The Snow Row, sponsored by the Hull Lifesaving Museum, is traditionally the first race of the New England season. I had always assumed that the Snow Row was thus named because people were rowing and it was March. I was therefore surprised to discover that the race name actually cleverly commemorates noted chronicler of New England maritime history, Edward Rowe Snow. Let us take a moment to give thanks that we're not instead celebrating the life of famed Hull brawler of the 60s, Robert de Groine Kicken.
A pall was cast over the 2013 edition of the Snow Row by a calamity at the Hull Wastewater Treament plant on the Thursday before the race. Overwhelmed by a persistent rain, torrents of melt water, and the unfortunately timed opening of Day Old Sushi Emporium, the plant was forced to pump raw sewage into Boston Harbor to the tune of 2 million gallons a day. A spokesperson for the municipality was quoted as saying "This is only a fraction of the 200 million gallons a day that was going directly into the Harbor in the 70s, but you gotta start somewhere."
As word of the sewage breach got out in the surfski community, it became clear that most paddlers weren't willing to take a risk on a race recently demoted from the SurfskiRacing.com point series (ironically, for safety reasons). Chris Sherwood and Bob Capellini, however, never got the memo. I had heard the news, but chose to look on the bright side. A good health scare might be just the ticket I needed to secure my first ever surfski win. Damn the torpedoes... Plus I figured that a drysuit is only a funny hood away from being one of those monkey-virus hazmat suits. And, frankly, by the end of the race the juices stewing inside the closed environment of my drysuit were likely to be at least as unpleasant as those in the harbor.
Chris brought his Stellar SR up from the Cape while indefatigable Bob made his familiar trek from Long Island, this time with his new red-tipped V8. Even though the forecast was for light winds and smooth seas, I reasoned... discretion, valor, Huki. Without a surfski to sit in, Mary Beth chose to race in her Nordkapp LV - one of only two women competitors in single-seat boats. Due to the unusually high chance of walking away from the race with hepatitis, the paddling contingent was decimated. In 2012 there were 32 kayaks and surfskis, but only 14 participated this year. The number of rowing craft was down as well, but only slightly. Apparently rowers are a hardier bunch (or, at least, a foolhardier bunch).
Once I got home, I smeared every piece of gear I own with Purell and dosed myself liberally with medicinal ethanol. Shortly after the race, Chris, an oceanographer with an endearing streak of nerdiness, helpfully provided a plot of the tidal currents at the time of the race (see below for this stunning plot), along with a detailed analysis of the contamination levels we likely encountered. I was relieved to find that conditions were only slightly worse than bathing in Sigma Nu house's septic tank after their annual South of the Border blowout. No adverse effects yet, but I've updated my living will, just in case ("No heroic medical measures are to be taken... because measures should be downright Olympian. Under no circumstances is anyone to even to get near a plug. And no, Aunt Ethel, you can not have my Manilow albums.").
As shown above, the Snow Row is a 3.8 mile triangular-ish coarse in Hingham Bay, with vertices at the Windmill Point Boathouse, Sheep Island, and the Peddocks Island day marker. Although Hingham Bay is protected by a series of islands, necks, and sand bars, the tide flushing through the aptly named Hull Gut (between Hull neck and Peddocks Island) can make things sloppy. Because water temperatures usual hover around 40 degrees at this time of year, care must be taken. With a modest incoming tide, slight winds, and a sunny day in the low 40s, however, this year promised to be less eventful than some in the past. Of course, the fact that this was also true last year didn't stop me from testing the waters - a baptism to assiduously avoid this time.
After a cursory captain's meeting, we headed for out boats. There are four starting groups in the Snow Row, the first three of which launch from shore. Rowers run down the beach to their beached multi-oared boats, shove off, hop in their boats, and then must immediately turn their vessels 180 degrees. Given that this maneuver takes place in a constrained area, there's a certain degree of mayhem involved - something akin to a bathtub full of cats. The air fills with flailing oars, shouted commands, tufts of fur, and sprays of bacteria-laden water. They don't show that part in the famous painting of Washington crossing the Delaware, but if there are any burgeoning artists out there, I'd pay to see that.
