With winds at 15+ knots from an unfavorable ENE direction, the Board of Trustees made a day-before decision to shift the NE Surfski Downwind course from its normal Kittery-to-York route down to the North Shore of Massachusetts. We'd run 11 miles from Stage Fort Park in Gloucester to Lynch Park in Beverly, covering some of the same ground we'd paddled three weeks ago in the Kettle Island Run. Unlike that day, however, the course wouldn't be pampering us with well-behaved waves, mild winds, and complimentary snacks. Instead, we'd be careening through some of the biggest waters many of us have ever paddled. If the Kettle Island Run were the dulcet tones of Perry Como, this race would be the take-no-prisoners delivery of Ethel Merman. I'm nothing if not topical.
As the parking lot filled with familiar faces anxious to once again match their skills and conditioning against one another, a few surprise paddlers turned up to throw a monkey in the shower. Sean Brennan took a break from the witness relocation program (testified in a controversial jay-walking case, I heard) to paddle in his first New England race in 18 months. Fresh off her appearance representing the Stars and Stripes at the world marathon championships in Denmark, Alex McClain was ready to demonstrate that - given the right equipment - she hasn't completely lost her steering skills. Pam Boteler and Mark Berry were prepared to brave the conditions, despite never having raced skis in Northeast waters. Mark lives so far up in Maine that the locals speak a delightful combination of French and bear, while Pam traveled up from Virginia (which really leaves me nothing to work with).
By the time we left Lynch Park to head out to the launch at Stage Fort, Eric's trailer was bristling with skis. Twenty-three of us would start the race. After a brief captains' meeting (the gist of which was "go downwind until you see the finish", with a bracing dose of "you're on your own out there", and a pinch of "please try to wash up on shore"), we each signed a commemorative plaque destined to hang in New England Surfski headquarters in honor of the lost squadron. A nice touch by Eric, I thought. We hit the water with a true esprit de corps - fellow warriors united in our treacherous downwind mission. We'd seize the beach back at Lynch come hell and high water. Or get wet and nervous trying.
Our course would take us out around a channel marker a quarter mile from shore in Gloucester Harbor, downwind in unprotected waters for 3 miles, then another 4 miles past a series of islands (Kettle, Egg, House, and Misery), ending with a 4 mile stretch within relatively protected Salem Sound. Within that middle section, we were free to weave pell-mell among the islands as our whims dictated.
I reasoned that a route outside the islands would keep me clear from refracting slop, provide the most tidal assistance, and line me up for a final downwind stretch that wouldn't be in the lee of Misery Island or the mainland. I was alone in this belief - much like during an embarrassing argument in 11th grade regarding Leprechauns. Unlike then, however, the proof would be in the pudding - the pot of golden butterscotch pudding that I'd stashed at the finish and would be casually eating when the rest of the field staggered in. I calculated that the outside route was maybe an eighth of a mile longer, but that'd be chump change given my astonishing velocity.
Careful to avoid a pack of scuba divers who had inexplicably set up an underwater pumpkin carving station near our starting area (seriously, that's what they were doing down there), we lined up for the gun. Sean and Borys Markin jumped out to an immediate lead, followed by Alex, Francisco Urena, and the entire field of Erics (McNett and Costanzo). By the time we hit the turn buoy that would catapult us into our downwind run, I had passed Francisco and Eric the Elder. Sean and Borys were headed out on a line that would eventually swing them by Provincetown. Despite their grand tour of Massachusetts Bay, these fellows would end up finishing a convincing one-two (at 1:22:01 and 1:25:06). Oops. Spoiler alert.
A mile into the race, that cozy feeling of fellowship had been scoured away by the wind and waves. It was every man for himself. I started looking for a V8 to hijack, but realizing that I couldn't actually see any of the other competitors over the heaving seas, I reluctantly decided to stick with my V10. I felt kind of bad later when I saw photos of Matt Drayer treading water while waiting for the boat hand-off that never came (that youngster's got enough esprit for the lot of us!). As we approached Kettle Island, the condition continued to grow.
