Essex River: Terror on the Low Seas

The Essex River Race holds a special place in my heart.  At the 2004 race, I stood on the shores and watched the most fascinating collection of watercraft I had ever seen.  A month later, we bought a house 5 minutes down the road (perhaps correlation doesn't imply causation, but it seemed at least kismet in this case) and I started training for that summer's Blackburn.  Flash forward 23 years and there I am hoisting the Essex River trophy with my remaining arm.  But I'm getting ahead of myself...

As always, the race would be a 5.7 mile voyage down the winding Essex River, around Cross Island, across a wide estuary, and back up the river.  Between tidal currents and sandy shallows, choosing the right line can tax even the most seasoned navigator.  Which is why most people just blindly follow whoever happens to be in front of them at the moment.  The entire field of 1997 was found having lunch at an Ipswich clam house after the lead rower got hungry midway through the race.

With 33 surfskis participating, this was the best attended ski race ever in New England that doesn't include 20 miles of pain. This is, of course, largely due to the explosion of super-stable boats (the Epic V8 and Stellar S18S), which accounted for 12 of the skis this year.  For the first time, these boats were pulled out of FSK and given their own SS20Plus class.  Given that seven SS20Plus boats beat the top FSK, the governing board of the Cape Ann Rowing Club deserves kudos for this move.

The forecast for the morning wasn't exactly dire, but neither was it all smoothies and kittens.  With a 15 to 25 mph wind from the south and a strong chance of showers, it seemed we might be in for a rain- and spray-scoured race, but at least it would be in the 60s.  Some of the old-timers were inspired to share memories of the tempest of 2010, where for weeks afterwards the authorities were rescuing boats thrown by the raging seas into the treetops of Cross Island.

Arriving at 5am to snag a prime parking spot has its disadvantages...

As it turned out, the wind stayed on the lower end of the forecast and the rain materialized only in a few brief, unenthusiastic showers during the awards.  As everyone maneuvered into place for the start, the wind and lively flooding tide made for an awkward demonstration of half-forgotten sea kayak maneuvering skills.  I nearly got a chance to show off my rolling abilities after a particularly erratic attempt at sculling.  As the rest of us struggled to maintain our positions with mounting pre-race anxiety, Borys Markin carved lazy circles around us - a shark savoring the moment before the kill.

And then we were off, blades and fins and teeth everywhere, glistening forms darting madly through the churning water, the tortured screeches of gulls and paddlers blending into a symphony of unrestrained mayhem.  So the start was unremarkable.  When the frenzy subsided, I was sitting in 12th place.  After my previous lackluster starts this season, I had sworn a sacred pre-race oath to jump out strong with the leaders.  I now mirrored this with a profane in-race oath directed at myself.  It was difficult to tell from my distant vantage point, but on the horizon I could vaguely make out Borys, Eric McNett, Jan Lupinski, Andrius Zinkevichus, and Francisco Urena heading the pack.

Still upset with my lack of off-the-line acceleration, I slowly hauled myself past Mike McDonough, Tim Dwyer, and Flavio Costa (who has beautiful paddling form, but still managed to redirect several gallons of the river into my face with every stroke) before getting briefly caught behind Wesley Echols, Beata Cseke, and Eric Costanzo - a triad so committed to unity that they'd spend the entire race within a bowling ball toss of each other.  Exploiting a temporary schism between Wesley and Beata (presumably some disagreement about the trinity's bylaws), I pushed forward between them.  They evidently reconciled afterwards, since they'd eventually finish side by side, singing kumbaya.

After a strong interval, I caught Francisco.  According to the Garmin track he posted, his heart rate at this point in the race was only at 220.  I don't know if he had some kind of problem with his nectar supply or if he was just meditating, but I took advantage of his hibernation-like metabolic state to pass him.  Francisco is now off in Hawaii for next weekend's Molokai race, where I expect he'll represent New England paddlers in a manner better than most of us deserve.

There were now four paddlers ahead of me.  Borys, racing for the first time in his new Stellar SES, was nearly out of sight.  Paddling an Epic V14, Eric was a dozen boat lengths ahead.  He was hugging the shoreline like Ferdinand Magellan searching for a hidden passage to the Pacific - apparently trying to avoid the incoming tidal current.  Jan, with Andrius drafting off his left stern quarter, was taking a more direct line as the river widened.  This pairing of red skis remained tantalizing close 4 or 5 boat lengths ahead, but I couldn't seem to close that gap as we headed straight downwind (but uptide). 

Finally, a quarter mile before the narrow strait between Conomo Point and Cross Island, I caught the elusive devils.  I drafted comfortably for a few moments before pulling even with Jan as we passed through the narrows.  We remained in this formation until rounding to the back of Cross Island, at which point I inched ahead.

