Nobody finishes the Blackburn Challenge or the Essex River Race and says aloud "Man, was that fun!" That was the universal refrain after the inaugural Ride the Bull race, however. Actually, one of the paddlers did tell me mid-race that he "wanted to go home", but since said home is in New Jersey, I assumed he was just kidding around. Remember, kids, you don't have to live in New York to make fun of Jersey.
Wesley and Tim had crafted a diabolic course that promised to test our paddling skills by forcing us to keep tight to the south shore of Conanicut Island at the mouth of Narragansett Bay, where the prevailing southerly winds pile disorderly heaps of water. After launching from spectacular Fort Wetherill State Park ("You'll come for the views. You'll stay because you're a German prisoner of war."), we'd travel west into Mackerel Cove and Hull Cove. After turning around in the latter, we'd retrace our steps back to the start. We'd then (and, as it turns out, that "then" is important) continue past the start to the east, paddle by the famed House on the Rock ("You'll come for the views. You'll stay because how exactly are you planning on leaving?"), turn around a green channel marker and return to the start. And then go to the next cove. Hudyncias would be placed liberally around the course as navigational aids.
With all the hype around how rough the conditions might be at Ride the Bull, I was gonna be disappointed if I didn't end up flipping end over end. At the very least, I thought, I'd probably have to hide in a barrel at some point. It wasn't quite the boat crushing mayhem that I had nightmares about in the days leading up to the race (nor was I covered in mustard), but it definitely lived up to its billing as a challenging and exhilarating course. Loyal readers won't be surprised that I chose my Huki S1-R for this particular adventure, but they may be astonished to know that I'm missing a knuckle on my fourth toe.
Eighteen paddlers (and a couple of just-in-case reserves) gathered before the race for the mandatory scuba training. You can never be too safe. In addition to a good crop of regulars, we had a few abnormals. Curiously, they were all from Down Under (and Over a Bit). Murray Lord, originally from New Zealand but relocated to New England, gamely showed up for his first ski race in nearly 5 years. Tina Leone and Lance Roozendaal, currently from New Zealand but visiting family in the US, would be paddling a Huki double. Despite being in an unfamiliar boat and unknown waters, Tina and Lance would end up with the best time of the day.
After Tim familiarized everyone (well, most people) with the course, we gathered on the water in a protected cove. From a slow roll, Wesley counted us down to the start. With an immediate right turn into confused but sorta downwind seas, it took several minutes for the jumble of colorful boats to sort themselves into some semblance of order. Borys and the Kiwi double were clearly in the lead, with Eric McNett, Flavio Costa, Francisco Urena, and I chasing. There were some nice rides available if you could pick them out from the lumpy stew.
Tim and Wesley had purchased race supplies several days before, including turn buoys and anchoring lines. I searched in vain for the marker that would indicate our first turn as I tried to milk everything out of the runners (cue the old joke about that not being a cow, son). When I finally spotted the first buoy, my initial thought was that the guys had really splurged - that orange ping-pong ball must have cost them a fortune. I'll admit that my heart hardened against the duo. Typical Rhode Island cheapskates, I thought. That's a thing, right? Of course, as I got closer I realized how unfairly I had maligned our hosts. The marker was of more than adequate size - a reminder of how difficult it is to spot anything from a vantage point of 3 feet off the water.
After clearing the first buoy, we made our way around the point that marks the eastern edge of
Mackerel Cove. Once we entered the long bay, the wind was at our backs and you could get some reasonable bursts of speed from the larger swells. With the Kiwi double and Borys out front, Eric and I rode downwind together, exchanging salsa recipes and reminiscing about our favorite episodes of Family Feud, until I eventually managed to pull ahead and put a boat length or so between us.
Tim's directions for Mackerel Cove were very clear. Proceed along the right coast until you encounter a floating gray platform (on which, I assumed, snacks would be available). As Borys and the double got deeper into the Bay, I began to wonder if everyone had missed the platform. Or worse, if the lead few paddlers had missed the turn, but the remainder of the pack had turned a half-mile back and was already heading out of the cove, cackling at their good fortune.
We were quickly running out of cove. I was just about convinced that Borys was going to attempt to skim right over the narrow isthmus that separates Mackerel Cove from neighboring Sheffield Cove to the north, when I heard a lot of yelling. Tim and Wesley were directing the leader to turn. I relayed the message: "Turn, you crazy bastard! For the love of God, turn!" I may have punched up their original wording a bit for effect. Borys looked confused for a moment - or, at least, as confused as a dot can look. With a troubling lack of platforms in his immediate vicinity, he chose the next mooring buoy and turned to head back to sea. After the race, Wesley informed us that the dog ate his platform.
