Before you say anything, let me assure you that I'm at least as tired of this endless string of race summaries as you are. We're in this together, so let's just power through. We may someday look back at all this and laugh, but today is not that day. Grit your teeth, gird your loins, grease your possum - whatever is it that you need to do. Here we go. Nahant Bay.
Fisherman's Beach in Swampscott is about 11 miles from my home, but somehow it takes a solid day of driving to get there. It's a trek worth making. Mike McDonough and his clan have established the Nahant Bay Race as an August favorite in the New England circuit. Two dozen paddlers gathered from as close as just down the road (still a 3 hour drive). We had fine weather for the race, with a slight breeze from the northeast. The 9.4 mile course has us heading across Nahant Bay out past East Point, turning on a red buoy, returning across the mouth of Nahant Bay outside Egg Rock, rounding Off Rock, and returning for a beach finish.
Given the mild forecast, a number of paddlers opted for less stable boats. Andrius Zinkevichus showed up with his slender red Nelo 560, a speed demon of a ski designed for flatwater conditions seldom seen outside of a hockey rink. Eric McNett and Tim Dwyer both decided to brave the seemingly calm conditions in their V14s. For Tim, with years of rough-water experience in his V12, this seemed like a measured risk. For Eric... let's leave it at saying that I have some grave concerns about Eric's decision-making abilities.
After a brief captain's meeting punctuated by a lot of pointing, we hit the water. I've decided to recategorize my race starts. I'm no longer being "outclassed by faster paddlers". I'm now "biding my time". After the horn sounded and the boat order had congealed, I found myself settled comfortably into prime biding position at 8th place. Andrius and Jan had leapt off the starting line as if afire and established a comfortable lead. They were pursued by two groups, one drafting line consisting of Wesley Echols, Eric, and myself and the other of Francisco Urena, Beata Cseke, and Tim Dwyer. Francisco's trio seemed to be pulling ahead of our group, so I abandoned my rear guard post and set off in tepid pursuit (biders avoid extremes).
Over the course of the next few minutes, I moved up the chain and managed to get into third position. I knew those ballet lessons would pay off. We entered a region of light cross-chop, which seemed to be worrying away the stability of Andrius' Nelo. He slowed dramatically ("Oh! I am o'ertaken!") while I cheered his performance with a hearty "Huzzah!" and then slipped off without paying. Now all that was between me and Nahant Bay glory was Jan, another 8 miles, and Borys' ability to successfully navigate the course.
I closed rather more quickly on Jan than I expected. Leery of some kind of trickery, I tentatively pulled alongside. Almost immediately, Jan stopped paddling and started cussing. I had a hard time interpreting this stratagem until I noticed him back-paddling. Unlike at the Blackburn, The Janitor wouldn't be mopping the floor with me in Nahant Bay. Instead, he'd spend the race scouring seaweed from his unguarded surf rudder.
Oddly, I was alone at the front. I had expected Jan and Andrius to push the pace as they had at the Sakonnet River Race, but the former was tangled in weeds and the latter was struggling on his unstable steed. Of stalwart Eric, there was no trace. Borys was clearly continuing his video documentation of the migratory habits of Paddleficus newenglandora, which I hoped he might find so engrossing that he would fail to see the race for the paddlers.
After a spell, I heard some lively chatter behind me to my left and turned to see Borys and Eric ten boat lengths back. To all evidence, Borys was now interviewing his documentary subjects mid-race. I was preparing my story of growing up a double-blade boy in a single-blade household, when I realized I had better lend more attention to the present. Up ahead were a recreational fishing boat and a lobster boat, both malevolently still in the water. Like the lion and the hyena, these guys don't usually get along at all, but when there's a lame zebra in the vicinity, they're willing to set aside their philosophical differences.
Let the chess match begin, I thought, swerving wildly across metaphors. As I plotted my opening move, the fishing boat sprang to life and started to describe a lazy arc towards me. Nobody on board seemed even remotely interested in steering. I started to head left, reversed my decision, turned right, and yelled out a nervous "Hey!". Check and mate. I had won this battle of wits without the crew of the boat even participating. I subsequently established myself as a grand master by also besting the lobstermen (their claws give them a fearsome appearance, but they're really not a bad sort).