Eric's littoral strategy back in the river had apparently paid off, since his lead had increased substantially by the time our paths converged.  Since then, he had opened up an even larger lead
on Jan and I.  As we cleared Cross Island and faced into a 15 mph headwind, Eric looked to be at least a quarter mile ahead.  With the wind and chop directly on our bows, the conditions weren't technically challenging, but required more vigor than you'd perhaps prefer after 25 minutes of all-out paddling.

Five minutes into the upwind crossing, I had dropped Jan.  I was locked onto Eric's bright orange Mocke vest up ahead.  Could it be possible that I was gaining on him?  I concentrated on maintaining strong, measured strokes, trying not to get too discouraged by my GPS, which was showing hateful numbers.  Despite its best efforts, though, I made it across the broad estuary and entered the river proper.  I was getting closer to Eric, although there was still probably 50 boat lengths separating us.  It didn't seem at all likely that I'd catch him in the remaining couple of miles, but I was feeling content to have 3rd place locked up.

Reality has a vexing way of hammering through even the most concrete of delusions, often accompanied by Carol Houghton's derisive laugh when asking her to junior prom after your best friend assured you she was "into you, big time".  In this particular instance, however, it was the bow of a red Nelo creeping into my peripheral vision that crushed my heart.  Jan "Zombie" Lupinski had arisen from his watery grave.  Actually, reports of his death were greatly exaggerated - he had been lurking out of sight (as the undead do) the whole time I thought that I had dropped him.  Needless to say, I was thoroughly demoralized by this competitive resurrection.  I could only pray that Andrius and Francisco wouldn't also appear from the gloom as part of a resurgent horde.

Over the course of the next few minutes, I watched helplessly as Jan slowly pulled past me with a methodical stroke.  He didn't look over as he passed, but I'm sure that if he had, I'd have seen my own mortality reflected in his cold, lifeless stare.  There was little I could do except fall in behind him again, hoping to regain enough energy to deliver a fatal blow closer to the end of the race.  After a couple minutes of drafting, I attempted to pass on the left as the river widened, but backed off and fell back into line when Jan responded to my modest surge.

At this point, we passed Bill Kuklinski in his V8.  The 80's called, Bill.  They were relaying a telegram from the 30's.  They want their prototype life preserver back.  If I'm not mistaken, Bill's vest was the first ever to use inflated squirrel bladders for flotation.

We were starting to run out of river, so with about a half-mile to go I made another attempt to put a stake through Jan's heart (wait, that can't be right).  I gradually pulled even, where I remained for what seemed ages as we threaded through slower boats.  With two bends of the river left, I called on what little life force I had left and redoubled my efforts.  I finally started to pull ahead.  I'm ethically obligated at this point to note that before the race (and, mind you, this was prior to brain death) Jan had taped his bailer closed in expectation of flat conditions.  Wind chop quickly filled his footwell with water, meaning that, for most of the race, he was lugging around twenty pounds of handicap.

The top 3 men in their stirring tribute to the Romanian flag.

Coming into the finish, I made a terrible navigation choice.  Bob Capellini (in his V8) and a two person rowboat were ahead, starting to round the gentle right curve to the finish.  There seemed plenty of room to slide through, but the rowboat took a wider line than Bob and the gap tightened around me.  I found myself awkwardly wedged between the boats, trying to avoid interfering with the other racers while still escaping Jan.  I spluttered out an embarrassed apology to the rowers for cutting things so close as we crossed the finish line.  Bob appeared too happy at his second place SS20Plus finish (between Ken Cooper and Dana Gaines in first and third, respectively) to care much.

Borys (43:27) had finished first, of course.  Although I had been gaining on Eric (47:30), he was still well over a minute ahead of me (48:48) at the end.  Jan (48:53) finished just behind me, with Andrius (50:06) rounding out the top five.  Other notable finishers were Beata in 7th place overall (1st place woman, naturally), Eric Costanzo in 9th place (after finishing 24th the last time he was at the Essex), Barry Fifield (last seen in a five hour man-vs-rudder battle of wills at the Blackburn, an approach to racing now known as "barrymeandering") finishing 13th in an HPK-registered V8, and Mary Beth Gangloff, completing the race nearly 4 minutes faster than her 2012 time (in conditions that made every other repeat paddler slower).  Congrats to these - and all other - racers.

Beata and Mary Beth display their medals.

After the race, we were treated to fine chili and chowder while enjoying music provided by Bill (who graciously forgives me for poking fun at his vest) and his band.  As the first place paddlers, Borys and Beata walked off with modern PFDs donated by Mocke through New England Surfski, carrying on a long tradition of carting local plunder (so sorely needed by Bill) back to New Jersey.  Thanks to the Cape Ann Rowing Club for another in a long line of smoothly run races.

Wesley's unpredictable Sakonnet River Race beckons us to his backyard playground in three weeks, but before then we'll be competing on Ed Duggan's turf (and surf) as the Salem League starts its 8th season next Tuesday at Lynch Park in Beverly.  Sounds like we'll have some new faces this year joining us.  Sure, it's a brutal and excruciatingly painful series of races.  But, uh, you should all come.