A small but cantankerous group gathered last weekend at Long Sands beach in York for the final race of the New England Surfski point series. Newly renamed the Glicker Downwinder in honor of Joe Glickman, this race would finally settle the question on every young surfski enthusiast's mind: Lesher or Lupinski? Partisans from both sides confusingly adopted the L-on-the-forehead hand signal to show their support as they casually walked their dogs on the beach. Although there were a range of scenarios that might play out (one of which involved Jan and I starring in a short-lived sitcom on ABC Family), the long and the short of it was: win the race, win the series. Jan had already taken the SurfskiRacing.com title by thrashing me two weeks earlier at the Cape Cod downwind. This was my chance to even the score.
They asked me to pin my "6" upside down so it would be read correctly as I approached the finish.
Not only had coordinator Eric McNett balked at Chris Sherwood's exorbitant demands for enchanting up favorable winds, he had insulted the necromancer (or "slug-eating charlatan", to use Eric's terminology) to the point that we were cursed with a counter-productive offshore breeze. Not one to be vexed by having his best-laid plans thwarted (this is a man, after all, who has spent most of his adult life shirtless), Eric gamely devised an alternative triangular course. From Long Sands beach we'd round Nubble Island (reluctant host to the picturesque Cape Neddick Lighthouse), then head south to turn at the buoy off the mouth of York Harbor, finally heading back home for a beach finish - 6.75 miles total.
We'd have a chase boat this year, as Eric decided to monitor the course from his small Whaler (with Sarah Waterman as support crew and photographer). After reviewing the course with the competitors, Eric left to take his boat to the nearest launch. Which was apparently somewhere in Delaware. As the hours stretched to days with no sign of our captain, there were mutinous whispers of starting the race without him. Surely his penchant for hugging the coastline too closely had finally spelled his doom, I argued. We had just about given him up for lost when our chief finally hove into view and called us out to the starting line. I knew all along the old salt wouldn't let us down!
Eric designed awesome new medals for the renamed race. (Photo courtesy of Sarah Waterman)
In short order, we were set off towards the Nubble. Jan surged to the early lead, followed closely by Eric Costanzo. For reasons that escape me (or more likely, never existed), I had lined up well off to the right of the other racers. Unable to bar hop my way to the front (from draft to draft), I was forced to toil in obscurity for the first half mile, angling slowly towards the pack. When I rejoined, I found myself just behind Eric, a couple of lengths behind Jan. I soon managed to pull ahead of Eric, leaving only Jan between me and the prize.
As I struggled to close the gap, I noticed in my periphery that Jan was threatening to pass me. I bore down to successfully fight off the challenge. But hold on a second... something's not quite right here. Before I could nail down the source of my unease, Jan counter-attacked from behind and I again had to concentrate on beating him back. Well, if nothing else this spirited sparring will make it easier to catch... uh... Jan. Slowly, the implication of this nightmarish paradox sunk in. I was surrounded by Jans!
My mind reeling with the implications, I ticked through the possibilities. Practical joke with hidden camera? Sounds like something Kirk Olsen might try, but it'd be darn tough to find a second Jan. Clones? Unlikely given the current state of somatic cell nuclear transfer capabilities. No, the only rational explanation was that we were dealing with a type of quantum uncertainty - both possible outcomes (Jan-beats-me versus I-beat-Jan) were superimposed in the same reality. While feverishly trying to devise a method to collapse this uncertainty in my favor (if only I could tweak the tau-zero factor...), I chanced to get a better look at I-beat-Jan Jan.
I'd be remiss if I didn't include at least one picture with a lighthouse in it. And also in breach of the binding contract entered into by all visitors to Maine (read the fine print on the "Welcome" signs).
Who was actually not Jan, but newcomer Mariano Scandizzo. Same Think yellow-on-white color scheme though. Oops. A classic case of mistaken identify leading to a detour through the most abstruse areas of quantum physics. Could have happened to anyone. I wasn't sure that I wanted to live in a Jan-beats-me world, but it looked like I had no choice.
Paddling between the Nubble and shore is the creepiest experience in the New England racing répertoire, and I'm including Tim Dwyer's insistence that out-of-towners "Come spend the night in our basement" every time there's a race in Jamestown. Tourists come to Nubble Point to view the lighthouse, where they stand shoulder-to-shoulder in solemn contemplation. They marked our mournful passage by bowing their heads in gray
remembrance of another season past. The paths of glory lead but to the
grave. Much like the stairs to Tim's dungeon, I'm guessing.
Rounding the Nubble, Alpha Jan appeared to lose his focus. I quickly caught and passed him as he wandered aimlessly. Doubtless he was shaken by the close call he recently had with non-existence. Mariano continued to pester me as we headed towards the distant buoy, eventually over-taking me. Who was this stranger? We traded the lead a couple of times over the next mile, until I caught a nice run and finally got enough ahead of him to purge him completely from my view. I naturally assumed that he was beaten, and thus banished him from my thoughts.
He didn't take that too well. With a half-mile to go before the turn, both Mariano and Jan made a mockery of that old phrase "out of mind, out of sight" (wait, is that right?) by making themselves quite visible while passing me. Seeing these two side-by-side reminded me that I should apologize to Mariano after the race for confusing them. (He swings. He really got a piece of that one... Yes! It's a Jan Slam!)
Despite my best efforts (which were largely indistinguishable from whatever effort I had been using all along), I was unable to catch the duo prior to the turn. Mariano rounded the buoy a couple lengths ahead of Jan, who was in turn two or three lengths in front of me. Two and a quarter miles of a mild headwind with quartering chop separated us from the finish.
Within a few moments, the undisputed upwind master had taken the lead from Mariano, who fell in on the draft. It took me the better part of a mile to catch up, but I eventually settled in at the end of the train. Something about Maine must be conducive to close
finishes. At the Casco Bay Challenge, the top three paddlers finished
within 4 seconds of each other. It looked like this race might similarly end in a sprint for the finish.