In open water, the 6 foot swell by itself wasn't that intimidating, although it did require a certain degree of vigilance. When that same swell hit shallow water, rose up on its haunches and curled over to reveal its foam-drenched fangs, however, you started to question the chain of decisions that ultimately led you to wander innocently into its enclosure. As the old adage goes, a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single surfski pitch from Wesley. Having established the cause of my predicament, I started plotting my revenge. That kept my mind off the crashing surf long enough to sneak by the outside of Kettle Island without being mauled.
The next few miles were the toughest of my voyage. Despite being a good half-mile from shore and in deep water, there were enough shelves and shallows close-by that the seas were piling up around me in unnatural fashion. Within this grotesque stew, the ocean swell was heading about 15 degrees from my preferred direction, while the wind was almost directly behind me. I struggled mightily to get good rides, meeting with only modest success.
I classified the waves in four categories: (a) waves which there was no possible way I could catch, (b) waves which I could conceivably catch if you'd just let me catch my damned balance first, (c) waves which I could conceivably catch if you'd just let me catch my damned breath first, and (d) waves which I caught but ultimately dropped because I lost my balance, breath, or nerve. The a:b:c:d ratio was something like 25:10:5:1. So every 40 waves or so, I'd catch a ripper, skim over the water with agile grace, then have an intermission of two-score waves to spit the seaweed out of my teeth. Regarding the agile grace part - you can't really see that so much in the GoPro video below, but if you look beyond what appear to be frenzied strokes and desperate braces, you'll maybe get a hint of my effortless proficiency. Helps to squint a little. Have a couple-few drinks too.
Nearing House Island, my craft suffered a sudden and catastrophic rotation around its longitudinal axis, resulting in the captain calling for his crew to immediately abandon ship. Having ensured that everyone was accounted for, I slipped into the roiling waters to see what could be done to repair my vessel. Amazingly, the ski seemed in perfect working order! It was clear to anyone with half a brain that my boat must have suffered an intermittent failure of the roll stabilization system, but those pencil-pushing nimrods at the Surfski Safety Alliance insisted on putting "operator error" on the cause-of-accident report. That whistling sound you hear is my life insurance rates leaving earth orbit.
I remounted without issue and continued to pick my way tentatively through the stacks of waves. I was now approaching Misery and Little Misery Islands. These fellows are separated by a 75 foot gap that's usually quite navigable at mid-tide. I briefly contemplated shooting this gap. I certainly would have set a new personal speed record, but judging by the spray exploding 30 feet in the air, my ride would likely end in a personal deceleration record as well. I therefore skirted the outside edge of Little Misery, still logging some of my fastest times of the day.
Within a quarter mile of clearing Little Misery, the conditions had mellowed considerably. The other racers referred to this segment of a race as a slog to the finish, but I was still managing to get a reasonable boost on my outside line. I doubt that much of the reasoning behind my grand navigation strategy was actually sound, but at least this one element was bearing fruit.
I started scanning the shoreline looking for paddlers who had taken the inner passage. I live in constant fear of being overtaken by an unanticipated competitor (and not just during races). Craig Impens struck from the blue in the Blackburn, while Joe Glickman did the same in the Lighthouse-to-Lighthouse. This was my chance to deliver that stomach-turning bolt of disappointment (he thought, with undisguised glee). Not until I was within a mile from the finish did I spot anyone, however, and the crushing letdown was to be mine. The bright orange Mocke PFD I saw well ahead must surely have Eric McNett at its core. By beating me, he would nestle comfortably into the penultimate spot in the point series, leaving me in third for the second year.
Perhaps because I was occupied howling my bitter lamentations heavenward ("Why, oh why, must bad things - well, not really bad, but say slightly off-putting - happen to good people - ok, good may be overstating it, but people who at least wouldn't deliberately swerve to hit a squirrel?"), I didn't notice until a few minutes later that I was rapidly converging with another paddler. I couldn't figure who it was, but I seemed to be a few boat lengths ahead. And so I did manage after all to deliver my own spirit-breaking message of "Surprise! You're one place further back than you thought." But my heart just wasn't in it.
I pulled into the finish 15 seconds ahead of Alex, who turned out to be the mystery paddler - a great performance in conditions that couldn't be more different from those she trains in. I received another disheartening blow when I saw Eric Costanzo waiting at the finish. Beaten by every single Eric we had! Eric McNett was nowhere to be seen - probably already strapping his boat onto the van. Then, to my initial confusion, I saw McNett paddle around the point towards the finish. Newton's controversial 4th law of motion - the Conservation of Erics - was finally proved to be true. I was beaten by Eric C (who, it turns out, also was Mocke'd up), but had beaten Eric M. The former Eric (he was so young...) really established himself as a force to be reckoned with and/or beat by.
