If you're looking for the Ride the Bull race report, you can find it here.
The Casco Bay Challenge was designed as a rare New England paddling treat - an extended downwind race across the entire bay, amidst dozens of striking Maine islands. While the forecast initially looked good for such a race, a cursèd fog befell us. An elderly salt on the beach warned us that this was the worst kind of fog - a white fog. Not sure what exactly that means. Isn't that how it always is with ancient mariners? Yapping on about some tragedy in which his entire crew save one was lost (and that one usually him, naturally). He mumbled something about an albatross too. Whatever, old man.
Despite the conditions, a healthy crew of 15 single skis, 1 double ski (Bill Kuklinski and Timmy Shields), 3 single outriggers, and 2 double outriggers braved the beach. The course couldn't be simpler. We'd start at Fisherman's Beach in South Portland, paddle through a boundless and timeless white limbo, and perhaps turn up at Merepoint boat launch on the north side of Casco Bay, 16.5 miles away. Racers were encouraged to pay no heed to indistinct but beckoning voices. Also to watch out for ferries.
Complicating matters somewhat, one of our two scheduled safety boats ran aground en route and was undergoing emergency propeller replacement. Damn the portents, full speed ahead! After a revision or two, the plan was to sprint to the $150 hotspot (somewhere between 1.5 miles and 4 miles into the course - I never quite caught that), then join up and follow the chase boat as a united group. After some delays to ensure our tethers were secure, we set off shortly after noon for what would be an event somewhere between a race, a passive-aggressive group paddle, and an abject lesson.
With the marine forecast calling for 3 to 5 foot seas, I had brought my Huki. Not the right decision, as it turned out, but you dance with the one that you strapped to your car. I started out at a reasonable pace, not wanting to kill myself in the opening sprint of a 16.5 mile race. There wasn't much suspense over who would win the $150 hotspot. Unless Borys Markin snapped a paddle or burned up on reentry, he was going to have some gas money for the trip back home. I decided to let Eric keep him honest while I settled snugly into third place.
I was quickly unsettled by a horde of challengers, however. Although I felt like I was at a respectable level of effort, a steady stream of paddlers pulled by me. Francisco Urena, Beata Cseke, Chris Laughlin, Matt Drayer, Joe Shaw, and both OC-2s slipped past over the course of the next couple of miles. What was going on? There were some extended patches of floating weeds around. Could that explain it? I reversed to deweed, with inconclusive results. I was able to make a move on Joe when we encountered a brief patch of unsettled water, but was in danger of losing touch with the next group.
Fortunately, Eric called for a huddle at this point. We'd stop and wait for the rest of the paddlers to join us. Once all the paddlers (well, most of them) had convened in the hazy half-light, we called on the spirits of paddlers past to guide us. Silence. Typical bastard ghost paddler behavior. Instead, Eric, weaving amongst us like an aquatic drill instructor, outlined the attack plan. We'd stay together as a group at a casual pace until the second chase boat arrived, then split into "fast" and "slightly less fast" platoons. My argument for instead having "green deck" and "guided by chase boat in widening circles" platoons fell on deaf ears. Typical bastard live paddler behavior.
At the restart, I found the shared pace to be something well to the north of casual. I'd been thinking T-shirts and jeans, but everyone had shown up in bow ties and cummerbunds. I struggled to find the right cadence as half the field started gradually pulling away. With considerably more effort than I thought wise to expend, I managed to keep the leaders from fading into utter obscurity. Eventually, I began to crawl closer to the front - in part because the leaders kept executing right angle course corrections, allowing me to hypotenuse my way to success. It eventually became clear that Ken Cooper was acting as our GPS-guided bellwether.
At one point, I noticed Borys and Beata over 20 meters to the right, apparently making a move to join the head pack. I scooted over and attached myself to their beeline to the front, but found that I could only hold on for a few minutes before exhausting my energy account. That's right. I had overdrafted. Nevertheless, their help was enough to get me back in the general vicinity of the leaders.
We now enter the dream phase of the Casco Bay Challenge, wherein everything blurs together in a surreal fogscape of indistinct memories. We paddle in a purgatory of muted shades and muffled sounds. Brief glimpses of island shores provide no grounding context, but merely reinforce the sensation of endless wandering. We will never again feel the warm light of day.
My reverie was broken by harsh words shared between a V8 and an outrigger. Apparently the latter had tried the ever-so-casual "slip my ama around your stern" trick while the ski wasn't paying attention. The unwanted advance was met with a paddle rebuke, which I'm afraid the outrigger just misinterpreted as friskiness. Long story short, these folks probably won't be exchanging Christmas cards anymore. I hate being pulled from a good reverie, so once the ruckus subsided I quickly slipped back into a semi-catatonic state. We continued meandering through Casco Bay.