After catching my breath on the wash for a moment, I decided to push the pace. I pulled out to the left and made my move. Although I managed to get abreast of Mariano, Jan wasn't buying into the legitimacy of this so-called "attack". He increased his pace. We continued in this formation for the next mile, with Eric and Sarah cheering us on from the chase boat. It's surprising how much motivation you can get from someone yelling "Way to go, Greg!", even if that same person immediately follows up with "You got 'em, Jan!" Although I'd occasionally fall off the pace by half a boat length, I was always able to claw back even with Mariano (during the "Greg" cheering phase, of course).
Mariano was ever-so-slightly out of sync here, but we worked out the kinks prior to the judging stage. (Photo courtesy of Sarah Waterman)
The straight-line path from the turn buoy brought us in at a shallow angle to Long Sands Beach. Although it was difficult to identify the actual finish line on the extended beach, I was becoming increasingly concerned that we would run out of water before we got there. I was on the shore side of the other boats, so unless I wanted to drop back and cross behind Mariano I'd have to defer to Jan's navigation. We soon found ourselves paddling nearly parallel to the shore in search of the finish.
It feels a little ridiculous talking about the surf zone when the waves topped out at 18 inches, but we found ourselves encroaching in this deadly territory. We were perhaps a 100 feet off the beach when a warning shot was fired across our bows. Steepened by the shallow water, a wave passed under us and started breaking just a few feet shoreward. My balance compromised, I took a couple of half-brace strokes before recovering fully, allowing Jan to open up a boat length's lead. I also got pushed in a little closer to shore than the others.
Fifteen seconds later I looked to my right to see a breaking wave. For a brief moment, I thought I was going to find Mariano's boat in my lap, but he apparently knows how to handle modest surf. I manifestly do not. I followed my brace head-first into the foam. After reorienting my teakettle and removing the sand from critical orifices, I realized I was in knee-deep water.
Sigh. This kind of thing just keeps happening to me. (Photo courtesy of the unblinking witness to my misadventures)
The way I saw it, I had two choices. I could jump back on my boat, paddle 15 more seconds in the surf zone before getting flipped again, then say "screw it" and run up the beach to the finish. Or I could just say "screw it" right off the bat. Even though tumbling out of the boat is kind of my signature move, I chose the latter option given the stakes. As I hit the shore in full stride, I heard Jan ask plaintively from his boat "Are we running?" I still don't know if he meant "Is the finish line on shore?" or "Are we running already?" But by the time he asked, there was nothing he could do to catch either me or Mariano.
A lot of people (mostly via their accusing eyes) have asked me, "Greg, how do you feel about your weasel win?" It's true that if the finish had been on the water, there's a 95% chance that Jan would have won (108% if you trust Jan rather than me). If we had come into shore at a preset position with 100 meter run up the beach, I'd decrease Jan's chances to 70% given my Salem League experience at dry finishes (and don't forget Mariano in the mix). In the dynamic confusion of the actual race, however, Jan drew the short straw. So to answer the original question... it's not the manner I would have chosen to win (which would be slowly walking backwards up the beach, while giving the L-on-the-forehead hand signal to a still-paddling Jan), but we play the hand we are dealt. And also... mildly sheepish.
I can't help but notice that nobody was hoisting the men's champion. (Photo courtesy of Sarah Waterman)
Eric Costanzo and Joe Shaw rounded out the top five, followed by Tim, Bruce Deltorchio, Kirk, Jay Appleton (first SS20+), and Bob Capellini (second SS20+). Mary Beth finished off a spectacular season with another solo win (I saw her strutting around the beach afterwards, roaring "That's right, ladies! Don't even think about coming into my ocean and challenging me!"), easily taking the women's point series trophy (to match her SurfskiRacing.com crown). In the men's point series, Jan finished second and Eric (Costanzo) third. Congratulations also to Tim Dwyer and Joe Shaw, co-champions in the newly established 50+ division (with Bruce finishing closely behind them). To finish off the day's festivities, Bruce added another boat to his unparalleled stable of V12s by winning the Epic drawing for the second time in three years. Thanks to Eric (and Cindy) for hosting the race and for organizing another successful New England Surfski season.
If we happen to go at the same time (I'm betting on "buffalo stampede", but wouldn't rule out "bowling accident"), please enlarge this photo to poster size for display at the wake.
Say what you may about Chris Sherwood, you have to credit his Prospero-like powers to bend tempests to his will. After an impressive inaugural effort in 2014, this year's rollicking Cape Cod Downwind cements him as New England's preeminent Weathermage. With an unseasonable northeast wind (a bit of showing off there) cracking at 15 to 20 mph, the 10 mile Buzzards Bay course from Megansatt Harbor to Stony Beach was the best regional downwind race in years.
After a grueling season in the SurfskiRacing.com point series, we had arrived at its winner-take-all conclusion. While Jan Lupinski had dominated in the early races, I had rallied to pull ahead in the point total. A win on the Cape, however, would be enough for Jan to wrest the crown from my head (I wasn't being presumptuous - just didn't want it to get lost). Several paddlers offered to help, uh, nudge the outcome of the day's race to my benefit. It was satisfying to know that my fellow racers were pulling for me - at least until I figured out they were looking for a little something to compensate them for their troubles.This is a respectable sport, gentlemen! Remember that the next time you're tempted to renege on a contract.
For some of the hipper paddlers, the "chill session" was a welcome addition to the Cape Cod Downwind. (Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
Although I attended Sean Rice's clinic in Jamestown this summer, he neglected to cover a critical topic - perhaps because it's a skill so ingrained into South African surfski culture that he couldn't imagine anyone would actually require instruction to master it. I'm referring, of course, to dry land boat maneuvering. I've seen countless videos of paddlers tackling Miller's Run in 35 knot winds, but I've yet to see a clip showing the more impressive feat of muscling the boat from the car to the water in those gales.
While most of us can handle wind once we're afloat, the beach portion of the Cape Cod Downwind was a slapstick comedy of skis swinging into signposts, cars, people, and other boats. I'm proud to say we didn't lose a single soul navigating the perils of Megansett Beach that day, although I heard the commissioner will be making helmets mandatory next season. Safely on the water, we wandered aimlessly in search of the starting line until Patty (race timer, chase boat liaison, after-party co-host, good sport extraordinaire) counted us down to the kick-off.
Despite protests, Chris was insistent that taking an overland route would result in immediate disqualification.
