Mary Beth and I pulled onto the beach at McCorrie Point an hour and a half before the start of the Sakonnet River Race and watched in growing anticipation as car after car parked alongside us. When the last stragglers arrived from points West, there were 24 boats registered (including two doubles and a Gocking). We greeted old friends and threw suspicious looks at unfamiliar faces. That might have just been me. The redesigned Epic V10 (Tim Dwyer) and the Think Evo II (Timmy Shields) were making their local race debuts, so naturally we pawed over these shiny new playthings.
On a day where the inland temperatures hit a muggy 90 degrees, conditions on the Sakonnet were perfect for the race - mid 70's with a stiffening 12 to 15 mph wind from the SSW. I had agonized about whether to bring my V12 or my S1-R down, but seeing the whitecaps kicking up I was glad I followed the old adage: "When seas are lively in Sakonnet... you'll want to have your Huki on it." The Green Comet has never let me down, but today we'd be up against a formidable field of veterans and up-and-comers.
As race time approached, Wesley filled us in on the course. With the wind coming almost directly up the bay, we'd paddle upwind immediately past McCorrie Point, then by Sandy Point (at 2 miles), Black Point (at 3.5 miles), a large free-standing rock (4.7 miles), and finally turn around a mooring buoy just off of Third Beach. We'd then do the same in reverse, which is quite challenging. As usual, Mr. Echols conveniently neglected to address the question that keeps us all awake at night: How is it possible that even the most incompetent cartographer could have called this the Sakonnet River? I'll admit there may be more important issues in the world, but it seems unlikely.
Resolved not to let this mystery throw me off my game, I hopped in my boat, warmed up, and made my way to the crowded starting line. Wesley counted down to a rolling start. 26 paddlers engaged their transmissions and started churning away, sending spray in all directions, but mostly in my face. Seriously, folks, can we show a little more decorum at the start?
Borys Markin and Andrius Zinkevichus (a fixture of the Boston flatwater paddling scene, but in his first ever ocean race) jumped out to a quick lead. For the first half-mile or so, the rest of the field was a confused swarm as we rounded McCorrie Point (assiduously avoiding the shallows after Wesley's harrowing tales of fine sailors lost on this terrible reef) and headed into the wind-driven waves towards Sandy Point. Ten minutes into the race, I found myself in third place, with Jan Lupinski and Flavio Costa on my wash. The recent influx of paddlers with K-1 backgrounds has been a welcome addition to the New England surfski scene. In their ability to make the transition to skis and rough water, these guys (and Beata) continue to impress and humble us And also to fill us with a blistering envy that threatens to consume our very souls. That may also be just me.
Borys was receding into the distance, of course, but I was making up ground on Andrius as we pushed through the unrelenting waves. In these conditions, it was going to be a grueling trip to Third Beach. I eventually caught Andrius and was preparing to surreptitiously attach a towing cable when a particularly abrupt wave caused me to veer off and fall off his wash. Over the next couple of minutes, I watched helplessly as he started to pull away from me again. My stroke felt off. Asymmetric. As if on one side I was paddling in molasses, and on the other, honey. Or perhaps treacle. I have a long history of feathering issues (don't get me started on mallard quills), so I double-checked my paddle. Sure enough, I forgot to secure my length-lock and I was paddling as featherless as post-hubris Icarus. I stopped to correct the problem, accidentally overshooting my target of 60 degrees. Cursing the sun (Wax? What the hell was I thinking?), I fumbled hurriedly to correct the feathering.
While fiddling with my paddle, Jan and Flavio flew by in pursuit of Andrius, rooster tails trailing behind them. I locked in the proper feather and launched into pursuit. By this point we had rounded Sandy Point, with distant Black Point providing some protection from the wind and waves. Jan was maintaining a hammering cadence, with Flavio fast on his wash. I had to work hard to board this express train, but the stiff cardiovascular fare was worth it. Once I tucked in behind Flavio, I was along for the ride. Plus, free WiFi! My Garmin heart-rate track shows a drop here that would have sent an EMT running for a defibrillator.
After five minutes riding in the observation car, I noticed a couple of boats back a ways on a line much closer to the shore. Wesley and Francisco Urena. Wesley is so familiar with the Sakonnet that he has actually named each individual wave (he tries not to play favorites, but Slappy Wetbottom has a special place in his heart). If he (Wesley, not Slappy) is on an inside line, that's where everyone should be. I decided to hop off the Lupinski Special and lay a track of my own into even more protected waters. Nope. It took 30 seconds to realize the error of my way and then another 4 minutes of penance before I was allowed to rejoin the holy order.
