment's carelessness (while I installed an ethernet cable leading from a router in my bedroom to a computer in Emma's bedroom) resulted in the removal of a corner of that piece of dimpled foam — an approximate equilateral triangle with legs of about three inches — plenty of room for a little beastie to fall through. And in truth, while I watched I saw at least the tail come into plain view.

Now, I don't like the idea of confronting an animal that, although trapped, is very much alive and really pissed off ("But, I was eating peanut butter! How can this happen?"), no matter how small it is in comparison with me, so I immediately called Raven into the room as a first line of defense. For awhile, there continued to be more bumping around in the attic than is likely to occur in a WWF contest. But it stopped. And I was left to wonder — has that thing shuffled off the mortal coil, or has it escaped and run away, or...is it just waiting for me? I happen to have bought an air horn a while back, in order to make a lot of noise on New Year's Eve, so I waited awhile and then blasted a coupe of jolts (Raven didn't like that), got no response from the beastie, and went up into the attic to discover I could add another notch to my belt.

HHHhhhhhhhhh........ (That's me letting out a deep sigh.)

All of this, of course, while true, means that I haven't been sailing enough and so have too little to write about. That's to be resolved soon: On Sunday there's a Capri 22 race, the first in which two of the Christie brothers will contend against one another. More to come.....

Somerville Gates

For those of us who cannot make it to the big apple this week for one reason or another, click here

go!

go!, originally uploaded by rosschristie.

Skipper: were we over?
Crew: we were right on!

Mom, Lance & Carlee

slide.bestoff.jpg, originally uploaded by rosschristie.

Three big winners in the news. Carlee, the German Short-haired Pointer, Best in Show winner of the Westminster Kennel Club. Lance Armstrong declared today that he would attempt a 7th Tour de France championship. Mom earned the title of Queen of Argentine Rummy, by dominating the competition in last week's California A. R. Tournament of Champions.

Let's Go Crabbing

Mysterious Island, somewhere south of the Causeway

A new World Record

Who cares about football! In "Other Sports" today,

LONDON, Feb. 7 (AP) - Ellen MacArthur has endured stormy seas, 65-mile-an-hour winds, a broken sail, burns, bruises and exhaustion - even a close encounter with a whale. The payoff is a solo around-the-world sailing record.

MacArthur, a 28-year-old Englishwoman, completed the 26,000-mile circumnavigation at 5:29 p.m. Eastern time on Monday by crossing an imaginary finish line between Ushant, France, and the Lizard peninsula in Cornwall, on the south coast of England.

Her final time was 71 days 14 hours 18 minutes 33 seconds, her control team said.

Boy, Do I Feel Guilty

After all, there you east coast folks are, suffering the cruel torments of winter, even fur-coated cats huddled up for warmth. You send photos and reports of boats buried almost to the point of being lost under snow. And what do I do about it?

Go sailing, of course.

"What?!" you say. "Aren't you injured?!" Well, yes, I suppose so, but I had signed up for a race some time before I fell off the ladder, and I was really looking forward to it, and I'd had almost two full weeks to recuperate. And besides, it's not like I would be crewing; as helmsman I was just going to sit in the stern and hold a tiller. All of which is to say that I guess I'm feeling a fair bit better than I was.

So, to the race details. Last Saturday, we had another of the Capri 22, around-the-channel-markers, all-over-San-Diego-Bay races — something like 10 to 12 nautical miles. My regular crew was notably absent; given that he was taking his Basic Keelboat class, one has to assume he will be not only absent from my boat, but also a competitor from now on. Cool! Fortunately, I was able to replace him, temporarily at least, with my first-string crew, a true old salt, the pro from Dover: Emma.

The early going was inauspicious: a so-so start and less-than-perfect sail trim left us in sixth place out of nine boats at the first mark. The second leg, a reach, saw no changes in position. But the third leg was long, and about five degress off a true run. The three lead boats — for what reason even they couldn't say later on — went way over to the left of the course. The next three of us took a straight-line track for the mark, Emma and I got our boat cookin', passed the two boats sailing with us, and reached the next mark in first place.

The next leg was even more directly down wind, and at this point the wind, previously brisk, dropped to almost nothing. Our speed (and everyone else's) varied from one to one and a half knots. (There was also a need to make way for a tug pulling two enormous barges, but that affected everyone about evenly.) Eventually the wind picked up again but, as tends to be the case on downwind legs, filled in from behind and brought everyone up to us before it started us moving again. We rounded the extreme downwind leg in second.

From here it was several miles of close-hauled sailing to the finish line, and Emma came into her own. (Although for the sake of accuracy I have to say that she also winged the jib beautifully on the downwind legs.) Every tack saw a crisp set of the jib, Emma haulin' hard, cleatin' down, and getting herself out on the rail. Midway along, the race had come down to us and one other boat, skippered by a guy named Jon Miyata. He was a little ahead, and time and again we would near the point of passing him only to be trapped in his wind shadow and fall behind.

Now Jon and I have sailed together on several long-distance ocean races and know each other well. So, naturally, as we battled one another we exchanged a bit of good-natured trash talk. At one point I warned him that if he paid too much attention to keeping me slow, someone might come from behind and pass us both. And sure enough another boat (call it the "mystery boat"; I don't know its skipper) did begin to move up; Jon, perhaps with my warning in mind, broke off to cover him; with our air suddenly clear we surged ahead and won. The mystery boat finished about 10 seconds later, and Jon about 10 seconds after that, consoled in the knowledge that any race is a good race when you finish ahead of Steve McNally (who was a distant fourth).

A fine way to spend a January day. Come to think of it, I don't feel so guilty after all.