I don't recall much about the next hour. I was at the front of the pack. I was at the back of the pack. There were two packs, inexplicably heading in two different directions, with navigator Ken heading off in a third. At one point I looked over and a phantasmal paddler gave a wink and disappeared entirely. Logic and proportion had indeed fallen - probably more sloppy drunk than dead, though.
At some point (not necessarily in time or space), my GPS beeped to indicate the passing of mile 14. The end was nigh. Nigh-ish, let's say. Slowly, the lifeless paddlers quickened. Francisco, who was just visible off to the far right, had taken a good line. The rest of us were forced to angle in his direction. It seemed that Eric, now on his home turf, had finally gotten his bearings and was homing in on Merepoint. It was Borys, Eric, the mixed OC-2, Beata, me, Francisco, and Matt as everyone shed their torpor for the final push. I managed to pass Beata and the OC-2. I figured third place (such as it was) would come down to a prolonged sprint between Francisco and me - a circumstance that the Salem League has seared into our DNA. However, when stealing a glance back, I couldn't spot him. Afterwards, I found that he had cut behind the leaders and ended up on the wrong side of the point. A mere oversight, one could say.
Borys pealed off the lead and headed in the opposite direction - I assumed to chat with Beata before effortlessly rocketing back to win the race. At Ride the Bull, when Borys cruised by me (twice), I wasn't able to latch onto his wash. This time would be different. As I saw him approaching, I went into full-out sprint mode and angled to intersect his path. I executed this maneuver perfectly. Just as he passed, my nose tucked behind his stern. I had done it! So if you ever want to know what it's like to be directly behind Borys as he pulls away from you at 2+ miles per hour, I'm your man. Within a single stroke, it was clear that the only draft I was getting was the cold wind of defeat.
As I entered Merepoint Bay, the scales fell from my befogged eyes. There were docks, houses, moored boats... And best of all, there was the finishing pier, filled with all those I had ever loved, waiting for me with arms outstretched. What had started in gray confusion would end in glory. Wait, wait. Strike that. That ain't Uncle Silas or great grand pappy. Apparently what had started in gray confusion would end also in gray confusion. There you have it. The Casco Bay Challenge as a metaphor for life.
Borys had won the race, with Eric not far behind. Behind me the ski order was Beata, Matt, Bill & Timmy, Francisco, Barry Fifeld, Joe Shaw, Chris Laughlin, Ken, Bob Capellini, Chris Sherwood, Rick Stoehrer, and Ciro de la Vega. After a reasonable amount of time had elapsed, three paddlers remained unaccounted for. The safety boat was able to locate Bruce Deltorchio, who had dropped off the back of the front pack but was missed by the trailing pack. Lost and desperate, Bruce was found gnawing on his paddle for sustenance. A hopelessly off-track Murray Lord sighted a populated island and, upon asking some people onshore for directions, found that he was actually in the Harraseeket River. Murray called it a day and telephoned for an overland rescue. Roger Crossland, in an OC-1, found himself similarly off-track, but after fortifying himself with a beer supplied by a helpful spectator, soldiered on to the finish.
Many thanks to Eric and Cindy for throwing a fun (and unexpectedly eerie) inaugural Casco Bay Challenge, to Mary Beth for again helping out with timing, and to the race sponsors - Adventurous Joe Coffee, McNett, Ocean Paddlesports, and Epic Kayaks. Special thanks to the Maine Island Trail Association chase boats for shepherding us across the bay safely.
Blackburn. See you there.
The Casco Bay Challenge was designed as a rare New England paddling treat - an extended downwind race across the entire bay, amidst dozens of striking Maine islands. While the forecast initially looked good for such a race, a cursèd fog befell us. An elderly salt on the beach warned us that this was the worst kind of fog - a white fog. Not sure what exactly that means. Isn't that how it always is with ancient mariners? Yapping on about some tragedy in which his entire crew save one was lost (and that one usually him, naturally). He mumbled something about an albatross too. Whatever, old man.
 |
| The racers say their goodbyes, figuring this might be the last they see of their fellow paddlers. |
Complicating matters somewhat, one of our two scheduled safety boats ran aground en route and was undergoing emergency propeller replacement. Damn the portents, full speed ahead! After a revision or two, the plan was to sprint to the $150 hotspot (somewhere between 1.5 miles and 4 miles into the course - I never quite caught that), then join up and follow the chase boat as a united group. After some delays to ensure our tethers were secure, we set off shortly after noon for what would be an event somewhere between a race, a passive-aggressive group paddle, and an abject lesson.
 |
| Eric quizzes us on state capitols and dead reckoning navigation strategies. |
I was quickly unsettled by a horde of challengers, however. Although I felt like I was at a respectable level of effort, a steady stream of paddlers pulled by me. Francisco Urena, Beata Cseke, Chris Laughlin, Matt Drayer, Joe Shaw, and both OC-2s slipped past over the course of the next couple of miles. What was going on? There were some extended patches of floating weeds around. Could that explain it? I reversed to deweed, with inconclusive results. I was able to make a move on Joe when we encountered a brief patch of unsettled water, but was in danger of losing touch with the next group.
