If you were going to schedule a race for the confused waters of Salem Sound, you probably wouldn't make it 15+ miles. Or schedule it in late September. Or choose a course almost guaranteed to beam slap you into submission. That's why you'll never be Ed Duggan. Ed once paddled shore-to-shore across the Bay of Fundy. At low tide. He's done the Blackburn course so many times that he lost count. In a single day. He's been known to... well, you get the idea. My point isn't that Ed is a remarkably tough and persistent paddler who expects no less from participants in his race. It's that he's just plain bonkers. Hence the Kettle Island Run.
In last year's race, I went belly up two-thirds of the way through and had to be scooped out of the water by the rescue boat. Conditions on that day weren't particularly big, but they were everywhere at once. This year promised to be better behaved, with a light breeze, sunny skies, and mild temperatures. Sixteen paddlers prepared to answer Ed's challenge.
The course is simple - start offshore of Lynch Park in Beverly, circle Kettle
Island, and return to Lynch. Kettle Island starts off at about 7.25
miles away, but quickly recedes to about twice that as you approach it.
An outgoing tide, a NNE breeze, and ocean swell from the SE meant that
if you played your cards right... you'd fold and head for the craps
table. The house was going to win this one. The best you could do was
keep your head down and hope that, when you finally got back to the
finish, your car hadn't been repossessed. You probably weren't going to have trouble staying upright, but there'd be a fair amount of slogging involved.
In a competition that at most two people care about, Eric McNett and I are neck and neck in the New England Surfski point series. Since Borys has already locked up the NESS series crown, Eric claims that he and I are competing for the first place loser spot. I prefer to think of it as the penultimate position, because after six or seven beers, it starts to sound like that actually may be better than the ultimate spot. In any event, a win by me in Beverly would make it very difficult for Eric to pry my grubby hands off of sweet penultimateness.
We lined up for an on-water start marked by what I believe was a rapidly drifting dodgeball. Apparently there was a consensus that a race this long wasn't going to be won or lost in the first quarter mile. After the start, I found myself in uncharted waters - in amongst the early leaders. Thirty seconds in, only Chris Chappell was ahead of me. That may have been in part because Eric and a few others forked off to the left, but nevertheless, I was only a single paddler away from open water. As I prepared to pass Chris, I remembered the glassy-eyed zeal with which he had latched onto me after I pulled ahead of him at the Great Stone Dam Classic. Kinda creepy, actually. I had forgotten to renew my restraining order, so I gave him an extra wide berth as I passed.
Eric opted to forgo any help from the outgoing tide, tucking in close to shore to keep out of the breeze quartering from our left and stay in calmer waters. It looked like several other paddlers had also decided to adopt the McNett Way. Before the race, Mike McDonough and I discussed the relative merits of various lines and agreed that the tidal boost would be worth the downsides of staying further out in the Sound. Eric's uncanny navigational skills usually makes you wonder what kind of deal he might have struck in exchange for his immortal soul, but this was our home surf. I stayed way outside.
Throwing quick glances back I saw that I had some company, but couldn't make out who it was. I had assumed my stalker was Chris, but found out later that it had been a different mortal enemy - Jan Lupinski. Apparently this perplexing reversal of wash-riding roles threw off Jan's stroke a bit, because after a couple of miles I managed to shake him off. Meanwhile, Eric continued moving up the coast in parallel, having given the slip to his entourage as well. With perhaps as much as a quarter mile separating us laterally, it was difficult to gauge who was ahead.
Some people argue that having a bailer instead of venturi drains reduces drag significantly. Others claim that a well-designed venturi is inherently more efficient than an open bailer when conditions get rough. What bailer proponents don't tell you, however, is how obsessed you become with the state of your bailer. They also don't mention that you definitely won't capsize less because you have a bailer. Most of the drama in the middle of my race resulted from fumbling attempts to open and close that sucker without subsequently examining it from the flip side.
After 7 miles of eyeballing each other from afar, Eric and I would finally converge at the north end of Kettle Island to compare notes on our trajectories. I suspected I'd have the lead, but it certainly wouldn't be substantial enough to deliver the crushing psychological blow that I had been fantasizing about for the past few miles. Sure enough, I reached the island perhaps a half-dozen lengths ahead of Eric. Tentative in the sloppy conditions around the back side of Kettle, I could feel my lead and my confidence slipping away. As we rounded the island and pointed our skis back towards the start, Eric pulled alongside with a casual ease that can only be adequately described as "malevolent".