Soon after this, Jan (and by extension, his moochers) caught Andrius, who slowly dropped back to visit with each member of the receiving line. After clearing Black Point, our path took us closer to a rocky shore at a slight angle to the waves. Refractory waves added a soupรงon of jobbliness to the waters. I felt the Huki straining to strut its stuff, aching to show these flatwater jokers (hey, it's the boat talking, not me) what it could do with a little texture. I put the hammer down and instead picked up a paddle. I had envisioned more of a roadrunner-like surge, leaving the other paddlers staring at a lingering cloud of mist, wondering what had become of me. I had to settle for more of a waddling turkey-like advance, but I was making gains. Jan seemed to be faltering a bit, with Flavio passing him and pulling behind me.
Before the race, Wesley gave us some advice about the stout black rock (Third Rock) guarding the entrance to the Third Beach cove. He informed us that at high tide it was possible to save a few strokes by paddling between the rock and shore, but that at the relatively low tide that we were facing, he wasn't sure the gap would be navigable. Approaching the monolith, I decided to give it a try. Between the rock and the shore I could see Third Beach in the distance. I saw no impediments. I adjusted my course, preparing to thread the needle.
As I approached the gap, however, something seemed awry. Huge breakers were crashing on far-off Third Beach, even though it should have been protected. And there didn't seem to be any such commotion on the left part of the beach I could see past the outside of Third Rock. It was bound to strike me eventually (or, rather, I was bound to strike it), but as got closer I finally realized my mistake. I wasn't seeing Third Beach a half mile in the distance, I was seeing Third Rock beach from 100 feet away. Wesley had spoken true. The pass between Third Rock and the shore wasn't navigable - because the two were connected by a sandy spit that stood a good three feet out of the water. Reassessed from the proper perspective, the huge breakers resolved into gently lapping waves on the nearby shore.
It's legal for me to drive without corrective lenses, by the way. Fair warning.
Embarrassed by this mistake, I corrected my course and took the safer passage around Big Rock, not much worse for the weir (that was so close to working, I had to stick with it). It was now time to start piecing together scattered clues from that long ago skipper's meeting about how to find the turn-around buoy. There was something about a chimney in there. Right. No chimney in sight. I remember being amused by what the non-native English speakers might be thinking of Wesley's statement that he had "put some orange noodles" around the buoy. Nobody said anything, so perhaps the pool noodle is now a universal concept, like bumper cars and feng shui. In any event, the waters seemed noodle free. I also recalled that we spent the better part of the morning debating which direction to circle the buoy, with the consensus being that it didn't matter, as long as you tolled on the hour.
With several course neophytes on my back (Get 'em off! Get 'em off!), I figured they'd follow my lead as long as I continued paddling with purpose. Eventually, I spotted the chimney. If I had needed a well vented fire, this would doubtless have been a relief, but I couldn't recall how exactly this was supposed to help me find the turn-around marker. And then I saw it. Noodle ho! To cover my bases, I circled the buoy in every conceivable direction before pointing my bow towards the Promised Water. Having paid my upwind dues, I was ready to enjoy the sea's bounty.
I got my first look at the field behind me as I started to head back. Although I had earlier glimpsed an indistinct blur back a half-dozen boat lengths or so, this now resolved itself into Jan and Flavio, with Andrius not far off their pace. Francisco and Wesley seemed to be battling it out back a couple of minutes, with Beata Cseke and Joe Shaw close behind. As I headed out towards the center of the bay to capture more wind and waves, it became increasingly difficult to identify subsequent paddlers, but there sure were a lot of them.
While struggling to keep up with the flatwater guys during the upwind portion of this race, I took some solace in the fact that they had limited downwind experience. That's where I could really shine. But now that I had actually turned the corner, I remembered that I haven't had a lot of past exposure to downwind conditions. I'd say my race experience to this point has been 65% upwind, 20% crosswind, and 15% swimming. Sure, there was last year's Northeast Downwind race, but I kept my eyes tightly closed for most of that one.