Attempting to cram a 10 mile race into its first half-mile, Jan, Eric Constanzo, Matt Drayer, Mike Dostal, Ben Pigott, and Andrius Zinkevichus launched off the line with breath-taking fervor. After weaving through the moored boats behind the breakwater, they led the field of 23 boats out of the inner harbor. I thought I had started strong, but I still had to claw past Jim Hoffman, Wesley, Tim Dwyer, and Joe Shaw before I could throw myself into pursuit of the Sprinting Six. Hasty Hexad? Slippery Sextet? Whatever you called those half-dozen hellions, you had to both respect their audacity in going out so fast and hope that they'd suffer dearly for it.
Jan's traditional pre-race interpretive dance fails to draw much of a crowd these days. (Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
We had a mile and a half of fetchless downwind before we cleared into the open water of Buzzards Bay. My game-plan was to take the lead before we hit bigger conditions, then nobly hold on as Eric and Jan tried to shamelessly exploit the power of the waves and wind to overtake me. It might have worked, too, had I only been a much better paddler.
By the time we reached the true downwind portion of the course, I was in third place behind Mike and Jan. Off my plan a bit, sure, but perhaps I could bend a little. Given that there was no clear landmark to identify the finish and considerable pre-race debate about the optimal wind-wave-current trade-off, it was no surprise the the field was already starting to fan out. The two leaders headed offshore. Vowing to maintain contact with Jan at all costs, I followed their outside line from a half-dozen boat lengths back.
As Mike and Jan veered further away from shore over the next mile, however, I gradually started to shake free of that restrictive resolution. Surely we were sacrificing too much straight-line distance by chasing the wind and waves into the bay. The veering continued. Eventually, I lost my nerve and broke off pursuit to follow a more moderate line.
I was wondering what that sound was. (Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
I could periodically make out Eric's black boat well inside of me. I
also caught fleeting glimpses of another distant paddler on a similar
line that was unmistakably Jim (mustache gave him away). Given that every time I turned to look for them I would come heart-stoppingly close
to swimming, I decided to concentrate on my own boat. And Jan's, of course. Although Mike had been in front the last time I checked the outsiders, Jan now seemed to have promoted himself to squadron leader. According to the man himself, at about this point he entered into that rarefied zone where every decision you make is the right one, every stroke perfectly executed. I'm not personally familiar with this zone, although I've spent a fair amount of time exploring its antipode. When I checked back again a few moments later, Jan had opened up a significant gap. Five minutes further on, I could no longer even locate him.
I'd like to return, for a moment, to an important topic
raised in a previous post. I'm referring, of course, to the dream I had
of flying squirrels the eve of the Peconic Bay Race. I need to clarify
a point that's caused a lot of confusion. While there are
"flying squirrels" with membranes between their legs that allow them to
glide (you know, like Glaucomys sabrinus), these lovable critters aren't the rodents that now infest my nightmares. No, I'm talking about eastern gray squirrels (Sciurus carolinensis)
who, though lacking any visible means of flight, are still able to dart through the sky. Let that sink in. Until further notice, I'm off
sleep.
Picking back up where we left off... You may remember that I was coasting in to the finish with a commanding lead. If so, you probably got smacked in the melon with a wind-blown surfski back on the beach. You should probably avoid falling asleep too. In reality, even though I was having a blast in the thrilling downwind conditions, I was still losing ground to the leaders. Although I was able to link together two or three nice runs at a time, I couldn't quite keep the chain growing. All too often, I found myself fighting the waves rather than working together with them for the common good (i.e., Jan's downfall).
Up ahead, Mike Dostal was making fools of us who speculated that "once that guy gets some
rough water experience, he's going to be a real threat!" Or maybe we had just grossly overestimated exactly how much experience he needed - perhaps the first ten minutes in Buzzards Bay were enough. In
any event, as our lines merged a few miles before the finish he was
leading by a good dozen boat lengths. For a while I clung to the hope that I could close the distance, but the cumulative evidence of Mike's increasing lead overwhelmed my misguided optimism.
This is why surfskis are so awesome. Even if you're just flailing out there, 1 out of every 10,000 strokes or so you'll end up looking vaguely cool.
So Jan and Mike would definitely finish ahead of me. Miles earlier I had seen both Eric and Jim on an inside line slightly behind me, but hadn't seen them since. I had no choice but to assume the best - that they had foundered on the rocks that Chris had warned us about off the entrance to West Falmouth Harbor. So it'd have to be third place. Just as I came to grips with this, through some kind of sixth sense (in the northern hemisphere it goes: smell, hearing, heebie jeebies, taste, touch, sight), I discovered that Tim had hunted me down and was moving in to drain me of any lingering hopes I had of a podium finish. The joke was on him, of course - we were actually battling for fourth place. Sucker.
Let's have a brief photographic interlude, brought to you with limited caption interruption...
(Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
(Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
(Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
(Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
From our thrilling Dwyer's Run earlier this season (Point Judith to
Jamestown, express), it was clear that Tim had the superior downwind
skills. I'd gotten all-too-familiar with his receding stern that day,
and here he was, about to rub my face in it again. I had no choice but
to paddle more aggressively. I had literally been on the edge for the
past half-hour as I struggled to make the most out of each runner, but
this move increased the likelihood of an irrecoverable mistake from
"inevitable" to "imminent".
Tim and I see-sawed for several minutes, all the while exchanging baseless theories about the location of the finish. He hypothesized that it might be the low-lying shoreline somewhat to our left, while I speculated that perhaps Chris had designed the course as a metaphysical lesson - we could only finish once we'd embraced the ambiguity of life. Or hit Martha's Vineyard. Tim was ultimately proven right, but I think we missed a real opportunity for personal growth and/or cocktails with a Kennedy.
Eventually, I hooked into a couple of good runs and put a little daylight between us. Although it had looked like Tim and I might be gaining slightly on Mike, he was now nowhere to be seen. After the race, I found out that he had capsized, remounted, recapsized, and then become so inextricably tangled in his leash that, had he had a knife, he would have used it to put himself out of his misery. He had run 85% of the race splendidly, but this extended struggle would cost him 8 places in the finishing order.
I'm filing this one under "learning experience", although there's precious little rationale for that.
