In New England's relatively short but colorful surfski history (whatever happened to that that guy who used to paddle with a porcupine balanced on his rear deck?), this year's Lighthouse to Lighthouse may rank as the best ever all-around race. It had a little of everything: most of the top competitors from the Northeast and Florida, reigning world champion Michele Eray, spectacular weather, a convenient and accommodating venue, plenty of green and black boats, great hosts in Wayne Lysobey and Gary Williams, and enough good food to choke a family of porcupines (right - now I recall what happened to that guy). Best of all, however, was the smorgasbord of conditions out on Long Island Sound. The downwind dessert was among the finest we've seen in these parts. I could have done without the castor oil chaser of an upwind ending, but, hey, my dropsy has cleared right up.
As the East Coast Surfski Championship, with prize money donated by Stellar, the L2L attracted a record field of nearly 50 skis - more than twice the participation of last year. Reid Hyle had made the trip up from Florida to challenge defending men's champion Borys Markin, with Michele an overall podium threat as well (even while paddling on a knife-edge Nelo 560 in sloppy water). Joe Glickman, Jan Lupinski, Eric McNett, and Craig Impens (all of whom dusted me in the Blackburn back in July) also showed up to brawl. It was going to be a fast day - or at least a painful one.
Gary briefed us on the race. The 14 mile course starting at Shady Beach would take us out around Sprite Island, past Peck's Ledge Lighthouse to Goose Island, down Long Island Sound to Green's Ledge Lighthouse, then back again. An incoming tide would be working against a moderate SW breeze, adding some technical challenges to the course. There was protracted confusion about the starting order for some boat classes (generations hence, there will be entire symposiums where gray-haired scholars argue about out who exactly was supposed to go off in Wave 2), but anxious to get on the water I left before the fisticuffs.
I've decided that getting off the starting line slow is my Signature Move. It's neither flashy nor effective, but given that I apparently have the fast twitch muscle fibers of a geriatric sloth, I'm turning a liability into a brand. So I Signature Moved the hell out of this race. Jesse Lishchuk (member of the US Junior Men sprint and marathon teams) gave a picture-perfect clinic on disheartening one's puny opponents, leaving a trail of flames that put the Cuyahoga River to shame. Fortunately, I could only see him for a few seconds - not because he was obscured by the smoke (although he probably was), but because I was being drenched by paddle spray. I found myself wedged uncomfortably in the inundation zone between Beata Cseke and youngster Ryan Mechini, taking on a titanic amount of water.
I was just about to radio the Coast Guard for a rescue when things opened up a bit, allowing me to pull forward far enough to avoid the worst of the deluge. I soon started clawing my way through the fast twitchers - Ryan, Beata, Kirk Olsen, Joe Shaw, Francisco Urena, Alex Ambotas, and a couple of other paddlers I didn't recognize. I expected that when I got to Craig, he would either resist the pass or jump on my wash, but he seemed to be racing his own race - a strategy he used to great effect at the Blackburn. I was also concerned by the absence of Eric, whom I hadn't seen since the start. That guy thinks like the ocean, which means he spends a lot of time plotting ludicrously fast lines and worrying about his salinity levels.
Once clear of Craig, I could concentrate on what was happening ahead. The trinity of Reid, Borys, and Jesse had scuttled off this mortal coil (no shufflers, they) to pursue glory in a realm more worthy of their talents. Godspeed, I say. And, also, holy crap. A second trio of Michele, Joe, and Jan followed behind, hoping that in their passage to the undiscovered country, one of the leaders would get caught in a cursed vortex or lose his way in the Fog of Despair.
In making our way past Peck's Ledge Lighthouse and out around Goose Island, we were subjected to a light chop from our right. I knew Joe would laugh off this threat, and that Michele had been granted full diplomatic immunity, but I had hoped the beam conditions might be enough to gum up Jan's machinery. As I'd observe later, however, his rough water skills are improving at a truly offensive rate. Show some respect for the process, man. I remained a dozen or more boat lengths behind as we turned upwind for the long run towards Green's Ledge Lighthouse.
