Blackburn Challenge: Reporting from the Sidelines

I wasn't sure about the protocol for writing a race summary when you technically didn't paddle in the race.  So I consulted the handbook.  And as stated clearly in the Surfski Blogger Union (Local 214) Bylaws, Section 5, Subsection B, Paragraph 6: "Members may only write about races in which they officially competed."  I remember all too well what befell Jimmy "Paddle Prattle" Flaherty when he suggested that closed cockpit kayaks had their advantages (a blatant violation of union rules), and I didn't want to end up sleeping with the fishes.  It took Jimmy a month to get the mackerel scent out of his linens.  I consulted my rep and he assured me that because a household member did actually compete, that the board would probably look the other way.

I had suspected for some time that my body was out to get me.  You can only wake up gasping so many times with your own hands around your throat before putting two and two together.  A week prior to the Blackburn I was minding my own business paddling on Chebacco Lake when my mutinous body (torso division) jammed a monkey wrench into my race plans.  Strained oblique.  And this after all I had done for myself.

Once I established that I wasn't going to race, I directed my usual anticipatory energy to more useful tasks.  Namely, working tirelessly on my finish order predictions.  For those competitors I wasn't personally familiar with, I consulted a splendid new site, Surfski America, to compare their performances.  I figured Borys - snakebit the last couple of years - would probably get his first Blackburn win, with Brian Kummer from Southern California a strong candidate for 2nd place.  Third place looked wide open.  Seemed like Eric McNett (two-time top 5 finisher), Jack Van Dorp (5th last year), Brian Heath (ten top 5s), and Craig Impens (2010 champion), and Jim Mallory (first ocean race of any kind, but deadly fast on flats) all had legitimate podium chances.  Oscar Chalupsky and Joe Glickman were a virtual lock to take the doubles title.

Speaking of Joe... It's no secret that beating Joe has been a particular focus of mine.  And by "focus" I mean "pathological obsession".  I thought I had beat his personal best in the CRASH-B indoor rowing competition this year, only to be crushed to find afterwards that he had a much better time that I hadn't been aware of (an unassailable 6:20.3 - come on).  This was going to be my year on the water though.  I was trained up and had already brainstormed some humiliating quips to shout over my shoulder as I pulled away from Joe in the Blackburn.  I must have had him running scared since he (needlessly, as it turns out!) jumped over to doubles.  All inappropriate joking aside (OMJFG!), I'm going to need you to race a single next year, Joe.

Mary Beth, flaunting her healthiness.

Without the gnawing anxiety that usually casts a pall over my Blackburn race morning, I was finally able to actually enjoy the gnawing anxiety of everyone else at Gloucester High School.  As word of my imminent DNS got around (that is, as I cornered paddler after paddler and forced upon them my tale of woe), I was touched at people's genuine displays of disappointment for me.  Except Bill Kuklinski, who couldn't stop laughing - apparently a little bitter about all those PFD jokes.

Before the race, I met Brian Kummer.  I was disappointed to find that he wasn't a strapping lad whose speed I could attribute to the vigor of youth, but a mustachioed gentleman perhaps a few years older than me (and I don't care what Local 214 has to say about the use of the term "mustachioed").  Still strapping, to be sure.  If I was a captain in a game of Shirts versus Skins versus Zombie Hordes, Brian would be my first pick.  Then maybe Joe Shaw - that guy is indestructible.  I'd probably go for some land speed next.  Let's say Matt Drayer.  Then hand weapon proficiency.  Gotta be Ken Cooper - I'm pretty sure he's CIA.  Mary Beth would probably be pretty unhappy with me if she ended up undead, so guess I better grab her next.  So after her... hold on, feel like I might be going a little off-topic here.  Right.  Brian.  We had a nice chat before the race during which I extracted a promise from him to help me with the surf launch at the US Championships in a few weeks.