I needed to stay ahead of Tim at all costs. Lacking the skills to maneuver gracefully through the undulating sea, I continued to throw myself recklessly down every wave within paddle's reach. This was a thrill ride, and what's a thrill ride without a corkscrew inversion? I was just hoping to avoid the loop-the-loop (and the at-least-we-found-his-watch). I managed to fend off destiny for a while with some well-placed braces and foxhole prayers, but fate is, by definition, unavoidable. I over-corrected on a run and suddenly found myself watching Tim pass by from my new underwater home.
I can't wait for the day when Tim and I start mis-remembering this as the time we dueled for the Cape Cod win. What a battle for the gold! (Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
With a mile left to the finish, perhaps I still had time to recover from my near-fatal enthusiasm. I clambered back into the bucket and set off after Tim, working hard but keeping the thrills to a manageable level (halfway between "titillating" and "hair-raising"). My more measured approach paid off. With a quarter mile left, I was again even with Tim. As we approached the finish, a crazed kite-boarder buzzed by us, threatening to disembowel us if we didn't clear off his line. At least, that was my in-the-moment interpretation of what turned out to be his enthusiastic cheering. This was Peter Traykovski, a multi-talented friend of Chris (you should hear him on the pan flute) who had taken some spectacular drone footage at the start of the race.
I've never been involved in a finish as close at that with Tim in the steepening waves near the shore. I'd catch a run to momentarily seize the lead, only to have it yanked out from under me as I wallowed back over the crest and he rode by on the subsequent wave. The flip of a wave decided the winner, and I ended up ahead. There may have been some minor technical infractions committed as I struggled to control my boat in close quarters in the final dash, but Tim graciously declined to file a protest. His wounds were mostly superficial.
Jan had taken first, with Eric and Jim (apparently having survived being dashed on the rocks) respectfully close on his heels. Tim and I were a full three minutes behind Jim, but everyone gamely pretended we were close. The top ten was rounded out by Matt, Bruce Deltorchio, Joe Shaw, Wesley, and Ben. Leslie Chappell scored her first series win ever, with Mary Beth taking second (and swearing that never again would she lose to that blankety-blank).
Mary Beth requests that I clarify that this was a wholly fabricated "joke". She also insisted on the quote marks.
After the race we retired to Chris and Patty's house for lunch, beers, and awards. In addition to winning the race, Jan was crowned the newest SurfskiRacing.com series champion. He's had a spectacular year in the series, capped with a convincing Downwind victory. For the fourth consecutive year, I was relegated to second place (or as I like to think of it - first place, native-born division). Eric finished a strong season by taking third. Mary Beth is the new women series champion, which I'm sure won't come up at all this winter at home.
The new SurfskiRacing.com series king with his court jesters. (Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
Thanks to Chris, Patty, and eagle-eyed Rita for hosting the race, Rich Carl and Lu Ann Burgess for manning the chase boat, and Wesley for piloting another SurfskiRacing.com series safely into harbor. Speaking of which... Eric's New England Surfski series finishes up next weekend in Maine with the recently renamed Glicker Downwinder. It's another winner-take-all battle with Jan, so let me know what it'll take to secure your (ahem) loyalty.
Everyone has that friend. The one that tells you that you just have to go to such-and-such a restaurant and try their possum sliders (I'm assuming your friend is from Appalachia). Bob Capellini's not quite that friend (too refined a palette), but he has been tireless in promoting the Great Peconic Race as a must-do event. We had heard so many good things about this 20 mile circumnavigation of Shelter Island (mostly from Bob, sure, but with an occasional "Hear, hear!" from the Ocean Paddlesports East gents) that Mary Beth and I decided that we had to add it to our bucket list, then check it off immediately.
If you think of Long Island as an eastward-facing alligator with Brooklyn at its tail and Montauk its lower jaw (there's a Staten Island joke here, but I'm just a shade too classy to make it), Shelter Island is the unfortunate armadillo in its toothy maw. The only access to this well-protected island is via reciprocal ferries at the north and south ends. Although this isolation usually keeps the riffraff at bay, the residents of Shelter Island (technically known as "Shelterians", but more colloquially just called "Lawyers, Doctors, and Hedge Fund Managers") would be invaded this weekend by well over a hundred paddlers.
Bob, perhaps not fully understanding how ferries work, wouldn't lay off the horn.
Bob and Linda Capellini graciously opened up their Long Island home (roundabouts the spleen) to out-of-town paddlers. Jan Lupinski, Jesse Lishchuk, Mary Beth and I jumped on the opportunity. We had heard great things about Bob's flame-roasted pizza, and we weren't disappointed. I swore that I wouldn't reveal all his secrets, but suffice it to say that if you aren't forced to pull the pin of a fire extinguisher at some point, you're doing it wrong. After a wonderful dinner, we retired early to dream of glorious victory and of squadrons of flying squirrels (which may sound kind of adorable, but trust me - it does not end well).
Since registration started at 7 and we still had three-quarters of a gator and an entire ferry between us and Shelter Island, we convoyed out from Casa Capellini well before sunrise (warily watching the darkened skies). Arriving at the upscale-quaint town of Greenport, we took the North Ferry across to the island and made our way to the start at Wades Beach. A sizable fleet was already laid out on the sand. The race is open to any human-powered craft, with a healthy mix of kayaks, skis, outriggers, and rowing vessels. However, more than half the participants were on SUPs (including some top-caliber talent drawn by the generous paddleboard prize money), leading to several cases of severe body dysmorphia among other paddlers.
Before the race, some guy started yelling through a megaphone. He had some interesting thoughts on the End Days, so we stuck around to hear his message of torment and despair.
One of the downsides of racing on Shelter Island is the difficulty in finding reasonably priced accommodations within 50 miles. Tim and Alyce Dwyer were forced to abandon their lodgings when it became clear that they were starring in an European art-house horror film. They spent the night shivering in existential angst on the floor of the Hoffman-Ceconi-Delgaudio rental house. Eric McNett camped out in his van in the beach parking lot, leading to a series of hastily erected "Stranger Danger!" posters around the island. Bill Kuklinski and Kirk Olsen... didn't have any problems. That just doesn't make sense.