Several minutes later, it became apparent that the group ahead was separating - perhaps there was some schism over which hemisphere was truly right side up, or maybe one of the guys made some ill-advised springbok joke. Whatever the cause, Michele began to distance herself from Jan and Joe. Left behind on their own, they seemed suddenly vulnerable - abandoned kittens swimming feebly in dog-infested waters. I slow twitched my way past Joe (adorable with his red bow) and set after Jan, who I eventually caught behind Sheffield Island trying to score some catnip.
With the island providing a break from the oncoming waves, I suctioned myself onto Jan's stern to wait for what I expected to be rougher conditions once we cleared the lee. Sure enough, as we emerged from behind Sheffield to start an unprotected mile to the turn-around, the seas grew cranky. I pulled alongside Jan, but was unable to break away. As we neared Green's Ledge, someone started yelling at us in Swedish. I'm a little rusty, but I believe that we were being told to avoid (or perhaps seek out) doing (or perhaps not doing) something (or perhaps nothing), which is pretty much what I had planned anyway.
Jan and I came around the back side of the lighthouse side by side. This was it. Halfway through the race, we'd now duel it out in beautiful downwind conditions - Mano a Jano.
First things first, though. If you call your blog Full Tilt and you don't have a second layer of meaning beyond "Look at me! I'm pushing myself to the limit!", you're just being boorish. Not having executed a race-day tilt of more than, say, 43 degrees this season, and the season winding down, I had a limited window to save myself from that particular flavor of obnoxiousness. With this noble thought in mind, I seized the opportunity and threw myself upon the mercy of the sea. I was a bit out of practice, but gravity walked me through the rotation process with a firm hand.
I had assumed that Jan would grant me a mulligan. We'd just restart together from the lighthouse. That seems fair, right? After all, when he foundered off the rocks in Narragansett Bay, did I take advantage of his dire situation? Well, technically, yes - I cackled maniacally and whacked him on the melon with my paddle for good measure. But when his boat was filling with water in the Essex River, did I push ahead despite his handicap? Again, yes, and with joy in my heart, but now you're quibbling. How about that time when he mistakenly headed into the breakers at the mouth of the Narrow River? Did I not call him back from certain doom? Er... OK, you may have a point. But whatever happened to letting bygones be bygones?
As you've perhaps guessed, Jan ignored my fevered pleas for a redo. He shot off downwind while I executed an innovative (and yet incredibly awkward) new remount reminiscent of that used by mating elephant seals. Once safely aboard my craft, I set off in wobbly pursuit of a rapidly receding Lupinski.
Up until the lighthouse turn, I had been able to see Michelle in the distance. After turning downwind, however, she disappeared completely - raptured into the firmament to join the other chosen paddlers, no doubt. Ahead of me was only Jan, who was stubbornly refusing to adhere to my contention that I was the superior downwind racer. And then, after a short while, Jan was joined by Joe, who was all too willing to adhere to the opposite contention. Those soggy kittens I had encountered earlier were evidently cheetah cubs. Ugh. That was dreadful, but I was too wiped out to come up with anything better.
I was finally starting to get a better feel for the downwind conditions, stringing together some respectable runs and practicing my exuberant hoots. In short - I was hauling. I might not catch Joe or Jan, but sure as shootin', nobody else was going to pass me. Through a sheer effort of will, I managed to maintain that conviction long after I had watched Eric slide effortlessly past on a far inside line. Mind over matter. I was pretty sure the race officials at the finish would see things from my perspective.
Once again, the seas had revealed their deepest secrets to the Ocean Whisperer. Eric's a storied paddler, but even he couldn't skim across the water with such velocity without a little assistance from King Neptune (or, as Eric calls him, Chuck). As I've seen time and again, he was on the optimal line while the rest of us were still sharpening pencils and looking for our straight edges. And yet once more I mulishly showed a bull-like pig-headedness - refusing to adopting his path of least resistance, staying outside until I hit the left turn around Goose Island.
Even one who has the ear of a god (look carefully next time - left side) can occasionally falter, though. Back in the beam chop, Eric slowed and I began to close the gap. What was 20 lengths at Goose Island was 10 at Peck's Ledge Lighthouse. By Sprite Island, I was just about to register for a draft when Eric stopped paddling for a moment to let me pull alongside. Eric's a man of honor. I figured he wanted to look me in the eye before cutting me down in the final half-mile. But no, that wasn't it. "George," he said, "I've been at this many years." I rolled with it. "I've grown weary of the endless toil and I wish to bequeath upon you my blessing as paddling heir." He may have swallowed a little too much seawater while communing with the ocean, but who was I to ignore a delirious man's request? "George," I thought, "let's make him proud!"