As any of the downwind masters will tell you, the key to success is to make a rabid dash for every bump that you see. Foam should literally be flying from your mouth. Hell, from your nose and eyes. Every missed wave should fill you with a sense of unbearable shame. Form is unimportant. Thrash the water until it surrenders. From commotion, motion. If you don't hear the buzzing of a thousand bees echoing in your ears, if the edges of your vision aren't going black, if you don't have shooting pains down your left arm, if you have more than a passing desire to continue living... you're not pushing hard enough.
The downwind masters don't use these exact words, of course. Or, now that I reflect on this, any remotely similar words. Nevertheless, this was the strategy I adopted for the first couple of miles heading back up the bay. Desperate to milk everything out of the conditions, I was lunging indiscriminately at every runner that I could conceivably catch, and many more that I couldn't. Even a kid in a candy store doesn't eat the wrappers. Exhaustion finally forced me into discretion, and I started trying to read the water rather than tearing out pages at random. I picked my battles more wisely and was able to string together some decent runs while getting a lot more enjoyment out of the process. I felt like somebody might well pass me before the finish, but they weren't going sail by so quickly that I wouldn't have a chance to at least put up a fight.
When I hazarded a look back to get a lay of the competition with a couple of miles to go, I saw Flavio several boat lengths behind, but on a line much closer to the shore. I figured this would give me the advantage of a slightly more robust tidal current as well as a shorter distance to the finish, since he'd eventually have to pull around McCorrie Point at the finish. I couldn't spot anyone else - surprising given my hawk-like vision - but apparently Jan was more directly behind me.
Of course, the objective time for the first half of my race was longer than for the downwind leg (63 minutes up, 47 back), but the difference in subjective time was even more striking - especially once I stopped trying to beat the ocean into submission and instead went with the flow. In a flash, I was at McCorrie Point, catching the last small runners into the beach. Betsy Echols, who I suspect may have run home to catch a leisurely nap after Borys finished, was back in time to clock me in at 1:50:13 (nine minutes after the phenom).
Despite cementing his reputation as a magnet for problems on the water (leaky boat and weeds this day - look out Kirk, Jan is gunning for your title), Jan pulled in less than a minute behind me, with Flavio only seconds further back. Flavio finished 12th at the Essex just 3 weeks ago, but apparently someone removed most of the kryptonite from his boat since then. Andrius managed a 5th place finish in his first rough water race. Rounding out the top 10 were Francisco, Wesley, Beata (nipping Joe in the closest finish of the day), Joe, and Tom Kerr (who, apparently under the misconception that there would be a sled dog race immediately following, appeared to be wearing mukluks). After I stole the boat from under her, Mary Beth muscled a borrowed blue-nose V8 to second place among the women. First time Sakonnet racers Brian Sharp, Tim Hudyncia, and Simon James turned in solid performances in some challenging conditions. Thanks to Wesley and Betsy for hosting a great race that put grins (and perhaps a few grimaces) on our faces.
In days of yore, after the Sakonnet we'd have six weeks of R&R prior to the next race - the grand-daddy of them all, the Show, the venerable Blackburn Challenge. But due to the devious machinations of Wesley/Tim and Eric, we now have two daunting new races slotted into our schedule prior to that. Ride the Bull (June 22) promises to evaluate our rough water abilities, while the Casco Bay Challenge (June 29) will push our navigation skills and endurance to the limit. I might just have to unearth some new Huki adages.
On a day where the inland temperatures hit a muggy 90 degrees, conditions on the Sakonnet were perfect for the race - mid 70's with a stiffening 12 to 15 mph wind from the SSW. I had agonized about whether to bring my V12 or my S1-R down, but seeing the whitecaps kicking up I was glad I followed the old adage: "When seas are lively in Sakonnet... you'll want to have your Huki on it." The Green Comet has never let me down, but today we'd be up against a formidable field of veterans and up-and-comers.
 |
| With colorful costumes and equipment, this triple-threat crew is geared up to fight evil-doers, amuse children, or paddle. |
 |
| I gotta confess, I didn't think Wesley could pull off his Rappin' Cap'n act. But he did, in fact, get jiggy with it. |
Borys Markin and Andrius Zinkevichus (a fixture of the Boston flatwater paddling scene, but in his first ever ocean race) jumped out to a quick lead. For the first half-mile or so, the rest of the field was a confused swarm as we rounded McCorrie Point (assiduously avoiding the shallows after Wesley's harrowing tales of fine sailors lost on this terrible reef) and headed into the wind-driven waves towards Sandy Point. Ten minutes into the race, I found myself in third place, with Jan Lupinski and Flavio Costa on my wash. The recent influx of paddlers with K-1 backgrounds has been a welcome addition to the New England surfski scene. In their ability to make the transition to skis and rough water, these guys (and Beata) continue to impress and humble us And also to fill us with a blistering envy that threatens to consume our very souls. That may also be just me.