After seeing Mary Beth off from the High School (they grow up so fast), I drove up to the starting line.  I got there just in time to see the doubles' start.  Oscar and Joe accelerated off the line so fast that I instinctively grabbed a piling to brace myself for the resulting shock wave.  After the SK and FSK classes got underway, 51 skis (and the lone racing kayak of Brian H. - I feel like maybe we should take up a collection for him) jockeyed for starting positions.  A single tear of disappointment rolled down my cheek.  And then they were off.  I was surprised by how peaceful the start was from the dock.  Sure, there was the exciting visual of blades whirring and water flying, but from afar the scene didn't betray the visceral mayhem I knew the paddlers were enveloped in - boats rubbing, paddles scraping, oaths exchanged (and not the good kind, like pledges of eternal friendship).

Let's see.  Ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, Brian Heath, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski.

Once the skis had cleared the first bend, I raced up the long dock and back to my car, hoping to catch the leaders in Annisquam as they left the river for the open sea.  There's no public access to the shore in Annisquam (a neighborhood so protective of its privacy that Tim Dwyer has to be blind-folded to visit his in-laws there - and not just when arriving or leaving), but I managed to find a stretch of road from which I could see a narrow wedge of ocean.  Sitting in my car with a pair of binoculars, I suspected I might be drawing some suspicion, but I had to stay true to my mission.

Within seconds of my arrival, a black and yellow blur swept across my binocular lenses.  NASA may have some optical tracking equipment capable of keeping a with-the-tide Borys in frame, but it was pointless for me to try.  Several moments later (solid moments - like enough time to really feel the burrowing stares of the locals), a glorious squadron of skis appeared, skimming by in precision formation.  The draft was so tight that I had trouble identifying the individual pilots, but I think it was Brian K, Jack (whom you may remember better as Floppy Hat), Craig, Jim, and Eric.  Brian H and Kurt Kuehnel might also have been in the mix - or at least very close behind.

A short while after that, other knots and clusters of skis sailed through my viewport - Peter Kahn, Joe Shaw, Tom Buzzell, Chris Laughlin, Wesley Echols, Todd Furstoss, Beata Cseke, and Tim Dwyer (although not necessarily in that order).  I couldn't afford to wait for the rest of the field.  I needed the time to transfer over to Halibut Point, where I'd be able to see the racers up close as they turned to head down the south side of Cape Ann.  Plus the Annisquam natives were arming themselves with torches and garden tools while throwing me increasingly hostile looks (as well as what I think was an over-ripe kumquat).

I arrived at the Halibut Point overlook just in time to see Borys flash by, 48 minutes and 7 miles from the start.  That's an average speed of, let me see... freakishly fast.  Or 8.75 mph if you're the quantitative type.  I hustled down from the overlook to the actual point, where I discovered an uncomfortable Chris Chappell videotaping the passing paddlers.  Perhaps, like me, your senses have recently been overloaded by the resulting 53 autoplaying video snippets in your Facebook feed.  You can disable that feature, by the way.

Jack Van Dorp, Craig Impens, Jim Mallory, and some poor, discouraged soul in a workboat.

With several miles elapsed since my last snapshot of the race, I figured the field would be a little more strung out.  Sure enough, Brian K had opened up a 30 second lead on his former squad mates.  Craig and Jim were drafting off of Jack, with Eric rejoining them after taking a tight turn around Halibut Point.  Brian H pulled by less than a minute later, with Kurt not far behind.  Peter & Joe, Tom, Chris & Wesley, Todd & Tim & Beata, and Matt Drayer followed to flesh out the all-important top 17.  In the SS20+ category, Ken Cooper had a dozen boat length lead on a chasing pack of Dana Gaines, Jay Appleton, and Bill Kuklinski.

Chris and I cheered on the remaining ski paddlers, singing a particular rousing fight song to spur on Mary Beth on her quest to beat Timmy Shields ("On to victory Mary Beth! Timmy's run clean out of breath." and so on).  I'm not saying Chris was flat, but that's the only reason I can think of to explain MB's ultimate defeat in the home stretch.  Once the last ski had passed, I hightailed it for Loblolly Point - 11.5 miles into the course, opposite the twin lights of Thatcher Island.  The authorities neglected to clear the roads as I had (wink, wink) requested (two dollar bills don't grow on trees, you know), meaning I spent most of the trip stuck behind tourists looking for non-existent parking in Rockport.  By the time I arrived at Loblolly, the top 20 skis had already gone by.  Rather than panic, I did a little vexation jig, and then reassessed my viewing plan.