Once the third wave of rowers clear the starting area, it's time for the final group to line up on the water for their start. This wave consists of surfskis, kayaks, and sliding seat rowing craft. We jockeyed into position, practically sucked into the turbulent vacuum left by the rioting rowers. I figured that the best start would come from the right side of the line, where one could take advantage of the incoming tide. While casually making my way to this position, however, the cannon signalling the start sounded. "Gee Willikers!" I thought, still 50 feet from - and parallel to - the starting line. Why my 10th grade biology lab partner's name jumped into my head at that point, I don't know, but under duress our minds can wander. Despite my unfortunate starting predicament, it was time to "cut up this damn frog" (as Gee was fond of saying, regardless of the context).
Once I got headed in a direction more consistent with the course, I found myself in the panicked situation of being near the back (not at the back, because several fellow paddlers were themselves in compromised starting positions). I quickly revved my heart rate up to red line, but apparently forgot to engage the clutch fully, because it seemed for a moment that I was operating in slow motion. Too long up on blocks with no fuel stabilizer, apparently. I eventually started to recover a bit of a paddling groove, and began to overtake slower boats from my starting wave, and then earlier waves. One of the nice things about racing from the last group in a relatively fast boat is that there's a steady stream of motivational opportunities strung out in front of you.
At the end of the first leg of the triangular course, boats must navigate around low-lying Sheep Island, turning to head towards the next vertex. Remembering last years mass stranding of paddlers on said island (One of nature's mysteries - we still don't know what compels these noble creatures to beach themselves thus. Although we have a pretty good idea about their subsequent swearing and hopping about.), I gave the surrounding shallows a wide berth. I was now entering the trickiest phase of the Snow Row, wherein our hero is forced to navigate amongst much larger and heavier boats, armed with razor sharp oars wielded by merciless rowers, furious at being passed. Merciless may be a little harsh. I've heard that they do at least take pains to notify next of kin.
Whereas on the first leg of the course, boats are spread laterally across quite a wide distance as each navigates their own path to Sheep Island, the island effectively forces everyone into a narrow lane for the second leg of the course. Naturally, nobody wants to come off the optimal line, so passing requires careful weighing of risk and reward - finding that perfect balance between abject terror and soiling one's self. Among the whirling blades of death, I slowly worked my way from the outside line I was on coming around Sheep Island, to an inside line in preparation for the next turn. Unlike past years, where my navigational choices earned me threatening glares and the occasional death threat, I managed to avoid such this year by closing my eyes and humming loudly to myself.
The turn to the final leg of the course is around a fixed channel marker. Unlike Sheep Island, where you risk your rudder if you cut the turn too close, you can skim right through this turn, at least on a surfski. I felt a little bad outmaneuvering the more cumbersome boats at this point, but earlier I had witnessed the coxswain and a rower switch places in a big rowboat. When you're permitted to take a breather mid-race, you deserve only so much empathy.
In the final leg towards home, we had a mild breeze at our back and I was able to latch on to a few miniscule waves to ease my workload. On the opening leg, we had the incoming tide helping us, but as we now approached the finish we would be working against it. Peddocks Island provided a good degree of protection from the tide, but the numbers showing up on my GPS were disheartening. Still, while throwing nervous glances over my shoulder, I managed to reel in more of the bigger boats. The coxswains of these behemoths were shouting encouragement (and deprecations) to their harried oarsmen. As I slogged along, I tried to siphon off some of that energy, while resisting the urge to jokingly enliven the rowers further with "Are you going to let a lousy kayak beat you?!?" Probably a wise move to keep quiet - they seemed a little ill-humored.