 |
| Francisco, Chris, and Andrius discuss their shared love of grapefruit. |
While fiddling with my paddle, Jan and Flavio flew by in pursuit of Andrius, rooster tails trailing behind them. I locked in the proper feather and launched into pursuit. By this point we had rounded Sandy Point, with distant Black Point providing some protection from the wind and waves. Jan was maintaining a hammering cadence, with Flavio fast on his wash. I had to work hard to board this express train, but the stiff cardiovascular fare was worth it. Once I tucked in behind Flavio, I was along for the ride. Plus, free WiFi! My Garmin heart-rate track shows a drop here that would have sent an EMT running for a defibrillator.
After five minutes riding in the observation car, I noticed a couple of boats back a ways on a line much closer to the shore. Wesley and Francisco Urena. Wesley is so familiar with the Sakonnet that he has actually named each individual wave (he tries not to play favorites, but Slappy Wetbottom has a special place in his heart). If he (Wesley, not Slappy) is on an inside line, that's where everyone should be. I decided to hop off the Lupinski Special and lay a track of my own into even more protected waters. Nope. It took 30 seconds to realize the error of my way and then another 4 minutes of penance before I was allowed to rejoin the holy order.
Soon after this, Jan (and by extension, his moochers) caught Andrius, who slowly dropped back to visit with each member of the receiving line. After clearing Black Point, our path took us closer to a rocky shore at a slight angle to the waves. Refractory waves added a soupรงon of jobbliness to the waters. I felt the Huki straining to strut its stuff, aching to show these flatwater jokers (hey, it's the boat talking, not me) what it could do with a little texture. I put the hammer down and instead picked up a paddle. I had envisioned more of a roadrunner-like surge, leaving the other paddlers staring at a lingering cloud of mist, wondering what had become of me. I had to settle for more of a waddling turkey-like advance, but I was making gains. Jan seemed to be faltering a bit, with Flavio passing him and pulling behind me.
Before the race, Wesley gave us some advice about the stout black rock (Third Rock) guarding the entrance to the Third Beach cove. He informed us that at high tide it was possible to save a few strokes by paddling between the rock and shore, but that at the relatively low tide that we were facing, he wasn't sure the gap would be navigable. Approaching the monolith, I decided to give it a try. Between the rock and the shore I could see Third Beach in the distance. I saw no impediments. I adjusted my course, preparing to thread the needle.
As I approached the gap, however, something seemed awry. Huge breakers were crashing on far-off Third Beach, even though it should have been protected. And there didn't seem to be any such commotion on the left part of the beach I could see past the outside of Third Rock. It was bound to strike me eventually (or, rather, I was bound to strike it), but as got closer I finally realized my mistake. I wasn't seeing Third Beach a half mile in the distance, I was seeing Third Rock beach from 100 feet away. Wesley had spoken true. The pass between Third Rock and the shore wasn't navigable - because the two were connected by a sandy spit that stood a good three feet out of the water. Reassessed from the proper perspective, the huge breakers resolved into gently lapping waves on the nearby shore.
It's legal for me to drive without corrective lenses, by the way. Fair warning.
Embarrassed by this mistake, I corrected my course and took the safer passage around Big Rock, not much worse for the weir (that was so close to working, I had to stick with it). It was now time to start piecing together scattered clues from that long ago skipper's meeting about how to find the turn-around buoy. There was something about a chimney in there. Right. No chimney in sight. I remember being amused by what the non-native English speakers might be thinking of Wesley's statement that he had "put some orange noodles" around the buoy. Nobody said anything, so perhaps the pool noodle is now a universal concept, like bumper cars and feng shui. In any event, the waters seemed noodle free. I also recalled that we spent the better part of the morning debating which direction to circle the buoy, with the consensus being that it didn't matter, as long as you tolled on the hour.