Looking back, it seems possible that I was the delirious one, but with Eric's benediction I found the strength to push through to a 7th place finish. I'm sure he expected a lot better from his designated successor, but no take backs, sucker. Much earlier in the day, Reid had beat Borys for the title, with Michele demonstrating why exactly she's the world's best by beating all the other gentleman. Despite having limited rough-water experience and being younger than my current (and, alas, probably final) haircut, Jesse held on for 4th place. Joe and Jan battled tooth and claw for 5th place, with Joe ending up 3 seconds ahead. Eric coasted in behind me for 8th, Craig finished 9th, and Eric Constanzo took the final spot in the top 10. Bill Kuklinski and Timmy Shields put in another impressive showing to take the doubles crown.
Despite the fact that she continuously badmouths other paddlers (you guys never see this side of her), Mary Beth had built up a store of good will and respect in the New England ski community by her dogged determination to run the true course at the Jamestown Double Beaver (unlike, say, the entire remainder of the field). Apparently figuring that if a little extra work will win you esteem, a tremendous amount of extra work will get you a new patio furniture set, she paddled aimlessly around the Norwalk Islands to pad her reputation. I clocked the sanctioned course at 13.3 miles. With the Cockenoe Island (plus random channel marker) Extension, however, the course comes in at a robust 15.4. She'd maybe like something in an Adirondack style.
To top off a spectacular day, there was delicious beer, burgers, massages, dogs, chili and a broad assortment of mollusks. Many of us lingered deep into the day at Shady Beach, catching up with our paddling buddies, reliving the key elements of our races, and wondering if poor Gary would ever finish giving out awards so that he could lapse into a well-deserved coma. Congratulations to Gary, Wayne, and all the other race organizers for hosting the race of the season.
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| If you laid all the skis at L2L end-to-end, well, that would be a little pointless. |
Gary briefed us on the race. The 14 mile course starting at Shady Beach would take us out around Sprite Island, past Peck's Ledge Lighthouse to Goose Island, down Long Island Sound to Green's Ledge Lighthouse, then back again. An incoming tide would be working against a moderate SW breeze, adding some technical challenges to the course. There was protracted confusion about the starting order for some boat classes (generations hence, there will be entire symposiums where gray-haired scholars argue about out who exactly was supposed to go off in Wave 2), but anxious to get on the water I left before the fisticuffs.
 |
| Perhaps someone should have been paying a little more attention at the captain's meeting. |
I was just about to radio the Coast Guard for a rescue when things opened up a bit, allowing me to pull forward far enough to avoid the worst of the deluge. I soon started clawing my way through the fast twitchers - Ryan, Beata, Kirk Olsen, Joe Shaw, Francisco Urena, Alex Ambotas, and a couple of other paddlers I didn't recognize. I expected that when I got to Craig, he would either resist the pass or jump on my wash, but he seemed to be racing his own race - a strategy he used to great effect at the Blackburn. I was also concerned by the absence of Eric, whom I hadn't seen since the start. That guy thinks like the ocean, which means he spends a lot of time plotting ludicrously fast lines and worrying about his salinity levels.
Once clear of Craig, I could concentrate on what was happening ahead. The trinity of Reid, Borys, and Jesse had scuttled off this mortal coil (no shufflers, they) to pursue glory in a realm more worthy of their talents. Godspeed, I say. And, also, holy crap. A second trio of Michele, Joe, and Jan followed behind, hoping that in their passage to the undiscovered country, one of the leaders would get caught in a cursed vortex or lose his way in the Fog of Despair.
In making our way past Peck's Ledge Lighthouse and out around Goose Island, we were subjected to a light chop from our right. I knew Joe would laugh off this threat, and that Michele had been granted full diplomatic immunity, but I had hoped the beam conditions might be enough to gum up Jan's machinery. As I'd observe later, however, his rough water skills are improving at a truly offensive rate. Show some respect for the process, man. I remained a dozen or more boat lengths behind as we turned upwind for the long run towards Green's Ledge Lighthouse.