Bruce Deltorchio, Richard Germain, Tom Kerr, and Bob Capellini.  A few minutes later, these guys were the straws that finally broke the spirit of the poor soul from the previous photo.

It was off to the Back Shore along Atlantic Road - about 15.5 miles into the race.  As I arrived I caught the barest hint of Borys in the distance - a mythical paddling beast you only ever see out of the corner of your eye.  I joined a crowd of anxious spectators scanning the heartless sea for loved ones, as generations have done before on these storied shores.  Maybe with slightly less at stake now, sure, but racers have been known to cramp up something fierce.  I spoke briefly with the crowd, who was searching for her husband in the SK division.

I ticked off the rest of the leaders as they went by.  Brian K.  I definitely picked the right guy for my zombie-fighting team.  Craig.  Apparently his bionic spine is now fully operational.  Jack.  Even without his floppy hat, he's a Canadian to be reckoned with.  Brian H.  Even in a skirt, he's a Canadian to be reckoned with.  Given their spacing, it seemed pretty likely that these guys would remain in the same order at the Greasy Pole (the structure at the finish, not the notorious Gloucester bar of the 70's).  The next 8 places... not so clear.  The order from my vantage point looked like Eric, Peter, Tim, Wesley, Kurt, Chris, Matt, and Beata.  Chris and Matt, working together on an inside line, seemed to be gaining quickly on the group in front of them.

I waited for a few more paddlers before hopping back in the car to head to the finish line.  Cue the montage of me yelling at morons, double parkers, stray dogs, and nuns ("Hey!  The Good Lord invented crosswalks for a reason, Sisters!") while crawling through Gloucester summer weekend traffic.  I arrived at the finish just in time to wonder how long before I got there Borys had finished.  He's always been fast, but now he's added elusive to his repertoire.  I spotted Brian Kummer well out in Gloucester Harbor, but Borys had already cleared off the water and was well into his second Mai Tai.  As I had expected given my Back Shore sightings, Brian K took a commanding second, followed by Craig, Jack, and Brian H.  It would be more than 3 minutes before the next paddler finished.  Great job, guys.

 My picture: fulfilled 12, 8, 9, 2, 6, 3.  Tim's picture: forlorn DNS.

The group finishing in 6th through 8th were separated by only 32 seconds, with Eric holding off Peter, who in turn beat back a rejuvenated Tim.  Chris and Matt took the last of the top 10 spots,  showing off their power by paddling intermediate skis.  Beata took the women's trophy at 13th overall.  Dana Gaines just missed the 3 hour mark in winning the SS20+ division.  Oscar and Joe scooted around Cape Ann to win the doubles crown in record time, which speaks volumes about the abilities of both paddlers.

This was a particularly fast Blackburn - probably the fastest average times ever, at least for skis.  Twenty-one single skis broke the 3 hour mark.  Borys had the 4th fastest ski time ever (2:25:43), while Beata (2:52:25) broke the old women's record by more than 5 minutes.  Oscar and Joe nabbed the new doubles record (2:29:38), with Jan Lupinski and Alex Ambotas putting up the 3rd fastest doubles time ever (2:32:08).  Compared to last year's race (calm, but hot with unfavorable tides), most paddlers in comparable boats shaved off 11 to 14 minutes.  Particular standouts in this regard were Todd Furstoss (25 minute improvement), Caroline Pierre (26 minutes - yet another Canadian with whom we must reckon), Bill Kuklinski (26 minutes), and our very own Mary Beth Gangloff (28 minutes).