Eventually, the finish yielded to my fervent prayers and eased closer. Emerging from the tidal lee of Peddocks Island, I had only to pass through Hull Gut to reach the end of my journey. Holding my breath during that final push, I slid past the welcome sound of an airhorn blast, signifying that I had passed the finish line. I may start toting one of those around with me. Below you'll find a pretty uninteresting video of the race. Even if well-meaning, criticisms of my asymmetric paddle grip, poor rotation, and incessant boat whacking will hurt my feelings.
I completed the race in 30:52, behind Ray Panek in an ocean shell (at a blistering 28:39) and one of the 4 person sliding seat boats from Cohasset Maritime Institute (at 29:41). Bob pulled out second for surfskis (36:23), while Chris also managed a podium finish in third (37:21). Mary Beth came in more than 10 minutes better than last year (at 44:07). With flat conditions and a cooperative tide, it was a fast year. Ray's time was the fastest single-person time in the 8 years worth of data available from the race web site, and the second fastest time in any boat over that span.
After partaking of some of the chili and hot chocolate provided by the race volunteers and watching the awards for liveries, gigs, and other whimsically named rowing categories, the ski contingent headed down the street for a more substantive fire-side lunch. We relived our race adventures, spoke longingly of the boats we would buy if only we could clear out the dead wood from our inventories, and dreamed of that bright future day when Boston Harbor would be clean enough for paddling.
A pall was cast over the 2013 edition of the Snow Row by a calamity at the Hull Wastewater Treament plant on the Thursday before the race. Overwhelmed by a persistent rain, torrents of melt water, and the unfortunately timed opening of Day Old Sushi Emporium, the plant was forced to pump raw sewage into Boston Harbor to the tune of 2 million gallons a day. A spokesperson for the municipality was quoted as saying "This is only a fraction of the 200 million gallons a day that was going directly into the Harbor in the 70s, but you gotta start somewhere."
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| Between registration and contamination (photo from Chris Sherwood)... |
Chris brought his Stellar SR up from the Cape while indefatigable Bob made his familiar trek from Long Island, this time with his new red-tipped V8. Even though the forecast was for light winds and smooth seas, I reasoned... discretion, valor, Huki. Without a surfski to sit in, Mary Beth chose to race in her Nordkapp LV - one of only two women competitors in single-seat boats. Due to the unusually high chance of walking away from the race with hepatitis, the paddling contingent was decimated. In 2012 there were 32 kayaks and surfskis, but only 14 participated this year. The number of rowing craft was down as well, but only slightly. Apparently rowers are a hardier bunch (or, at least, a foolhardier bunch).
Once I got home, I smeared every piece of gear I own with Purell and dosed myself liberally with medicinal ethanol. Shortly after the race, Chris, an oceanographer with an endearing streak of nerdiness, helpfully provided a plot of the tidal currents at the time of the race (see below for this stunning plot), along with a detailed analysis of the contamination levels we likely encountered. I was relieved to find that conditions were only slightly worse than bathing in Sigma Nu house's septic tank after their annual South of the Border blowout. No adverse effects yet, but I've updated my living will, just in case ("No heroic medical measures are to be taken... because measures should be downright Olympian. Under no circumstances is anyone to even to get near a plug. And no, Aunt Ethel, you can not have my Manilow albums.").
 |
| Surface currents shortly before the race start, as provided by Chris Sherwood using the Northeastern Coastal Ocean Forecast System (run jointly by UMass Dartmouth and the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, led by Drs. Chen, Beardsley, Cowles, and Rothschild) adapted from a script written by Rich Signell. |
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| Whaleboats, dories, workboats, liveries, gigs, wozzles, flibbergams, etc. |
Once the third wave of rowers clear the starting area, it's time for the final group to line up on the water for their start. This wave consists of surfskis, kayaks, and sliding seat rowing craft. We jockeyed into position, practically sucked into the turbulent vacuum left by the rioting rowers. I figured that the best start would come from the right side of the line, where one could take advantage of the incoming tide. While casually making my way to this position, however, the cannon signalling the start sounded. "Gee Willikers!" I thought, still 50 feet from - and parallel to - the starting line. Why my 10th grade biology lab partner's name jumped into my head at that point, I don't know, but under duress our minds can wander. Despite my unfortunate starting predicament, it was time to "cut up this damn frog" (as Gee was fond of saying, regardless of the context).