Fortunately, Eric called for a huddle at this point. We'd stop and wait for the rest of the paddlers to join us. Once all the paddlers (well, most of them) had convened in the hazy half-light, we called on the spirits of paddlers past to guide us. Silence. Typical bastard ghost paddler behavior. Instead, Eric, weaving amongst us like an aquatic drill instructor, outlined the attack plan. We'd stay together as a group at a casual pace until the second chase boat arrived, then split into "fast" and "slightly less fast" platoons. My argument for instead having "green deck" and "guided by chase boat in widening circles" platoons fell on deaf ears. Typical bastard live paddler behavior.
 |
| The start was the least amount of fog we'd have. |
At one point, I noticed Borys and Beata over 20 meters to the right, apparently making a move to join the head pack. I scooted over and attached myself to their beeline to the front, but found that I could only hold on for a few minutes before exhausting my energy account. That's right. I had overdrafted. Nevertheless, their help was enough to get me back in the general vicinity of the leaders.
We now enter the dream phase of the Casco Bay Challenge, wherein everything blurs together in a surreal fogscape of indistinct memories. We paddle in a purgatory of muted shades and muffled sounds. Brief glimpses of island shores provide no grounding context, but merely reinforce the sensation of endless wandering. We will never again feel the warm light of day.
My reverie was broken by harsh words shared between a V8 and an outrigger. Apparently the latter had tried the ever-so-casual "slip my ama around your stern" trick while the ski wasn't paying attention. The unwanted advance was met with a paddle rebuke, which I'm afraid the outrigger just misinterpreted as friskiness. Long story short, these folks probably won't be exchanging Christmas cards anymore. I hate being pulled from a good reverie, so once the ruckus subsided I quickly slipped back into a semi-catatonic state. We continued meandering through Casco Bay.
I don't recall much about the next hour. I was at the front of the pack. I was at the back of the pack. There were two packs, inexplicably heading in two different directions, with navigator Ken heading off in a third. At one point I looked over and a phantasmal paddler gave a wink and disappeared entirely. Logic and proportion had indeed fallen - probably more sloppy drunk than dead, though.
At some point (not necessarily in time or space), my GPS beeped to indicate the passing of mile 14. The end was nigh. Nigh-ish, let's say. Slowly, the lifeless paddlers quickened. Francisco, who was just visible off to the far right, had taken a good line. The rest of us were forced to angle in his direction. It seemed that Eric, now on his home turf, had finally gotten his bearings and was homing in on Merepoint. It was Borys, Eric, the mixed OC-2, Beata, me, Francisco, and Matt as everyone shed their torpor for the final push. I managed to pass Beata and the OC-2. I figured third place (such as it was) would come down to a prolonged sprint between Francisco and me - a circumstance that the Salem League has seared into our DNA. However, when stealing a glance back, I couldn't spot him. Afterwards, I found that he had cut behind the leaders and ended up on the wrong side of the point. A mere oversight, one could say.
 |
| Emerging from the physical fog. The mental fog still lingers. |
As I entered Merepoint Bay, the scales fell from my befogged eyes. There were docks, houses, moored boats... And best of all, there was the finishing pier, filled with all those I had ever loved, waiting for me with arms outstretched. What had started in gray confusion would end in glory. Wait, wait. Strike that. That ain't Uncle Silas or great grand pappy. Apparently what had started in gray confusion would end also in gray confusion. There you have it. The Casco Bay Challenge as a metaphor for life.
 |
| Punch drunk doubles champions Bill and Timmy. |
Many thanks to Eric and Cindy for throwing a fun (and unexpectedly eerie) inaugural Casco Bay Challenge, to Mary Beth for again helping out with timing, and to the race sponsors - Adventurous Joe Coffee, McNett, Ocean Paddlesports, and Epic Kayaks. Special thanks to the Maine Island Trail Association chase boats for shepherding us across the bay safely.
Blackburn. See you there.
When I landed in Wolf's Neck Park after getting misdirected by a chase boat in the fog I got a "fix" from a bystander. As a naval person I used the word "fix" in its navigational usage, that is, a reliable position assessment. Now there are others who use that word to meet some sort of fortifying substance, but no, in my case it was a positional assessment. Author Lesher has a "contributing ear."
ReplyDeleteSince small boats lack heads, beer is really a double-edged sword in an OC-1 and I wouldn't have accept that offer had it indeed been made.
That does however open the possibility of scientific inquiry. I've often wondered if mead works differently than beer and if it was used by Vikings. (There were no Vikings visible at Wolf's Neck Park.) I think they or their descendants may be found in Newfoundland, farther North.
That might be an interesting experiment in fog, but Newfoundland is a long paddle from South Portland.