The wrap party was more than usually festive, with the city-mandated beer fences having the welcome side effect of ensuring you were never more than twelve feet from anyone you wanted to talk with (provided that person was drinking a beer - and why would you want to talk to someone who wasn't?).  Before the marathon award ceremony got started, Mr. Joe Glickman was inducted into the Blackburn Hall of Fame - the first surfski paddler to join the ranks.  His acceptance speech was no less than I expected from him, which is to say amazing - sincere and funny and moving.  We all admire Joe and wish him the best.  That being said, next year I'm going to beat the bum.

Congratulations to all competitors and thanks to the many people who organized this monster of a race.

Casco Bay Challenge: This Time with Color and Depth

As you may recall, last year's inaugural Casco Bay Challenge was more like a chapter from the Odyssey than a ski race.  We wandered aimlessly through a boundless oblivion, arriving an eternity later on the other side of the bay, astounded to find that only a few hours had passed in the living world.  This year's trip promised to be somewhat less mythic, with clear conditions and a moderate breeze from the south helping us along.  It turns out that Casco Bay is more than just a featureless gray expanse (if you at the Maine Tourist Board want to use that, please feel free).  There are islands, lighthouses, lobster pots, and the other picturesque trappings of our 43rd state (I think there may have been some kind of filing error).  I was disappointed to not see any moose, but they must have been foraging in the deep.

Matt getting prepped on the beach.  PFD?  Check.  Hydration system?  Check.  Banana?  Che... Hey, which one of you ski monkeys ate my banana?

As we flocked on the beach before the race, our typical ski family was joined by members of a different feather, many of whom migrated up from the DC area.  Starting this year, Casco Bay is part of the ECORA (East Coast Outrigger Association) point series.  As a result, we were joined by seven or eight of these winged monstrosities.  Although we've been raised from childhood to mistrust and fear outrigger paddlers (Eric and Rod excluded), it turns out they're just like us.  Only asymmetric.  And constantly chattering gibberish about amas and iakos.  We forgive them these shortcomings, however, and welcome them with open arms.  Now SUPs... that's another story.

The islands of Casco Bay are mostly aligned along a southwest-to-northeast axis, arranged in such a way that we would be gently guided by these isles across the bay from Fisherman's Beach in South Portland to far-off Mere Point Landing.  From Google satellite photos, the correct path is apparent.  From a lower Earth orbit - say 2 feet above the globe's surface - it can be a little trickier.  Prior to the race, Eric had provided us with detailed maps and GPS waypoints.  He supplemented this info with a captain's meeting in which he blathered on about staying to the left of this and the right of that.  Since I had my GPS, I was sure I'd be fine.

This is exactly why I stopped going to the beach.

As those who have raced with Eric know, he doesn't like to be more than a boat's length away from shore.  I'm not sure if it's because he fears the inky depths or because he's got irritable bowel syndrome (in which case open seas would be his Waterloo, I suppose).  In any event, I expect this aversion to the ocean explains why we started the race only six feet off the beach.  This led to the awkward spectacle of surfskis and outriggers attempting to back into the starting line after warming up.  I was just able to make out the starting whistle over all the beeping, and we were off.

Francisco rabbited off the line to a quick lead before settling into a more maintainable cadence.  Although ostensibly the wind should be helping us, the first half mile was characterized by mildly confused conditions with the occasional random boat wake thrown in.  After this, we entered the downwind section of the race, which would last to the finish (albeit against a reluctant tide, especially in the last few miles).  After some jockeying, I pulled into a modest lead.  Francisco fell back while Eric maintained his distance several lengths behind but well off to my left.  With Borys lollygagging somewhere behind me, I was forced to do my own navigation.  Not that following Borys is necessarily a good idea.

Our course through the first 3 miles was pretty clear, after which we emerged into an open expanse to the inside of Long and Chebeague Islands.  Eric had told us that we were to keep the smokestacks on Cousins Island to our left (note to future world dictator self - avoid building industrial blights in middle of glorious bays).  Or perhaps it was to our right.  One of those, I was pretty sure.  I consulted my GPS, but it displayed a screen that showed only the words "off course".  I'd occasionally throw glances back to check on Eric's trajectory, although this strategy was becoming more difficult as I managed to put some distance between us.  I was catching some respectable rides.  Based on my increasingly infrequent Eric sightings, I correctly reckoned that we were to stay right of Cousins Island.

