This year, I've been involved in a handful of incidents on the racecourse that inspired me to write one of those "it's important to follow the racing rules and also to enforce them" manifestos. But I loathe those rants the same way I loathe teachers' pets, well intentioned though they may be, and I've resisted the urge to whine about the rule breakers, the cheaters, and the indignant victims who only compound the rules-compliance problem by failing to follow through with protests. This is the state of the game, and it doesn't seem to be changing.

About this time every year I start getting nervous. Mid July. Do or die.

To many Clevelanders, Memorial Day means one thing: ribs. For years, the Great American Rib Cook Off took place on the grounds of Burke Lakefront Airport, near the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. My claim to fame is performing at the jean-shorts-optional affair with my high-school band in 1999. The promoters left a sampling of award-winning ribs in the performers' trailer, and our guitarist couldn't resist trying every variety before we took the stage.

I’m sure you’ve all heard the proverb regarding assumptions, about how the act of making them makes an “ass” out of “u” and “me.” I always thought it was fairly clever, and some good advice to boot, but I’d never really applied it to sailing. Calling tactics, after all, involves making countless assumptions—maybe you call them educated guesses—about the near-term future: Is the wind is going to shift direction? Is it going to increase, decrease, or stay steady? What are your opponents going to do over the next 30 seconds? Over the next 10 minutes?