The field was stacked at the top. Returning as defending champion, Austin Kieffer is hands-down the best American surfski paddler. Given that there were no entrants from the southern hemisphere, the eventual winner of the race wasn't in much doubt. Similarly, Jesse seemed a lock for second unless he snapped both his paddle and a rudder line. Pam Boteler and Eric were in an Epic V10 Double, despite limited experience paddling together. I'd never catch them in the flat, but with the forecast showing a lively breeze from the northeast, I thought perhaps they might be chopped down to a beatable size. Of course, Jan was my real focus. After besting me in five consecutive races earlier in the season, I had gotten the better of him in the last three (with assists from his mutinous kidney, conceded). I sensed this wasn't sitting well with Jan.
The skis and outriggers lined up for an uncharacteristically orderly start and we were soon sent off. Austin and Jesse were out of sight before I finished my third stroke, which made it easier to concentrate on my real competition - paddlers whose DNA hadn't been scrubbed of imperfect genes in top-secret government experiments. Jan quickly established himself as the Normal to beat, with Jim Hoffman (who may well have been accidentally subjected to gamma rays as a youth, but technically still qualifies as genetic-typical) also jumping out to a good start.
Judging by the skies, that guy may just be on to something.
With Pam and Eric accelerating to pass me, I was tossed bow-first into the in-class/out-of-class double drafting dilemma. Fortunately, the tandem pulled out of reach while I was still weighing the ethical considerations - doubtless saving me from yet another poor life decision (in my defense, Ralph Nader was saying all the right things). While the ominous sounding Nett-Bott was overtaking Jan up ahead, I managed to skirt around Jim.
Emerging from the lee of the island we were enthusiastically greeted by the headwinds. They meant no harm with their playful rough-housing, but weighing in at a hefty 12 to 15 mph, they weren't aware of their own strength. Luckily, they lavished most of their exuberant affection on the unsuspecting SUP contingent. By keeping a low profile (dressing conservatively and not making any sudden movements), I was able to avoid the worst of the blow-back. Despite my efforts, however, over the next few miles Jan managed to extend his lead to a dozen lengths. As I learned in the Sakonnet River Race, he slices through upwind slogs like a dull knife through my heart. Pam and Eric also powered well through this stretch, opening a significant gap on Jan.
We had been notified that the Coast Guard would be shepherding race traffic through the ferry zones, stopping paddlers when necessary to ensure the safety of all. As we approached the North Ferry, I sprinted to make contact with Roger Gocking and the tandem of Gary Williams and Robin Francis (all of whom started 10 minutes before us in the kayak class), figuring that our crossing guard would be disinclined to split up a line of competitors. There were no ferries in the vicinity at the time, so my strategy was pretty effective. Also effective (according to an anonymous source in the lead double ski) - arguing forcefully with the officiating Guardsman. I imagine a McEnroe-like tirade: "You've got to be kidding me! Are you blind? That ferry isn't even close to running us down!"
Clearing Hay Beach Point at the northernmost corner of the island, we faced 3.5 miles of wind quartering off our sterns. You could get some respectable rides, but only if you were willing to sacrifice the rhumb line and instead snake your way to the next point. I decided to maintain a direct course, although my under-ruddered boat would occasionally get forcefully swung downwind by a particularly aggressive wave. Jan and the double took an inside line, perhaps because they were more actively pursuing runners.
When we converged again, I found myself only a half-dozen lengths behind Jan, who himself had nearly caught Pam-n-Eric. Once we rounded Ram Island (which remains stubbornly attached to Shelter Island, despite its name), we were in true downwind conditions. With 12 miles worth of fatigue under my belt, I was too saddle-weary to catch every available ride, but I was able to link together enough runs to keep close. Up ahead, an elegant duel was unfolding as Jan and the double danced for supremacy. My own elaborate feints and parries would have been a lot more effective had they not all been made several lengths behind the others.
As the downwind portion of our adventure drew to its inevitable end (which wasn't, as it turns out, me sailing effortlessly by Jan), I consulted a mental map of the island to see what the next leg would bring. Someone had folded the thing all wrong and then mistakenly filed it under "Shetland Ponies" (a memory folder still overflowing from a 4th grade field trip), so it took a moment to find it and then get my bearings. I just about had it figured out what to expect next when a vigorous headwind ripped the map clean out of my grasp. Oh yeah.
Having fought back to within striking distance of Jan (you know, with like a slingshot or something), I'd be damned if I let him widen the gap again in the 3 mile upwind grind confronting us! After a few minutes of introspection, I decided that "damned" might be too severe a word. I amended my oath to use "blasted". A little while later, I decided that "despondent" would be more appropriate. Now that it was more of a statement of fact than a vow, I threw myself whole-heartedly down that slippery slope, passing through "miserable", "disappointed", and "saddened" before finally landing on "curiously indifferent". Paddling upwind will do that to you. Unless "you" is Jan, unfortunately.
When we finally turned around the next marker to put the wind abeam, Jan had doubled his lead. Pam and Eric, with their considerable advantage in power-to-surface-area ratio, had once again moved well ahead of us. I shook the upwind-induced apathy from my haunches (that's where it pools) and, staring fixedly ahead, focused on clean and powerful strokes. Then I did my best crude imitation of them, managing to seize back some of the hard-lost ground between us. We soon neared the South Ferry crossing.
Because reveling in the misfortune of one's competitors is generally considered bad form, I tried to tamp down the growing sense of elation I felt upon realizing that Jan would soon be crushed by an oncoming ferry. If I spent only a brief amount of time fruitlessly searching for survivors - just enough to be polite - I figured I still had a pretty good shot at banking the third place check. Jan must have known he was on a collision course with the ferry, but I suppose he figured the captain would cede way to avoid all the tedious paperwork. His mistake. Cousin Jeremy owed me one from our days together in the Merchant Marines.
Unfortunately, the Coast Guard spoiled everything by swooping in from behind to stop us with a staccato siren. I left off paddling at the same time as Jan - not out of a misguided show of sportsmanship, but so that he wouldn't see me weeping in frustration over opportunity lost. In the minute or so until the Coast Guard waved us forward, I composed myself and prepared for one final attack against my seemingly tireless nemesis.
Mary Beth finished so strong that we had to physically restrain her from taking another lap.