Borys, who I soon spotted back several dozen boat lengths far off to my right, inevitably caught and passed me about 8 miles into the race.  He then proceeded to turn to the left, crossing my path and heading, with purpose, off what I had taken to be the rails.  Shouldn't we be keeping to the right of the upcoming islands?  I couldn't manage to spot Eric behind me to confirm my course.

Like a compass over an iron ore deposit, Borys' heading was swinging wildly from thataway to thither.  Since I couldn't take my bearings from an unreliable navigator, I decided to bite the bullet and try my GPS again.  Sure enough, I was "off course".  Helpful.  I tried randomly pressing buttons on the Garmin, but that only made it angry.  Finally, after consulting the Chilton GPS repair manual, phoning a friend, and renouncing several of my lesser vices (I'm gonna miss those YouTube kitten videos), I was rewarded with a display showing my actual and intended paths.

It turned out that I was only marginally off course.  I banked to the right (a close call) then angled over (another close call) to the correct line.  Borys, who was periodically checking back to see if I knew anything he didn't, mirrored my corrections (minus the close calls).  It was at about this time that I hazarded a glance back myself to see how my lead over Eric was holding up.  With my eyes focused on the distant horizon in search of him, it took me several seconds to register that the blurry white blob that frustratingly kept obscuring the horizon was actually Eric's Epic.  I blinked him into clarity (you're welcome) and let off an involuntary shriek.  The guy I thought I had dropped 5 miles back was only a handful of boat lengths back.  In my boat, at least, nobody was happy with the reemergence of Eric.

One eye on my GPS route and the other firmly fixed at its peripheral limit in search of a surging Eric, I pitched myself forward.  Well, "pitched" may give the groundless impression that there was great speed involved.  Tossed might be a better term.  Let's go with lobbed.  As a matter of fact, let's drop the throwing analogy completely and leave it with me making a marginal degree of extra forward progress.  Ten minutes later, I figured my Nolan Ryan-like efforts had paid off.  Eric surely was little more than a fading memory.  It was at this point that I spotted him at least 20 boat lengths ahead of me off to the left.  I was too dumfounded to even rend my garments in frustration and rage.

Turns out this saved me having to needlessly replace my Mocke vest and favorite paddling T-shirt (True story - only short-sleeve shirt I've worn on a ski since 2011.  Scares off the competition.).  It wasn't Eric.  It wasn't even a surfski.  Or a kayak.  It was a little Boston Whaler.  I'm not sure how exactly I momentarily mistook one for the other, but in my defense, Eric is pretty wily.

Lest my hallucination become premonition, I tried to push hard through the next few miles.  I hit the wall hard during this time, but a liberal application of power gel to my face really seemed to help.  We had been told that once you enter Mere Point Bay, there was hardly a kilometer left to the finish at the pier of the Mere Point Boat Launch.  With the ebbing tide now working against us (with ebbing muscles not helping the matter), I seemed to be catching little runners, but my GPS was stubbornly refusing to show a respectable speed.  On the positive side, I was relieved to find that I was finally "on course".  I might not finish strong, but at least I would know where to tell the 911 operator I was.

You should see the other guy...

The pier at the finish line was visible from several hundred meters out, which is right where it stayed for, oh, about three lifetimes.  Eventually, by closing my eyes for twenty strokes at a time, I was able to sneak up on it and complete the race.  Borys was already on shore doing his interviews, of course.  Eric pulled in shortly after me for third, followed by Matt Drayer and Peter Kahn.  Beata finished sixth overall to top the women's race.  Once the remaining paddlers were all accounted for (a much simpler proposition this year), we retired for snacks and awards.

Thanks to Eric and family (with an assist given to the lingering high pressure system, the month of June, and Adventurous Joe Coffee) for a spectacular day in Maine.

The Blackburn is upon us.  Tremble.