With the island providing a break from the oncoming waves, I suctioned myself onto Jan's stern to wait for what I expected to be rougher conditions once we cleared the lee. Sure enough, as we emerged from behind Sheffield to start an unprotected mile to the turn-around, the seas grew cranky. I pulled alongside Jan, but was unable to break away. As we neared Green's Ledge, someone started yelling at us in Swedish. I'm a little rusty, but I believe that we were being told to avoid (or perhaps seek out) doing (or perhaps not doing) something (or perhaps nothing), which is pretty much what I had planned anyway.
Jan and I came around the back side of the lighthouse side by side. This was it. Halfway through the race, we'd now duel it out in beautiful downwind conditions - Mano a Jano.
 |
| To thine own self be true... |
I had assumed that Jan would grant me a mulligan. We'd just restart together from the lighthouse. That seems fair, right? After all, when he foundered off the rocks in Narragansett Bay, did I take advantage of his dire situation? Well, technically, yes - I cackled maniacally and whacked him on the melon with my paddle for good measure. But when his boat was filling with water in the Essex River, did I push ahead despite his handicap? Again, yes, and with joy in my heart, but now you're quibbling. How about that time when he mistakenly headed into the breakers at the mouth of the Narrow River? Did I not call him back from certain doom? Er... OK, you may have a point. But whatever happened to letting bygones be bygones?
As you've perhaps guessed, Jan ignored my fevered pleas for a redo. He shot off downwind while I executed an innovative (and yet incredibly awkward) new remount reminiscent of that used by mating elephant seals. Once safely aboard my craft, I set off in wobbly pursuit of a rapidly receding Lupinski.
 |
| Winner of the Great Stone Dam Classic. Wait, how'd this get in here? |
I was finally starting to get a better feel for the downwind conditions, stringing together some respectable runs and practicing my exuberant hoots. In short - I was hauling. I might not catch Joe or Jan, but sure as shootin', nobody else was going to pass me. Through a sheer effort of will, I managed to maintain that conviction long after I had watched Eric slide effortlessly past on a far inside line. Mind over matter. I was pretty sure the race officials at the finish would see things from my perspective.
Once again, the seas had revealed their deepest secrets to the Ocean Whisperer. Eric's a storied paddler, but even he couldn't skim across the water with such velocity without a little assistance from King Neptune (or, as Eric calls him, Chuck). As I've seen time and again, he was on the optimal line while the rest of us were still sharpening pencils and looking for our straight edges. And yet once more I mulishly showed a bull-like pig-headedness - refusing to adopting his path of least resistance, staying outside until I hit the left turn around Goose Island.
Even one who has the ear of a god (look carefully next time - left side) can occasionally falter, though. Back in the beam chop, Eric slowed and I began to close the gap. What was 20 lengths at Goose Island was 10 at Peck's Ledge Lighthouse. By Sprite Island, I was just about to register for a draft when Eric stopped paddling for a moment to let me pull alongside. Eric's a man of honor. I figured he wanted to look me in the eye before cutting me down in the final half-mile. But no, that wasn't it. "George," he said, "I've been at this many years." I rolled with it. "I've grown weary of the endless toil and I wish to bequeath upon you my blessing as paddling heir." He may have swallowed a little too much seawater while communing with the ocean, but who was I to ignore a delirious man's request? "George," I thought, "let's make him proud!"
Looking back, it seems possible that I was the delirious one, but with Eric's benediction I found the strength to push through to a 7th place finish. I'm sure he expected a lot better from his designated successor, but no take backs, sucker. Much earlier in the day, Reid had beat Borys for the title, with Michele demonstrating why exactly she's the world's best by beating all the other gentleman. Despite having limited rough-water experience and being younger than my current (and, alas, probably final) haircut, Jesse held on for 4th place. Joe and Jan battled tooth and claw for 5th place, with Joe ending up 3 seconds ahead. Eric coasted in behind me for 8th, Craig finished 9th, and Eric Constanzo took the final spot in the top 10. Bill Kuklinski and Timmy Shields put in another impressive showing to take the doubles crown.
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| The Lighthouse to Lighthouse ski champions, from left to right. |
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| Bob enjoys the thought that, for once, he won't be driving for the next 3 hours. |
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