It wasn't long before Borys slid into view, GoPro mounted on his head and microphone boom in hand. After wiping the slobber off my face and throwing a glance back to ensure that Eric wasn't going to be crowding the frame, I was ready for my close-up. I thought I was putting on a fine show, but I could tell that Borys just didn't think I was leading man material. He soon fell back in search of better footage.
After East Point, the character of the sea changed from "friendly neighbor" to "surly boss". You'd be fine if you kept your head down and put in the work, but you definitely wanted to avoid any office shenanigans (Tim Hudyncia apparently didn't get this memo). Upon reaching the buoy and turning around, I was surprised to find that what I had earlier interpreted as formless seas actually had quite a bit of structure, most of which was favorably aligned. I started to get some decent runs, although working against the ebbing tide meant that my GPS speeds weren't exactly impressive. There was a rough patch around Egg Rock during which my paddle and I exchanged some regrettable words, but we soon agreed to set our differences aside and get down the business of salting away this race.
Borys, however, had evidently decided that he was the only star bankable enough to feature in his film. He's a consummate pro, though, so rather than just flying by me, he pulled up off my right flank and took some additional shots of me - something I can show the grand-kids. While I had him handy, I asked Borys if anyone was behind me. He reported that Eric was, but that he was at least 100 meters back. "And Borys", he added. It took me a moment to make sense of his statement - I didn't realize this was a comedy. Lacking a script, I ad-libbed a retort. "Yeah, but I'm not worried about him. I can take him in the finish sprint.".
I never got that chance, alas. Borys called "Cut!" and pulled away with a stroke so smooth that I couldn't help throttling my paddle in a wordless reprimand. The remainder of the race was uneventful. Scratch that. The remainder of the water portion of the race was uneventful. I rounded Off Rock without incident (suppressing a shudder at the embarrassing memory of flipping my Huki there two years before in calm waters), avoided grounding myself on Flying Echols Reef, and managed to catch a few small runners on the final leg to the finish.
I hit the shore at a good clip and hopped out for the run up the beach - just as I've done dozens of times in the Salem League. My upper body and lower body had a transition plan prepared, but someone dropped the baton in the hand-off. My momentum kept me moving forward, but my legs weren't engaged. Having only limited control of my benumbed appendages, I shambled the 50 feet to the finish like an arthritic 90 year old carrying a credenza. Fortunately, this slow-motion train wreck of a finish is immortalized in Borys' YouTube video (where, if I'm not mistaken, it's meant as a metaphor for the plight of man in post-industrial society).
Eric rolled in behind me, with Francisco (high-stepping delightfully to the finish) and Tim (inexplicably dragging his boat over the stony beach) a couple of minutes back. Jan hit the beach a few seconds before Matt Drayer, but in a heart-warming spirit of solidarność, waited in his boat another twenty seconds for Wesley to arrive so that they could cross the line together at full sprint. Beata and Ken Cooper rounded out the top ten, with Ken demonstrating why his revolutionary new groin leash is unlikely to catch on. Somewhere there's a bar full of South African paddlers laughing beer out of their noses watching our blooper finishes on YouTube.
As always, Mike and Carol had a wonderful post-race spread for us, along with food to smear it on. In addition to awards for the podium finishers, Adventurous Joe coffee was dispensed to Ken (for his legend status) and Bruce Deltorchio (for most improved paddler). Matt was awarded a bonus medal for being the best SS20Plus paddler not actually in an SS20Plus boat. Thankfully, there's a three week gap until the Lighthouse to Lighthouse Race. That'll give me a chance to work on my audition reel.
Fisherman's Beach in Swampscott is about 11 miles from my home, but somehow it takes a solid day of driving to get there. It's a trek worth making. Mike McDonough and his clan have established the Nahant Bay Race as an August favorite in the New England circuit. Two dozen paddlers gathered from as close as just down the road (still a 3 hour drive). We had fine weather for the race, with a slight breeze from the northeast. The 9.4 mile course has us heading across Nahant Bay out past East Point, turning on a red buoy, returning across the mouth of Nahant Bay outside Egg Rock, rounding Off Rock, and returning for a beach finish.