Matt, Ken Cooper, Tim Dwyer, and Francisco rounded out the top ten. Six paddlers wouldn't make it to the finish by water, but everybody arrived safely in some manner (hitchhiking with a 20 foot boat offers its own challenges). As we shared our race experiences while waiting for the awards ceremony, we studiously (and uncharacteristically) avoided exaggerating our tales of wonder and terror, lest they sound just too outlandish. I even knocked a couple of feet off some waves to make them more palatable to a dubious audience.
In addition to awards for the race, Eric handed out the point series trophies to Borys and Beata. Despite living four hours away, this pair had showed up to nearly every race to take command of the series for the second year running. A deserving Matt received a new spanking paddle for being the most improved paddler of the season. Scratch that. Spanking new paddle. From Think. Everyone who had completed at least six races in the New England Surfski series was eligible to win an Epic V12 via raffle drawing. This inspired bit of promotion doubtless helped to drive participation this season. Bruce Deltorchio was the winner. He promptly traded the boat for a Fenn Swordfish, a Jantex paddle, and a carburetor for a 53 Chevy.
Many thanks to Eric (not you, Costanzo), Ed, and Ken for making all of this happen. It was a great and memorable day.
As the parking lot filled with familiar faces anxious to once again match their skills and conditioning against one another, a few surprise paddlers turned up to throw a monkey in the shower. Sean Brennan took a break from the witness relocation program (testified in a controversial jay-walking case, I heard) to paddle in his first New England race in 18 months. Fresh off her appearance representing the Stars and Stripes at the world marathon championships in Denmark, Alex McClain was ready to demonstrate that - given the right equipment - she hasn't completely lost her steering skills. Pam Boteler and Mark Berry were prepared to brave the conditions, despite never having raced skis in Northeast waters. Mark lives so far up in Maine that the locals speak a delightful combination of French and bear, while Pam traveled up from Virginia (which really leaves me nothing to work with).
By the time we left Lynch Park to head out to the launch at Stage Fort, Eric's trailer was bristling with skis. Twenty-three of us would start the race. After a brief captains' meeting (the gist of which was "go downwind until you see the finish", with a bracing dose of "you're on your own out there", and a pinch of "please try to wash up on shore"), we each signed a commemorative plaque destined to hang in New England Surfski headquarters in honor of the lost squadron. A nice touch by Eric, I thought. We hit the water with a true esprit de corps - fellow warriors united in our treacherous downwind mission. We'd seize the beach back at Lynch come hell and high water. Or get wet and nervous trying.
 |
| Kirk loosens a few straps for good measure. |
I reasoned that a route outside the islands would keep me clear from refracting slop, provide the most tidal assistance, and line me up for a final downwind stretch that wouldn't be in the lee of Misery Island or the mainland. I was alone in this belief - much like during an embarrassing argument in 11th grade regarding Leprechauns. Unlike then, however, the proof would be in the pudding - the pot of golden butterscotch pudding that I'd stashed at the finish and would be casually eating when the rest of the field staggered in. I calculated that the outside route was maybe an eighth of a mile longer, but that'd be chump change given my astonishing velocity.
 |
| After sabotaging the boats, Kirk plays it cool by regaling the field with tales of derring-do. |
A mile into the race, that cozy feeling of fellowship had been scoured away by the wind and waves. It was every man for himself. I started looking for a V8 to hijack, but realizing that I couldn't actually see any of the other competitors over the heaving seas, I reluctantly decided to stick with my V10. I felt kind of bad later when I saw photos of Matt Drayer treading water while waiting for the boat hand-off that never came (that youngster's got enough esprit for the lot of us!). As we approached Kettle Island, the condition continued to grow.