I was keenly aware that with mild conditions in the cove, going upwind in my Huki I was going to give back some of my rough water lead to the guys in faster boats. At the turn, I had seen Flavio and Francisco close behind. The F's can apply some serious hurt. I couldn't actually see them as I was paddling out of Mackerel Cove, but I sensed their lurking hunger behind me. I could see Eric, however, well off to my right trying to escape the head wind. After a long trip out of the cove, we began rounding the point that led to Hull Cove, where our turn-around point awaited.
Eric was consistently taking lines so crazy close to the jagged shoreline that I began to wonder if he had left a note for us back in the parking lot. "Don't mourn me," it might say. "I went out doing what I loved... demoralizing younger guys in faster boats." As a surfski dealer and an expert in composite repair, I suppose Eric may worry slightly less about boat damage than the rest of us, but that doesn't really explain his steely-eyed courage at the prospect of being pulped against the rocks. I happily ceded the inside line, knowing that at least I'd survive to see my wife and kids again. Don't tell Mary Beth.
Having adjusted my expectations to look for a pea-sized orange mote bobbing on the surface, I had less trouble spotting the final turn buoy in Hull Cove. This buoy also came with an audible indicator in the form of Tim Hudyncia, who helpfully shouted directions to the leaders from a small outcropping. At the turn, it was Borys, the Kiwi double, me, Eric, F&F, and Beata Cseke. We'd now reverse our course back to the start (and then some).
Everyone likes Jan Lupinski for his sunny disposition and easy-going manner. Unless you're looking to have a piano fall on you, however, you know to maintain a healthy distance from him come race-time. This season alone, Calamity Jan has turned a flatwater course into a surf-zone thrill ride, knocked a rudder clean off his boat, paddled half a race in a bathtub, and sprung a seam leak. We had a betting pool going for what misfortune might befall him at Ride the Bull. There was a lot of action on "shark attack" and "strangled by fishing line", but I had my money on "scurvy".
It was therefore with heavy heart that I saw the overturned hull of Jan's red Nelo as I pulled out of Hull Cove. At first it looked like Bill Kuklinski might win the pool with his pedestrian "capsize and dashed on rocks" bet, but as Jan struggled to remount in the confused waters, it became clear that Chris Sherwood was more on the mark with "pruning due to prolonged immersion". Borys and Bob Capellini seemed to have the Jan situation under control, so I paid Chris what he was due and continued on my way.
I was joking about that toe knuckle, by the way. How could I even be typing this if that were true?
In the confusion sowed by the seas and Jan's capsize, I found myself in the lead of what I now considered the single most prestigious race on the East Coast. Eric and the Kiwis were close behind, but I allowed myself to bask in my 5 minutes and 13 seconds of glory. At the end my allotted time, I graciously stepped down to allow Borys a rare opportunity in the spotlight. I don't usually enjoy being passed, but this was like being punched in
the head by Muhammad Ali in his prime. Sure, it hurts, but even as you lose
consciousness, you admire the artistry of the blow. When I finally came to, Borys was out of sight. To see what an elite paddler can do against insignificant mortals (Eric and me), pull up Borys' video of the race and skip ahead to 5:22. Not many people can attest to this, but when you're passed by Borys you hear an unearthly kind of whistling hum. I don't know whether the sound comes from his boat's scuppers, the paddle blades slicing the air, or whatever Tony Stark power source he's got jacked into his cyborg body, but it's a fitting touch.
Shortly after relinquishing the lead (it was giving me a rash anyway), the Kiwi double and Eric came shooting by on my right at nearly the same passing velocity. I suspected foul play, naturally. Then I noticed there were some runners available for the taking. Although the double continued to pull away, I managed to hang with Eric the rest of the way into Mackerel Cove. We turned together and headed upwind, getting another good look at the rest of the field. The next two paddlers were hard on our tails. Darn it. I just couldn't seem to drop the F bums.
With Eric on another kamikaze shore run, we pulled out of the Cove and started the turn around the point back to the first orange marker. Conditions were particularly sloppy in this stretch, which I hoped would allow me to bank some more time on the less stable boats. I lost track of Eric at this point, and would spend the rest of the race wondering when I'd either see him nose back into view or hear his splintering death throes.
The trip past the start towards the House on the Rock and the final green buoy was relatively uneventful, although for a moment it appeared that a large schooner might deny us a chance of reaching that buoy intact. Fortunately, it sailed off before I had to make any tough decisions about the relative merits of finishing well versus ending badly. I turned to start the final upwind push, with the Kiwi double several boat lengths ahead.
I hadn't seen Borys for quite some time now. I figured he must have been off nursing some orphaned seal pups back to health, or perhaps back home catching up on past episodes of Mad Men. So I was surprised to pass him heading towards the green buoy as I made my way back upwind. Forgetting about the final leg beyond the original start, Borys had pulled into the finish prematurely, thinking his race was over. After seeing several slower racers pass by, he realized his mistake and initiated his pursuit mode subprogram. Would Borys sail by me once again, or did I have enough of a lead to edge out an ill-gained, asterisk-annotated, weasel victory that I'd almost be too embarrassed to make sure appeared prominently in my epitaph?