Coming around Wards Point with Jan three lengths ahead, I could finally see the terminus of our long voyage about a half-mile further on. It was time for drastic measures. After breaking the glass labeled "Emergency Use Only", I flipped the switch to initiate my self-destruct sequence. I had 3 minutes of all-out paddling before complete immolation. An initial surge of power cut the distance between us in half, but then the klaxons alerted Jan to my intentions. Unbeknownst to me, he had recently upgraded his drive system, allowing him to easily match my speed. There was nothing I could do to close the gap separating us. My faux-robot voice counting down "Four... Three... Two...", I keyed in the abort code just in time to avoid an embarrassing scene on Wades Beach. At 2:41:11, I had finished 5 seconds behind Jan.
Austin had finished nearly 15 minutes ahead of us at 2:26:31, with Jesse taking second at 2:34:31. Pam and Eric grabbed the third overall spot at 2:39:33. The rest of the top 10 at the Great Peconic: Jim, Tim, Steve DelGaudio and Mark Ceconi (in a double), Bob, and Mary Beth. Special honors go to Sinclair Ims, a newcomer to paddling (summer of 2015 new, to be specific) who, while gutting it out around the island in challenging conditions, also perfected the innovative training concept of remount intervals. I suspect that next year we'll see more of Sinclair (than his bobbing head). We all evolved from aquatic origins.
First, second, and Bob.
In the (hopefully temporary) absence of the Lighthouse-to-Lighthouse, the Great Peconic is peerless in the after-party department. With excellent food and beer, demo boats, a great collection of raffled items, and some valuable prizes (in addition to the cash awards), almost nobody minded waiting around for the last SUP to finish. Thanks to all the volunteers and safety boats for a splendid day on the hapless armadillo.
This coming weekend the Cape Cod Downwind will settle the scores in the SurfskiRacing.com point series. Unless I can figure out a way to beat Jan there, the crown will once again be heading across the Hudson.
Nobody can deny that Rhode Island has a proud history worthy of appreciation. Crafting a full-fledged state out of a forgotten parcel small enough to be written off as a surveying error? A real credit to Yankee ingenuity. Let's say on that basis that Rhode Island merits a couple of surfski races a year. As the honorary ski capital of the region, it was granted a third race. A coalition of Rhodies greased the right palms and somehow obtained a fourth race. Not quite fair, but you gotta admire their gumption.
Recognizing that no rational paddler would consent to a fifth surfski race in Rhode Island without some additional incentive (what with hapless Connecticut starving right next door), Tim Dwyer sweetened the pot by somehow tricking defending world champion Sean Rice into racing with us. Coincidentally, Tim would also be hosting Sean (and his partner Emily) for two sold-out weekend clinics. Padawan Jesse Lishchuk would also be attending the festivities.
During the captains meeting Sean sized up the competition, but even that didn't help us.
The weekend's race was formerly called "Rose Island Lighthouse Battle of the Bay", but too many people were dozing off before getting to the end. Now it's just "Battle of the Bay". We'll be cutting out 3 more words from the name each subsequent year, so vote now for which one word you'd like to remain next year (I'm throwing my weight behind "Of") and start thinking about which two words we'll be removing from the English language when we go negative in 2017.
The course was to be a 5.3 mile loop that would take us across the bay around the north end of Rose Island, through Newport Harbor inside of Goat Island, back across the bay to Clingstone, and returning to the Yacht Club. With some bouncy chop, two busy channel crossings, and the old-money decadence of Newport, we'd experience a full range of conditions in our short journey. To give us ample opportunity to be humbled mid-race by their superior skills, Sean and Jesse would give us more seasoned paddlers a head start (of 5 and 3 minutes, respectively).
Once everyone had met the new kid and listened attentively as Tim reviewed the rudder-shredding perils that awaited us if we failed to keep the rusty steel ball to our right, we paddled out for a start into the quartering waves. True to form, Andrius Zinkevichus and Jan Lupinski took the early lead on parallel tracks. I climbed my way past Wesley, Tim D, and Joe Shaw to move into third position. From there it was a long jump to catch Andrius, but a menacing sailboat provided precisely the boost of terror I needed to bridge the gap.
By the time we reached the rusty steel ball, I had pulled into the lead, with Jan and Andrius trailing by a couple of boat lengths. The run to Goat Island was largely downwind, with some kiddie rides available for a small fee. I noticed Jan well off to my starboard, obviously looking for a way to cut to the front of the line. He didn't seem to be gaining ground, so I stayed my more direct course.
A quarter mile before reaching Goat Island, Jan slid in unexpectedly from the left and latched onto my port bow wake with an audible click. Apparently he had found the loophole he had been searching for. The champagne and caviar I had packed in expectation of a leisurely sight-seeing cruise through Newport Harbor were going to have to wait. This would be grueling.
Nobody has more naked disdain for stand up paddlers than Tim, so I
wasn't surprised to find that he had scheduled our race to coincide with
a SUP race around Goat Island. If we "accidentally" thinned out their
herd when we crossed paths, Tim would shed no tears. Jan and I sliced
through the lead pack of shuffling water zombies, careful to evade their
highly contagious marketing hype so as to avoid finding ourselves balanced precariously on a 14' slab with a cooler of beer behind us. At our race after-party nobody called me "brah" or "dude", so it looks like we all made it through unscathed.
Uh-oh. Could be that it's really Tim's antiSUPism that's dangerously infectious.
The trip through Newport Harbor was unexpectedly lucrative. Apparently thinking that nobody would intentionally captain
such insubstantial craft (powered by hand levers, no less!), several
philanthropically-minded mega-yacht owners took us for beggars and
tossed silver dollars and junk bonds into our footwells. Some less
compassionate aristocrats threatened to call the gendarmes, however, so I
didn't tarry. In my haste to escape the exclusive harbor, I managed to gap Jan.
The beamy waves on the crossing back toward Clingstone meant that I
daresn't chance a peek back to check for stalkers, lest I tumble from
my steed (sorry - the Newport influence). As I rounded buoy G11 near Clingstone to turn
for home, however, I did catch a glimpse of Jan about a half-minute
behind. I searched gropingly for a higher gear, but the grinding sound
and cloud of smoke issuing from my transmission indicated that I'd be lucky if I could keep it in first.
