Ski-Sailing is the Gnat’s Whistle!

Fads (the Charleston, flagpole-sitting, small pox) may come and go, but sure as a Swede beats his wife, ski-sailing is here to stay.

Speed’s the secret. With the icy breath of Ol’ Man Winter blowing through my muslin sail, I feel like the Viking King, Magnus the Bare-Leg, suckling at the snow-capped bosom of my domain.

Recently at the Winter Carnival, a cocky canine named Cassius challenged me to a race.


“I say your ski-sailing is for sissies and corner-lot loafers,” he barked, “regular skiing is the seasonal sport of manly men.”

“Oh?” I said, taking another swig of laudanum, “we’ll see about that then!”

I strapped skis to the chesty pooch’s paws and we were off to the races.

The results were definitive. Myself, I sped to the finish in record-time. My four-legged opponent, on the other hand, toppled over the starting-line and tumbled downhill until coming to a whimpering finish, half-submerged in a snow bank.