Almost immediately after hitting open water, our paths diverged once more. Eric took an inner line, while I stayed outside so that I could better experience the exasperation of not catching the ocean swell headed in our direction, while also struggling in wind and tide-driven slop from other directions. I hadn't seen anyone else for a half hour, but as my speed continued to drop, I feared a sneak attack from behind. The miles were ticking by slowly, with Eric gradually prying open a lead.
At one point a working boat decided to cross my path at a shallow angle and a velocity as closely matched to mine as he could manage - a classic case of WFO syndrome. This yahoo has the whole darn ocean at his disposal, and he decides to provide me with another dubious excuse for why I couldn't catch Eric. I did my best to serve up some choice gestures while still paddling, which, in retrospect, may explain why one of the crew asked if I was in need of emergency assistance. Where's McDonough when you need him? When it comes to indignant tirades directed at vessels several thousand times heavier than ours, he's in a class by himself (everyone else having graduated after passing their self-preservation exams).
I made a few pathetic attempts to buckle down and interval my way up to Eric, but you'd be hard pressed to identify these microblips of effort on my GPS track. I had not only hit the wall, but had slid down it like Wile E. Coyote, and then had it collapse on top of me. My stroke resembled an educational video on what to avoid if you find yourself floating in shark-infested waters. I should have been a little more specific with my ocean vu request - instead of the L2L I was reliving one of the many races in which I had watched impotently as Eric finished ahead of me. My revised strategy was to buckle down and limp my way in ahead of Jan, who I assumed must be closing on me at breakneck speed.
Several days later, I finally spotted the traditional dodgeball finish marker bobbing in the sea. I hadn't beaten Eric, but at least this year I had made it around the course with my dignity as intact as it was when I started. Jan pulled in to take third, completing an Epic V10 podium sweep. Wesley Echols and Ken Cooper - both of whom may have had their best races of the season - claimed the 4th and 5th spots, just 13 seconds apart. Joe Shaw, Peter Kahn, Matt Drayer, John Mathieu, and Kirk Olsen rounded out the top 10, with Mary Beth nabbing the top women's spot.
Our race day was topped off with a tasty buffet at the Black Lobster in nearby Salem, at which I put a serious hurt on the world's supply of sesame shrimp poppers. Awards were awarded. Races were rehashed in stroke-by-stroke detail. Someone was asked by the staff to empty poppers from his or her pockets, in what I found to be a less than cordial tone. We hadn't seen the worst of the Kettle Island Run that day, but nonetheless, it had brought out the best in us. That's what I might say in earnest tones if I was doing the voice-over for a video tribute celebrating Ed's mad genius. As it is, perhaps I'll instead just thank him and his crew for putting on another great race.
In last year's race, I went belly up two-thirds of the way through and had to be scooped out of the water by the rescue boat. Conditions on that day weren't particularly big, but they were everywhere at once. This year promised to be better behaved, with a light breeze, sunny skies, and mild temperatures. Sixteen paddlers prepared to answer Ed's challenge.
 |
| Remember a time before GoPro when we had no lasting records of our most humiliating moments? And before we had blogs to advertize these times to everyone? A representative shot from last year's race. |
In a competition that at most two people care about, Eric McNett and I are neck and neck in the New England Surfski point series. Since Borys has already locked up the NESS series crown, Eric claims that he and I are competing for the first place loser spot. I prefer to think of it as the penultimate position, because after six or seven beers, it starts to sound like that actually may be better than the ultimate spot. In any event, a win by me in Beverly would make it very difficult for Eric to pry my grubby hands off of sweet penultimateness.
We lined up for an on-water start marked by what I believe was a rapidly drifting dodgeball. Apparently there was a consensus that a race this long wasn't going to be won or lost in the first quarter mile. After the start, I found myself in uncharted waters - in amongst the early leaders. Thirty seconds in, only Chris Chappell was ahead of me. That may have been in part because Eric and a few others forked off to the left, but nevertheless, I was only a single paddler away from open water. As I prepared to pass Chris, I remembered the glassy-eyed zeal with which he had latched onto me after I pulled ahead of him at the Great Stone Dam Classic. Kinda creepy, actually. I had forgotten to renew my restraining order, so I gave him an extra wide berth as I passed.