The former. As I approached the small cove from which we started, I saw Tim H standing atop a steep promontory, waving paddlers into the finishing cove. Bridges, rocky outcroppings, cliffs... is there anywhere this guy can't stand? At this point I heard the signature hum of Borys at full throttle coming from behind me. My fate was sealed. My goal now was to try to keep close enough to witness the exciting conclusion to this roller coaster of a race. Any attempt at drafting would have surely pulled my arms clean out of their sockets, so I struggled along falling further behind Borys like a toddler kid brother. Wait. Like a toddler kid brother pulling an engine block. Borys had his sights set on the Kiwis, but ultimately ran out of course and ended up a half boat length short.
I had managed to finish second among the singles. Instead of my name, the results should just say "Huki S1-R". Flavio managed to pass Eric within the last mile to finish third. Eric, Francisco, Beata, Wesley, Tim, Ken Cooper, and Kirk Olsen rounded out the top ten. Although there were a couple of mild cases of DNF, nobody had been trampled or gored. After the obligatory photos with the wedding party, the paddlers gathered for the award ceremony and some costumed tom foolery. Congrats to Wesley and Tim for putting on what I sure hope will be a recurring rodeo, and thanks to Betsy, Mary Beth, Tim H, and Teri for their support work.
Next up is the Casco Bay Challenge. All those little islands have labels, right?
 |
| Tim's course instructions proved about 90% effective. |
With all the hype around how rough the conditions might be at Ride the Bull, I was gonna be disappointed if I didn't end up flipping end over end. At the very least, I thought, I'd probably have to hide in a barrel at some point. It wasn't quite the boat crushing mayhem that I had nightmares about in the days leading up to the race (nor was I covered in mustard), but it definitely lived up to its billing as a challenging and exhilarating course. Loyal readers won't be surprised that I chose my Huki S1-R for this particular adventure, but they may be astonished to know that I'm missing a knuckle on my fourth toe.
Eighteen paddlers (and a couple of just-in-case reserves) gathered before the race for the mandatory scuba training. You can never be too safe. In addition to a good crop of regulars, we had a few abnormals. Curiously, they were all from Down Under (and Over a Bit). Murray Lord, originally from New Zealand but relocated to New England, gamely showed up for his first ski race in nearly 5 years. Tina Leone and Lance Roozendaal, currently from New Zealand but visiting family in the US, would be paddling a Huki double. Despite being in an unfamiliar boat and unknown waters, Tina and Lance would end up with the best time of the day.
 |
| Waiting for da' go. |
Tim and Wesley had purchased race supplies several days before, including turn buoys and anchoring lines. I searched in vain for the marker that would indicate our first turn as I tried to milk everything out of the runners (cue the old joke about that not being a cow, son). When I finally spotted the first buoy, my initial thought was that the guys had really splurged - that orange ping-pong ball must have cost them a fortune. I'll admit that my heart hardened against the duo. Typical Rhode Island cheapskates, I thought. That's a thing, right? Of course, as I got closer I realized how unfairly I had maligned our hosts. The marker was of more than adequate size - a reminder of how difficult it is to spot anything from a vantage point of 3 feet off the water.
 |
| Jockeying for position shortly after the start (photo courtesy of Betsy Echols). |
After clearing the first buoy, we made our way around the point that marks the eastern edge of
Tim's directions for Mackerel Cove were very clear. Proceed along the right coast until you encounter a floating gray platform (on which, I assumed, snacks would be available). As Borys and the double got deeper into the Bay, I began to wonder if everyone had missed the platform. Or worse, if the lead few paddlers had missed the turn, but the remainder of the pack had turned a half-mile back and was already heading out of the cove, cackling at their good fortune.
We were quickly running out of cove. I was just about convinced that Borys was going to attempt to skim right over the narrow isthmus that separates Mackerel Cove from neighboring Sheffield Cove to the north, when I heard a lot of yelling. Tim and Wesley were directing the leader to turn. I relayed the message: "Turn, you crazy bastard! For the love of God, turn!" I may have punched up their original wording a bit for effect. Borys looked confused for a moment - or, at least, as confused as a dot can look. With a troubling lack of platforms in his immediate vicinity, he chose the next mooring buoy and turned to head back to sea. After the race, Wesley informed us that the dog ate his platform.