Even
though Sean had given us a five minute head start, there was little
doubt that he would catch me before the finish. Long before I could see
him, I felt a reassuring warmth on my back that could only be the aura
of approaching greatness. Halfway between G11 and the Yacht Club, the
nose of his Uno Max surged into my periphery. I tried to avert my eyes,
as we had been taught, but he exploded into my field of view so quickly that I couldn't shift my gaze in time. The full splendor of the
reigning world champion remains imprinted on my retinas (which, I'll
admit, has proven a bit distracting when trying to get a good look at
the sun).
Sean offered no words of encouragement as he passed. A simple "Wow! I
didn't know Dawid and Jasper had another brother!" would have been
nice. I'm not sure Sean even noticed me. He wasn't a fellow
competitor. This was a steely-eyed pro doing a training session that
just happened to coincide with our race. Based on his measured cadence
and lack of apparent effort, Sean was warming down by the time he
reached me. Of course, this didn't stop him from streaking by like a
well-oiled springbok. I suggested to myself that we hop on Sean's
draft, which had us both rolling in the bucket with laughter.
With
tears still in my eyes, I made it back to the Yacht Club a minute or so
behind Sean. Although I was the second to cross the finish line,
Jesse's corrected time was more than a minute better than mine, dropping
me to the final podium step. Jan and Joe Shaw comprised the rest of
the top five (or the mortal top three). Mary Beth once again was in a
class by herself.
After lunch at Spinnakers, Tim compelled the top finishers to don
inflatable novelty hats (whispering to Sean that it would be perceived
as an insult to the natives if he refused) and pose for blackmail
photos. Once that indignity was out of the way, Sean was able to start
his Saturday clinic at Bay Voyage Beach. Not invited to that particular
party, Bruce, Jan, and I leaned back on the grills of our nearby cars
and coolly mocked the goody two-shoes students to mask our disappointment
and shame.
As always, Mary Beth is blissfully unaware of the mayhem that she leaves in her wake.
Overflowing with energy from the
cheese-slathered and bacon-laden sandwich I had wolfed down earlier, I
soon made the cholesterol-muddled decision to take another paddle. I
was hoping to catch some good runs from the northerly breeze, so I
powered five miles through upwind slop (supplemented by a generous
helping of wakes from boats passing unnecessarily close) to the end of
Conanicut Island. Exhausted by this effort and the morning's race, my
"run" back to Jamestown would better be characterized as a "limply
assisted drift". Fortunately, I eventually washed up to shore close to
the Yacht Club. If any oceanographers out there are interested in my
GPS track for Narragansett Bay current analysis, let me know.
We congregated at Tim's for a post-clinic relaxation session on his
front porch, where Sean and Emily graciously fielded an endless barrage
of questions about their travels, other elite-level paddlers, and what
it's like to hike unassisted across Siberia. I'm not convinced that Joe
Shaw knew exactly who Sean was. We then enjoyed a delicious dinner
cooked up by Alyce, Gaelyn, and Tim, supplemented by a work-of-art salad
provided by Tim Hudyncia (from his under-appreciated Early Quinoa
period) and chowder lovingly made by Bob Wright from unsuspecting clams
he wrested himself from the fetid inter-tidal sludge of Jamestown (when you
put it that way, I'll have another serving!).
Saturday's clinic focused mainly on posing for group pictures. Don't worry guys - you'll get it someday.
Urged on
by the rapt dinner audience, Sean regaled us with incredible stories of
paddling from around the world. It's tough to one-up a tale that
involves getting bitten on the face by a seal during a Miller's Run, but
we all gave it our best shot. I thought my story of a particularly
yappy little dog harassing me from his yard when I was out for a jog was
the winner, but there was some push-back on that front. Agree to
disagree. We concurred, however, that the South Africans were enthralling dinner guests.
Once Sean and Emily had retired/escaped for
the night, Tim fired up the Apple TV so that we could binge on videos of
surfski races and platform tennis matches (thanks Alyce - I was
starting to feel seasick). For those of you unfamiliar with the latter,
I recommend a visit to the Platform Tennis Hall of Fame site, where you
can read about the daring exploits of Buffy Briggs, Flip Goodspeed, and
Mortimer "Mojo" Jonglemeister III (I may have made that last one up).
Eventually the rigors of the day came to collect their toll, and the
remaining overnight guests turned in.
Sean checked each of us to make sure everything was hunky-dory. Chris' foot plates were angled incorrectly and his cockpit was over-padded. But his boat was fine.
Serenaded
awake by the early morning foghorns of Narragansett Bay (at about 4am),
we gathered in the Dwyer kitchen. After a groggy breakfast of scrambled
garlic (the key is to add just a dash of egg) and bagels, the
sleep-over crew was reinforced with new recruits for the morning's
clinic at Fort Wetherill. After an hour or so of on-land instruction,
we would hit the unpredictable waters of the Ride the Bull course for
more advanced training. I received some practical set-up advice from
Sean in the first part of the session - move my GPS to a higher position
(so that I'm not always looking down), tighten my PFD straps (because
otherwise I "look like a hobo"), and stop wearing the same shorts for
every paddle (because otherwise I "smell like a hobo"). Fortunately, I managed to hide my lucky bindle before he got started on that too.
Tim and I had spent weeks choreographing our ski dance, but even the big finish failed to impress Sean. I guess once you've seen Hank MacGregor and Oscar Chalupsky perform Swan Lake on the water, you get a little jaded.
Unexpectedly mild conditions meant that our on-water work was largely concentrated on trying to keep lined up abreast so that we could properly see Sean. He walked us through several useful drills and exercises (that's how miraculously good he is), provided valuable training insights, and provided feedback on our individual strokes. I wasn't aware that itinerant train hoppers had a characteristic paddling style, but I apparently share it. The day after the clinic I tried one of the interval sessions that Sean had recommended. The sheer brutality of this workout made me quit surfskis
and take up knitting. Does anyone know some merciless purling drills
that might traumatize me back onto the water?
All too soon, the clinic was over. Sean and Emily couldn't have been nicer folks, nor the Dwyer family better hosts (I'll give them a pass on the foghorns). It was a truly memorable weekend. I can't wait to see what the Rhode Islanders have up their sleeves to promote a sixth race next season!