Ride the Bull: Exciting and New

Last year's inaugural Ride the Bull race was a great success, combining challenging conditions with just the right level of tom foolery (Jan's playful attempts at drowning, Borys' random wanderings, Tim H's exuberant/deranged appearances on every outcropping along the course, etc.).  Leading up to this year's race, it looked like we might catch the Bull napping, or at least heavily sedated.  The forecast for the early afternoon start was for 1 mph winds, gusting to 2.  Seemed a safe enough bet to stick with my V10.  I'd been getting thrashed by a particularly ill-tempered Salem Sound for the last few Tuesdays in the Salem League (only two tilts thus far, but the season is young), so I was looking forward to a leisurely day on the placid waters of Narragansett Bay.

Guru Dwyer shares his wisdom. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

So that's not exactly how it turned out.  As the day progressed, the sea breeze picked up, the boat traffic intensified, and my hopes for a serene paddle evaporated.  We'd have a little bit of everything in the 9 mile course, with the exception of last year's flat water respite-slog within Mackerel Cove.  In the inaugural race, confusion about where exactly to turn inside this cove led to a lot of yelling and frantic gesturing.  Tim and Wesley doubled down this year by adding a couple of extra turns inside the Cove (albeit all around the same small island), while eliminating the protected stretches.  Before the race, competitors pored over the charts with wild-eyed fervor, cramming for the final on-water exam to follow.  The parking lot was full of paddlers visualizing the course, wandering around in circles and, in some cases, tumbling to the pavement in commendable attempts at realism.

I can't say I understand the new pre-soak requirement, but I can brine with the best of 'em.  (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

Having neglected to celebrate Flag Day a week earlier, I was excited to be part of a belated 21-ski salute that would blast out of Fort Wetherill State Park.  We counted down to a start in a protected cove and then flung ourselves oceanward.  Wesley, apparently under the misconception that there was a hotspot at the first turn buoy, bolted out of the gate first in his candy-stripe Huki S1-X.  Having fully embraced a more meditative approach to starts, I centered myself and became one with the pack.  I was on the verge of finally achieving true enlightenment when I snapped to, saw the leaders pulling away, and realized that I should perhaps be a little more focused on worldly desires.  Nirvana wasn't going any place, but Eric Costanzo, Jan Lupinski, and Andrius Zinkevichus sure were.  Back to suffering.

Wesley continued to lead in his pell-mell dash to the hypothetical hotspot until Borys Markin and I caught him a few hundred meters before the buoy.  I use the term "Borys and I" in the same way a child might say "my parents and I" when talking about the decision to ship him off to military school (I think we made the right choice, folks).  In any event, Borys and I ended up splitting the prize.

I'm still waiting for my check.  (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

As we entered Mackerel Cove, I remembered that we were supposed to turn around a small rock island just around the point.  We were warned that attempts to cut too close to said rock would be met with repercussions ranging from a severe I-told-you-so-ing from the race directors to catastrophic hull breach.  I was therefore confused when I saw a jagged outcropping separated from the shore by a befoamed strait that couldn't be more than 5 feet wide.  I had come to grips with having to spend a few thousand dollars to replace the boat I was about to sacrifice to the sacred bull when I noticed that Borys had bypassed this pinch point in favor of turning around the actual designated rock further into the cove.  Having almost been steered astray, I changed my course accordingly.  The bull would have to be satisfied with my blood, sweat, and tears.  And possibly the ill-advised turkey sandwich I scarfed down before the race.

I might not win this race, but - after Wesley's warning - I'd be damned if anyone gives more leeway to the (real) rock.  As I rounded the quarter mile exclusion zone centered on the rock, I saw Andrius, Wesley, Tim Dwyer, Jan, and others pushing hard on my heels.  After the turn, we headed on the first of two loops that would take us upwind across the mouth of Mackerel Cove, around a point into Hull Cove, and then back to the rock.  I managed to stay in touch with Borys for most of the first loop (mostly email, but occasionally I'd send a hand-written letter), although that was in part because I had the hypotenuse advantage (the last Tom Clancy novel, I believe) after he headed too sharply into Hull Cove in search of the turn buoy.