With several course neophytes on my back (Get 'em off! Get 'em off!), I figured they'd follow my lead as long as I continued paddling with purpose. Eventually, I spotted the chimney. If I had needed a well vented fire, this would doubtless have been a relief, but I couldn't recall how exactly this was supposed to help me find the turn-around marker. And then I saw it. Noodle ho! To cover my bases, I circled the buoy in every conceivable direction before pointing my bow towards the Promised Water. Having paid my upwind dues, I was ready to enjoy the sea's bounty.
I got my first look at the field behind me as I started to head back. Although I had earlier glimpsed an indistinct blur back a half-dozen boat lengths or so, this now resolved itself into Jan and Flavio, with Andrius not far off their pace. Francisco and Wesley seemed to be battling it out back a couple of minutes, with Beata Cseke and Joe Shaw close behind. As I headed out towards the center of the bay to capture more wind and waves, it became increasingly difficult to identify subsequent paddlers, but there sure were a lot of them.
While struggling to keep up with the flatwater guys during the upwind portion of this race, I took some solace in the fact that they had limited downwind experience. That's where I could really shine. But now that I had actually turned the corner, I remembered that I haven't had a lot of past exposure to downwind conditions. I'd say my race experience to this point has been 65% upwind, 20% crosswind, and 15% swimming. Sure, there was last year's Northeast Downwind race, but I kept my eyes tightly closed for most of that one.
As any of the downwind masters will tell you, the key to success is to make a rabid dash for every bump that you see. Foam should literally be flying from your mouth. Hell, from your nose and eyes. Every missed wave should fill you with a sense of unbearable shame. Form is unimportant. Thrash the water until it surrenders. From commotion, motion. If you don't hear the buzzing of a thousand bees echoing in your ears, if the edges of your vision aren't going black, if you don't have shooting pains down your left arm, if you have more than a passing desire to continue living... you're not pushing hard enough.
The downwind masters don't use these exact words, of course. Or, now that I reflect on this, any remotely similar words. Nevertheless, this was the strategy I adopted for the first couple of miles heading back up the bay. Desperate to milk everything out of the conditions, I was lunging indiscriminately at every runner that I could conceivably catch, and many more that I couldn't. Even a kid in a candy store doesn't eat the wrappers. Exhaustion finally forced me into discretion, and I started trying to read the water rather than tearing out pages at random. I picked my battles more wisely and was able to string together some decent runs while getting a lot more enjoyment out of the process. I felt like somebody might well pass me before the finish, but they weren't going sail by so quickly that I wouldn't have a chance to at least put up a fight.
 |
| The 26 paddlers of the 2013 Sakonnet River Race. From left to right: Sean, Steve, ah... forget it. |
Of course, the objective time for the first half of my race was longer than for the downwind leg (63 minutes up, 47 back), but the difference in subjective time was even more striking - especially once I stopped trying to beat the ocean into submission and instead went with the flow. In a flash, I was at McCorrie Point, catching the last small runners into the beach. Betsy Echols, who I suspect may have run home to catch a leisurely nap after Borys finished, was back in time to clock me in at 1:50:13 (nine minutes after the phenom).
Despite cementing his reputation as a magnet for problems on the water (leaky boat and weeds this day - look out Kirk, Jan is gunning for your title), Jan pulled in less than a minute behind me, with Flavio only seconds further back. Flavio finished 12th at the Essex just 3 weeks ago, but apparently someone removed most of the kryptonite from his boat since then. Andrius managed a 5th place finish in his first rough water race. Rounding out the top 10 were Francisco, Wesley, Beata (nipping Joe in the closest finish of the day), Joe, and Tom Kerr (who, apparently under the misconception that there would be a sled dog race immediately following, appeared to be wearing mukluks). After I stole the boat from under her, Mary Beth muscled a borrowed blue-nose V8 to second place among the women. First time Sakonnet racers Brian Sharp, Tim Hudyncia, and Simon James turned in solid performances in some challenging conditions. Thanks to Wesley and Betsy for hosting a great race that put grins (and perhaps a few grimaces) on our faces.
In days of yore, after the Sakonnet we'd have six weeks of R&R prior to the next race - the grand-daddy of them all, the Show, the venerable Blackburn Challenge. But due to the devious machinations of Wesley/Tim and Eric, we now have two daunting new races slotted into our schedule prior to that. Ride the Bull (June 22) promises to evaluate our rough water abilities, while the Casco Bay Challenge (June 29) will push our navigation skills and endurance to the limit. I might just have to unearth some new Huki adages.
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