I was keenly aware that with mild conditions in the cove, going upwind in my Huki I was going to give back some of my rough water lead to the guys in faster boats. At the turn, I had seen Flavio and Francisco close behind. The F's can apply some serious hurt. I couldn't actually see them as I was paddling out of Mackerel Cove, but I sensed their lurking hunger behind me. I could see Eric, however, well off to my right trying to escape the head wind. After a long trip out of the cove, we began rounding the point that led to Hull Cove, where our turn-around point awaited.
Eric was consistently taking lines so crazy close to the jagged shoreline that I began to wonder if he had left a note for us back in the parking lot. "Don't mourn me," it might say. "I went out doing what I loved... demoralizing younger guys in faster boats." As a surfski dealer and an expert in composite repair, I suppose Eric may worry slightly less about boat damage than the rest of us, but that doesn't really explain his steely-eyed courage at the prospect of being pulped against the rocks. I happily ceded the inside line, knowing that at least I'd survive to see my wife and kids again. Don't tell Mary Beth.
 |
| Me and my Huki (photo courtesy of Betsy Echols). |
Everyone likes Jan Lupinski for his sunny disposition and easy-going manner. Unless you're looking to have a piano fall on you, however, you know to maintain a healthy distance from him come race-time. This season alone, Calamity Jan has turned a flatwater course into a surf-zone thrill ride, knocked a rudder clean off his boat, paddled half a race in a bathtub, and sprung a seam leak. We had a betting pool going for what misfortune might befall him at Ride the Bull. There was a lot of action on "shark attack" and "strangled by fishing line", but I had my money on "scurvy".
It was therefore with heavy heart that I saw the overturned hull of Jan's red Nelo as I pulled out of Hull Cove. At first it looked like Bill Kuklinski might win the pool with his pedestrian "capsize and dashed on rocks" bet, but as Jan struggled to remount in the confused waters, it became clear that Chris Sherwood was more on the mark with "pruning due to prolonged immersion". Borys and Bob Capellini seemed to have the Jan situation under control, so I paid Chris what he was due and continued on my way.
I was joking about that toe knuckle, by the way. How could I even be typing this if that were true?
 |
| Borys in fine fettle (photo courtesy of Betsy Echols). |
Shortly after relinquishing the lead (it was giving me a rash anyway), the Kiwi double and Eric came shooting by on my right at nearly the same passing velocity. I suspected foul play, naturally. Then I noticed there were some runners available for the taking. Although the double continued to pull away, I managed to hang with Eric the rest of the way into Mackerel Cove. We turned together and headed upwind, getting another good look at the rest of the field. The next two paddlers were hard on our tails. Darn it. I just couldn't seem to drop the F bums.
With Eric on another kamikaze shore run, we pulled out of the Cove and started the turn around the point back to the first orange marker. Conditions were particularly sloppy in this stretch, which I hoped would allow me to bank some more time on the less stable boats. I lost track of Eric at this point, and would spend the rest of the race wondering when I'd either see him nose back into view or hear his splintering death throes.
I hadn't seen Borys for quite some time now. I figured he must have been off nursing some orphaned seal pups back to health, or perhaps back home catching up on past episodes of Mad Men. So I was surprised to pass him heading towards the green buoy as I made my way back upwind. Forgetting about the final leg beyond the original start, Borys had pulled into the finish prematurely, thinking his race was over. After seeing several slower racers pass by, he realized his mistake and initiated his pursuit mode subprogram. Would Borys sail by me once again, or did I have enough of a lead to edge out an ill-gained, asterisk-annotated, weasel victory that I'd almost be too embarrassed to make sure appeared prominently in my epitaph?
The former. As I approached the small cove from which we started, I saw Tim H standing atop a steep promontory, waving paddlers into the finishing cove. Bridges, rocky outcroppings, cliffs... is there anywhere this guy can't stand? At this point I heard the signature hum of Borys at full throttle coming from behind me. My fate was sealed. My goal now was to try to keep close enough to witness the exciting conclusion to this roller coaster of a race. Any attempt at drafting would have surely pulled my arms clean out of their sockets, so I struggled along falling further behind Borys like a toddler kid brother. Wait. Like a toddler kid brother pulling an engine block. Borys had his sights set on the Kiwis, but ultimately ran out of course and ended up a half boat length short.
I had managed to finish second among the singles. Instead of my name, the results should just say "Huki S1-R". Flavio managed to pass Eric within the last mile to finish third. Eric, Francisco, Beata, Wesley, Tim, Ken Cooper, and Kirk Olsen rounded out the top ten. Although there were a couple of mild cases of DNF, nobody had been trampled or gored. After the obligatory photos with the wedding party, the paddlers gathered for the award ceremony and some costumed tom foolery. Congrats to Wesley and Tim for putting on what I sure hope will be a recurring rodeo, and thanks to Betsy, Mary Beth, Tim H, and Teri for their support work.
Next up is the Casco Bay Challenge. All those little islands have labels, right?
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