The downwind section back to the general vicinity of the rock went quickly.  I know that the key to effective downwind runs is knowing when to rest and when to push.  I concentrated on the pushing part.  I figured I'd rest when I was dead.  Which was likely to be pretty soon anyway given my level of wasted exertion.  Panting furiously to  remove any residual mouth moisture, I rounded the exclusion zone and headed back upwind.  Borys, who had essentially been idling for the first half of the race, finally decided to drop it into first gear.  Having burned out my clutch in the downwind section, my paddle whirled ineffectually as he pulled smoothly away.

I like to call this picture "The Loneliness of Borys". (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

Paddling about in areas of heavy boat traffic is always good for a few heart-in-the-throat moments.  We're smaller, slower, and - apparently - expendable.  The waters of Narragansett Bay are overflowing with boats of two varieties.  Powerboats are largely oblivious to us.  We're trailer homes and they're tornadoes.  Lots of potential carnage, but no real malice.  Acts of God.  And where there's God, the Devil isn't far behind.  He's at the tiller of a sailboat, and his only goal is to crack open your fragile shell (carbon-kevlar or corporal flesh - whatever) and drag your now-pulpy soul to The Depths.

The hell-spawn were out in legion on Saturday, in all shapes and sizes, slicing hither and yon in search of slow-moving sinners.  That deal I signed back when I needed to pass calculus is still paying dividends.  The lead pack avoided the worst of the fiends - a sailing regatta that set up a fiery shop in the middle of our course, forcing at least one of our paddlers to stop, drop, and roll.  I believe epithets were hurled.  Their sails were pretty, I'll give them that. 

After completing the second loop and heading out of Mackerel Cove, we hit the most trying conditions on the course.  Although the seas weren't big, they were confused enough to take the punch out of my stroke (for the sake of my story, let's assume that under flat conditions, I actually have some punch).  Although the last time I saw anyone behind me I had a comfortable lead, I began to fret that one of the rough water experts would catch me.  I was surprised that Eric Costanzo - a guy who cleaned my clock in the challenging conditions at last year's Northeast Surfski Downwind race - hadn't been closer at previous turns.  Could he be rope-a-doping me?

I'll grant that it doesn't look very rough, but as a point of reference, the boat in this shot is more than 300 feet long.  (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

Conditions improved in measure as the final turn at the green can near the House on the Rocks approached, but I couldn't shake the residual wobble.  I rounded the buoy, holding my breath in anticipation of seeing a lurking Eric.  And indeed he was skulking behind me (after suffering a rare off-ski event, it turns out), but a more pressing concern was posed by Beata Cseke - apparently a paddler I need to reclassify as a Class V rough water threat.  Fortunately, the end of the race was approaching more quickly than Beata and Eric.  I limped into the finish, elated that the race wasn't longer.

As I waited to see how the remaining places would play out, Beata rounded the corner into the finishing cove with Eric in foaming-at-the-mouth pursuit.  His efforts were not enough, giving Beata her first overall podium finish in New England (and, I believe, the first such finish by any woman).  Andrius pulled in not 15 seconds behind Eric, with Wesley and Tim (merged at the bucket for most of the race, once again), Jan, Chris Chappell, and Tom Kerr completing the top 10.

While every one of us is willing and eager to do One More Mile For Glicker, I noticed that Chris and Bob "forgot" to put on their stickers until after the race. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

There had been several ritual dunkings and one or two craven images hastily constructed in the face of intimidating conditions, but the entire field returned safely to Fort Wetherill Park.  Thanks to Wesley and Tim for throwing another memorable watery fete, to Betsy Echols for documenting the occasion, and to Jerry Kastner for his sportsmanship.

I made the mistake of scheduling two races, a vacation, a computer meltdown, and the World Cup all within a two week span.  As a result, I'm a little behind on both my race reports and my macrame projects.  The Casco Bay Challenge summary will be coming soon.  Don't hold your breath on those friendship headbands though.