Once I got headed in a direction more consistent with the course, I found myself in the panicked situation of being near the back (not at the back, because several fellow paddlers were themselves in compromised starting positions). I quickly revved my heart rate up to red line, but apparently forgot to engage the clutch fully, because it seemed for a moment that I was operating in slow motion. Too long up on blocks with no fuel stabilizer, apparently. I eventually started to recover a bit of a paddling groove, and began to overtake slower boats from my starting wave, and then earlier waves. One of the nice things about racing from the last group in a relatively fast boat is that there's a steady stream of motivational opportunities strung out in front of you.
At the end of the first leg of the triangular course, boats must navigate around low-lying Sheep Island, turning to head towards the next vertex. Remembering last years mass stranding of paddlers on said island (One of nature's mysteries - we still don't know what compels these noble creatures to beach themselves thus. Although we have a pretty good idea about their subsequent swearing and hopping about.), I gave the surrounding shallows a wide berth. I was now entering the trickiest phase of the Snow Row, wherein our hero is forced to navigate amongst much larger and heavier boats, armed with razor sharp oars wielded by merciless rowers, furious at being passed. Merciless may be a little harsh. I've heard that they do at least take pains to notify next of kin.
Whereas on the first leg of the course, boats are spread laterally across quite a wide distance as each navigates their own path to Sheep Island, the island effectively forces everyone into a narrow lane for the second leg of the course. Naturally, nobody wants to come off the optimal line, so passing requires careful weighing of risk and reward - finding that perfect balance between abject terror and soiling one's self. Among the whirling blades of death, I slowly worked my way from the outside line I was on coming around Sheep Island, to an inside line in preparation for the next turn. Unlike past years, where my navigational choices earned me threatening glares and the occasional death threat, I managed to avoid such this year by closing my eyes and humming loudly to myself.
The turn to the final leg of the course is around a fixed channel marker. Unlike Sheep Island, where you risk your rudder if you cut the turn too close, you can skim right through this turn, at least on a surfski. I felt a little bad outmaneuvering the more cumbersome boats at this point, but earlier I had witnessed the coxswain and a rower switch places in a big rowboat. When you're permitted to take a breather mid-race, you deserve only so much empathy.
In the final leg towards home, we had a mild breeze at our back and I was able to latch on to a few miniscule waves to ease my workload. On the opening leg, we had the incoming tide helping us, but as we now approached the finish we would be working against it. Peddocks Island provided a good degree of protection from the tide, but the numbers showing up on my GPS were disheartening. Still, while throwing nervous glances over my shoulder, I managed to reel in more of the bigger boats. The coxswains of these behemoths were shouting encouragement (and deprecations) to their harried oarsmen. As I slogged along, I tried to siphon off some of that energy, while resisting the urge to jokingly enliven the rowers further with "Are you going to let a lousy kayak beat you?!?" Probably a wise move to keep quiet - they seemed a little ill-humored.
Eventually, the finish yielded to my fervent prayers and eased closer. Emerging from the tidal lee of Peddocks Island, I had only to pass through Hull Gut to reach the end of my journey. Holding my breath during that final push, I slid past the welcome sound of an airhorn blast, signifying that I had passed the finish line. I may start toting one of those around with me. Below you'll find a pretty uninteresting video of the race. Even if well-meaning, criticisms of my asymmetric paddle grip, poor rotation, and incessant boat whacking will hurt my feelings.
 |
| At last, the shell of destiny is mine! |
After partaking of some of the chili and hot chocolate provided by the race volunteers and watching the awards for liveries, gigs, and other whimsically named rowing categories, the ski contingent headed down the street for a more substantive fire-side lunch. We relived our race adventures, spoke longingly of the boats we would buy if only we could clear out the dead wood from our inventories, and dreamed of that bright future day when Boston Harbor would be clean enough for paddling.
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