Eric opted to forgo any help from the outgoing tide, tucking in close to shore to keep out of the breeze quartering from our left and stay in calmer waters. It looked like several other paddlers had also decided to adopt the McNett Way. Before the race, Mike McDonough and I discussed the relative merits of various lines and agreed that the tidal boost would be worth the downsides of staying further out in the Sound. Eric's uncanny navigational skills usually makes you wonder what kind of deal he might have struck in exchange for his immortal soul, but this was our home surf. I stayed way outside.
 |
| This year's race was slightly less horrific... |
Some people argue that having a bailer instead of venturi drains reduces drag significantly. Others claim that a well-designed venturi is inherently more efficient than an open bailer when conditions get rough. What bailer proponents don't tell you, however, is how obsessed you become with the state of your bailer. They also don't mention that you definitely won't capsize less because you have a bailer. Most of the drama in the middle of my race resulted from fumbling attempts to open and close that sucker without subsequently examining it from the flip side.
After 7 miles of eyeballing each other from afar, Eric and I would finally converge at the north end of Kettle Island to compare notes on our trajectories. I suspected I'd have the lead, but it certainly wouldn't be substantial enough to deliver the crushing psychological blow that I had been fantasizing about for the past few miles. Sure enough, I reached the island perhaps a half-dozen lengths ahead of Eric. Tentative in the sloppy conditions around the back side of Kettle, I could feel my lead and my confidence slipping away. As we rounded the island and pointed our skis back towards the start, Eric pulled alongside with a casual ease that can only be adequately described as "malevolent".
Almost immediately after hitting open water, our paths diverged once more. Eric took an inner line, while I stayed outside so that I could better experience the exasperation of not catching the ocean swell headed in our direction, while also struggling in wind and tide-driven slop from other directions. I hadn't seen anyone else for a half hour, but as my speed continued to drop, I feared a sneak attack from behind. The miles were ticking by slowly, with Eric gradually prying open a lead.
At one point a working boat decided to cross my path at a shallow angle and a velocity as closely matched to mine as he could manage - a classic case of WFO syndrome. This yahoo has the whole darn ocean at his disposal, and he decides to provide me with another dubious excuse for why I couldn't catch Eric. I did my best to serve up some choice gestures while still paddling, which, in retrospect, may explain why one of the crew asked if I was in need of emergency assistance. Where's McDonough when you need him? When it comes to indignant tirades directed at vessels several thousand times heavier than ours, he's in a class by himself (everyone else having graduated after passing their self-preservation exams).
I eventually crossed behind the irksome boat, failing even to wrestle a compensatory ride from the miserly bastard. Eric was continuing to extend his lead. With a couple of miles remaining, he was perhaps 30 lengths ahead. At the Lighthouse to Lighthouse race a few weeks back, Eric had similarly passed me at about the halfway point, but had slowed dramatically near the end, allowing me to slip by in the last mile. I needed a little déjà vu. Tout de suite.
I made a few pathetic attempts to buckle down and interval my way up to Eric, but you'd be hard pressed to identify these microblips of effort on my GPS track. I had not only hit the wall, but had slid down it like Wile E. Coyote, and then had it collapse on top of me. My stroke resembled an educational video on what to avoid if you find yourself floating in shark-infested waters. I should have been a little more specific with my ocean vu request - instead of the L2L I was reliving one of the many races in which I had watched impotently as Eric finished ahead of me. My revised strategy was to buckle down and limp my way in ahead of Jan, who I assumed must be closing on me at breakneck speed.
Our race day was topped off with a tasty buffet at the Black Lobster in nearby Salem, at which I put a serious hurt on the world's supply of sesame shrimp poppers. Awards were awarded. Races were rehashed in stroke-by-stroke detail. Someone was asked by the staff to empty poppers from his or her pockets, in what I found to be a less than cordial tone. We hadn't seen the worst of the Kettle Island Run that day, but nonetheless, it had brought out the best in us. That's what I might say in earnest tones if I was doing the voice-over for a video tribute celebrating Ed's mad genius. As it is, perhaps I'll instead just thank him and his crew for putting on another great race.
Greg, I see that you were rookie of the year in 2012. What kayaking experience did you have prior to 2012 and how did you get so fast so quickly?
ReplyDeleteBob Heacox