Given the mild forecast, a number of paddlers opted for less stable boats. Andrius Zinkevichus showed up with his slender red Nelo 560, a speed demon of a ski designed for flatwater conditions seldom seen outside of a hockey rink. Eric McNett and Tim Dwyer both decided to brave the seemingly calm conditions in their V14s. For Tim, with years of rough-water experience in his V12, this seemed like a measured risk. For Eric... let's leave it at saying that I have some grave concerns about Eric's decision-making abilities.
 |
| When they inevitably make a statue honoring Mike, this will be the pose. |
Over the course of the next few minutes, I moved up the chain and managed to get into third position. I knew those ballet lessons would pay off. We entered a region of light cross-chop, which seemed to be worrying away the stability of Andrius' Nelo. He slowed dramatically ("Oh! I am o'ertaken!") while I cheered his performance with a hearty "Huzzah!" and then slipped off without paying. Now all that was between me and Nahant Bay glory was Jan, another 8 miles, and Borys' ability to successfully navigate the course.
Oddly, I was alone at the front. I had expected Jan and Andrius to push the pace as they had at the Sakonnet River Race, but the former was tangled in weeds and the latter was struggling on his unstable steed. Of stalwart Eric, there was no trace. Borys was clearly continuing his video documentation of the migratory habits of Paddleficus newenglandora, which I hoped he might find so engrossing that he would fail to see the race for the paddlers.
After a spell, I heard some lively chatter behind me to my left and turned to see Borys and Eric ten boat lengths back. To all evidence, Borys was now interviewing his documentary subjects mid-race. I was preparing my story of growing up a double-blade boy in a single-blade household, when I realized I had better lend more attention to the present. Up ahead were a recreational fishing boat and a lobster boat, both malevolently still in the water. Like the lion and the hyena, these guys don't usually get along at all, but when there's a lame zebra in the vicinity, they're willing to set aside their philosophical differences.
Let the chess match begin, I thought, swerving wildly across metaphors. As I plotted my opening move, the fishing boat sprang to life and started to describe a lazy arc towards me. Nobody on board seemed even remotely interested in steering. I started to head left, reversed my decision, turned right, and yelled out a nervous "Hey!". Check and mate. I had won this battle of wits without the crew of the boat even participating. I subsequently established myself as a grand master by also besting the lobstermen (their claws give them a fearsome appearance, but they're really not a bad sort).
After East Point, the character of the sea changed from "friendly neighbor" to "surly boss". You'd be fine if you kept your head down and put in the work, but you definitely wanted to avoid any office shenanigans (Tim Hudyncia apparently didn't get this memo). Upon reaching the buoy and turning around, I was surprised to find that what I had earlier interpreted as formless seas actually had quite a bit of structure, most of which was favorably aligned. I started to get some decent runs, although working against the ebbing tide meant that my GPS speeds weren't exactly impressive. There was a rough patch around Egg Rock during which my paddle and I exchanged some regrettable words, but we soon agreed to set our differences aside and get down the business of salting away this race.
Borys, however, had evidently decided that he was the only star bankable enough to feature in his film. He's a consummate pro, though, so rather than just flying by me, he pulled up off my right flank and took some additional shots of me - something I can show the grand-kids. While I had him handy, I asked Borys if anyone was behind me. He reported that Eric was, but that he was at least 100 meters back. "And Borys", he added. It took me a moment to make sense of his statement - I didn't realize this was a comedy. Lacking a script, I ad-libbed a retort. "Yeah, but I'm not worried about him. I can take him in the finish sprint.".
 |
| Borys with some of his supporting cast. |
I hit the shore at a good clip and hopped out for the run up the beach - just as I've done dozens of times in the Salem League. My upper body and lower body had a transition plan prepared, but someone dropped the baton in the hand-off. My momentum kept me moving forward, but my legs weren't engaged. Having only limited control of my benumbed appendages, I shambled the 50 feet to the finish like an arthritic 90 year old carrying a credenza. Fortunately, this slow-motion train wreck of a finish is immortalized in Borys' YouTube video (where, if I'm not mistaken, it's meant as a metaphor for the plight of man in post-industrial society).
 |
| Wasn't there a 70's cop show called Cseke and Gangloff? |
As always, Mike and Carol had a wonderful post-race spread for us, along with food to smear it on. In addition to awards for the podium finishers, Adventurous Joe coffee was dispensed to Ken (for his legend status) and Bruce Deltorchio (for most improved paddler). Matt was awarded a bonus medal for being the best SS20Plus paddler not actually in an SS20Plus boat. Thankfully, there's a three week gap until the Lighthouse to Lighthouse Race. That'll give me a chance to work on my audition reel.
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