In open water, the 6 foot swell by itself wasn't that intimidating, although it did require a certain degree of vigilance. When that same swell hit shallow water, rose up on its haunches and curled over to reveal its foam-drenched fangs, however, you started to question the chain of decisions that ultimately led you to wander innocently into its enclosure. As the old adage goes, a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single surfski pitch from Wesley. Having established the cause of my predicament, I started plotting my revenge. That kept my mind off the crashing surf long enough to sneak by the outside of Kettle Island without being mauled.
 |
| I'm the guy chewing gum. |
I classified the waves in four categories: (a) waves which there was no possible way I could catch, (b) waves which I could conceivably catch if you'd just let me catch my damned balance first, (c) waves which I could conceivably catch if you'd just let me catch my damned breath first, and (d) waves which I caught but ultimately dropped because I lost my balance, breath, or nerve. The a:b:c:d ratio was something like 25:10:5:1. So every 40 waves or so, I'd catch a ripper, skim over the water with agile grace, then have an intermission of two-score waves to spit the seaweed out of my teeth. Regarding the agile grace part - you can't really see that so much in the GoPro video below, but if you look beyond what appear to be frenzied strokes and desperate braces, you'll maybe get a hint of my effortless proficiency. Helps to squint a little. Have a couple-few drinks too.
I remounted without issue and continued to pick my way tentatively through the stacks of waves. I was now approaching Misery and Little Misery Islands. These fellows are separated by a 75 foot gap that's usually quite navigable at mid-tide. I briefly contemplated shooting this gap. I certainly would have set a new personal speed record, but judging by the spray exploding 30 feet in the air, my ride would likely end in a personal deceleration record as well. I therefore skirted the outside edge of Little Misery, still logging some of my fastest times of the day.
Within a quarter mile of clearing Little Misery, the conditions had mellowed considerably. The other racers referred to this segment of a race as a slog to the finish, but I was still managing to get a reasonable boost on my outside line. I doubt that much of the reasoning behind my grand navigation strategy was actually sound, but at least this one element was bearing fruit.
I started scanning the shoreline looking for paddlers who had taken the inner passage. I live in constant fear of being overtaken by an unanticipated competitor (and not just during races). Craig Impens struck from the blue in the Blackburn, while Joe Glickman did the same in the Lighthouse-to-Lighthouse. This was my chance to deliver that stomach-turning bolt of disappointment (he thought, with undisguised glee). Not until I was within a mile from the finish did I spot anyone, however, and the crushing letdown was to be mine. The bright orange Mocke PFD I saw well ahead must surely have Eric McNett at its core. By beating me, he would nestle comfortably into the penultimate spot in the point series, leaving me in third for the second year.
Perhaps because I was occupied howling my bitter lamentations heavenward ("Why, oh why, must bad things - well, not really bad, but say slightly off-putting - happen to good people - ok, good may be overstating it, but people who at least wouldn't deliberately swerve to hit a squirrel?"), I didn't notice until a few minutes later that I was rapidly converging with another paddler. I couldn't figure who it was, but I seemed to be a few boat lengths ahead. And so I did manage after all to deliver my own spirit-breaking message of "Surprise! You're one place further back than you thought." But my heart just wasn't in it.
 |
| Bob showing his new-found appreciation for dry land. |
Matt, Ken Cooper, Tim Dwyer, and Francisco rounded out the top ten. Six paddlers wouldn't make it to the finish by water, but everybody arrived safely in some manner (hitchhiking with a 20 foot boat offers its own challenges). As we shared our race experiences while waiting for the awards ceremony, we studiously (and uncharacteristically) avoided exaggerating our tales of wonder and terror, lest they sound just too outlandish. I even knocked a couple of feet off some waves to make them more palatable to a dubious audience.
In addition to awards for the race, Eric handed out the point series trophies to Borys and Beata. Despite living four hours away, this pair had showed up to nearly every race to take command of the series for the second year running. A deserving Matt received a new spanking paddle for being the most improved paddler of the season. Scratch that. Spanking new paddle. From Think. Everyone who had completed at least six races in the New England Surfski series was eligible to win an Epic V12 via raffle drawing. This inspired bit of promotion doubtless helped to drive participation this season. Bruce Deltorchio was the winner. He promptly traded the boat for a Fenn Swordfish, a Jantex paddle, and a carburetor for a 53 Chevy.
Many thanks to Eric (not you, Costanzo), Ed, and Ken for making all of this happen. It was a great and memorable day.
No comments:
Post a Comment