Sean and I bonded on an emotional level that transcends the $20 I slipped him to stand next to me in the photo.
For those of you wondering how you're going to fill your time before the next open water race in late September, why not head to the Great Stone Dam Classic in Lawrence on September 13? It helps fund a great cause, Francisco Urena (one-time local paddling legend, currently not-so-local real-world legend) is co-chair, and shark attacks are exceedingly rare. Turtles... that's another story.
If you're anything like me, you're inordinately fond of circus peanuts. And, more to the point, you're suffering a nasty case of race report fatigue. In an effort to minimize our collective discomfort, I'll keep this concise. Actually, let's go with "more concise". Polonius claims that brevity is the soul of wit, but I'm pretty confident I can dispel that notion here. The windbag ends up getting stabbed through a tapestry while spying, so I'm not sure you should be trusting his judgment anyway.
It lacks the portability and cost-effectiveness of PVC, but Rob's classy stand lent gravitas to the proceedings.
With a mild southerly breeze and incoming tide, Nahant Bay race director Mike McDonough decided to run the classic triangular course so popular with the Pythagorean set. Starting from Fisherman's Beach in Swampscott, we'd tack across Nahant Bay, edge around East Point, turn on a channel marker a half-mile further on, make our way across the mouth of the bay outside of Egg Rock, round Off Rock, skirt Dread Ledge, and return for a beach finish. The mild conditions meant that it was unlikely that Bill Kuklinski would be window-shaded at Off Rock again, so you could get pretty favorable odds at post time.
I'm not sure what Mike did to upset everyone in the greater Swampscott area, but local paddlers Matt Drayer, Graeme Rockett, and Bill Stafford chose to boycott the race. Matt went so far as to run the course alone in the early morning, cheekily submitting his time as a slap-in-the-face protest. He did well, but Mike DQ'ed him for failing to finish between the flags. With Matt out of the picture and Jan Lupinski unable to attend due to being a scaredy-cat (who, coincidentally, may have also had legitimate commitments and a four hour drive behind which he could hide his faint-heartedness), I was guessing that I'd be jousting primarily with Eric McNett, Eric Costanzo, Andrius Zinkevichus, and Ben Pigott.
During the captains meeting, Mike kept stopping to ask us if we could also see "Leprechaun Gary".
Mike gathered the twenty-two paddlers (including a couple of OC-1 guys loitering around the park looking for trouble) for a quick captains meeting, the take-home message being that a Mexican feast would await us after the race. With visions of tacos and quesadillas dancing in our heads, we made our way onto the water for a brief warm-up. Conditions at the start favored those more comfortable on flat water, but from past experience I knew that once we hit East Point, the tables (and perhaps a few boats) could quickly turn. Perennial Nahant Bay assistant Bill Baumann soon lined us up from the dock, counted us down to the start, and then (judging by its conspicuous absence at the post-race party) broke into Mike's car and drank all of the tequila.
Ben, in his newly-purchased canary yellow Stellar, took the immediate
lead, followed by Andrius, Eric Costanzo, and Bruce Deltorchio. A few
minutes into the race, I pulled myself up to Bruce and tried to catch a
breather. Despite his reputation as a mild-mannered gentleman and
stand-up paddler (trapped in a surfski world), Bruce isn't quite as
gold-hearted as everyone thinks. Enraged by my clumsy attempts to draft
off his port quarter, he responded with a torrent of salty abuse. If
you want to get technical, it was more of a torrent of salty water, but
the metaphor was clear enough. I took the hint and swung wide to avoid
his refreshing liquid chiding.
Fraternization is frowned upon at Nahant Bay.
By the time I had gotten around Bruce, the lead pack of Ben, Andrius, and Eric had opened up a gap of two or three boat lengths. My whining pleas for them to slow down ("Hey guys, come on. Wait for meeee!") were met with stone-backed indifference. Not wanting to miss out on all the fun they must be having up front, I silenced the annoying "Danger! Danger! Danger!" alarm emanating from my heart rate monitor and threw myself into the chase. This effort had no discernible effect at a human timescale, but geologically speaking, I was making gains that gave continental drift a real run for its money.
I managed to catch Andrius and Eric before the next mass extinction event could end us all. I used the psychological boost of that accomplishment to slingshot (well, maybe "inch" would be more accurate) myself past Ben and into the lead. Now it was just a matter of holding everyone off until a meteor or super-volcano etched the mid-race standings into the record books.
The remainder of the trip across Nahant Bay was about as pleasant as it could be while suffering from severe oxygen debt. I figured I'd eventually evolve to breathe carbon dioxide, so that helped to keep my spirits up. As expected, at East Point the smooth seas evaporated (climate change, I suppose) to be replaced by saucy refractory waves. I kept close to shore in rougher waters, hoping that any flat water specialists behind me would follow lemming-like to their doom. Only my paddle prevented me from rubbing my hands together in malevolent glee thinking about the prospect. I probably cackled, though.
After maneuvering through the fleet of spectator boats surrounding the
turn buoy, I headed back across Nahant Bay. Nearing Egg Rock, I decided
to kick my bailer open for a few seconds to clear the last fifteen
minutes of accumulated sweat from the cockpit. Despite repeated
attempts, I only succeeded in pulling a neoprene shoe off my heel. The
bailer lever wouldn't budge. I would later discover that a plastic
component had broken off and lodged fast in the mechanism. At the time,
however, all I knew was that I now had an air-tight excuse if I blew
the lead! I'd just scoop some extra water into the footwell before
hitting the beach, then point accusingly at my traitorous boat.
Before sloshing on, I stole a quick glance over my shoulder to see
exactly to whom I'd be justifying my forthcoming defeat. My
uncorrected vision is such that I once argued over a parking spot for a
half-hour with a traffic cone. I still say I was there first. There
was a fuzzy presence back a couple hundred meters, but I could tell by
his determined blurriness that whoever it was meant business. Or was
actually a buoy. I wasn't about to stick around to find out.
I chose this frame from my GoPro as a representative example of the kind of lithe athleticism that I only ever seem to achieve in 1/60 of a second bursts.
I
spent the rest of the way to Off Rock ping-ponging back and forth
between fearing that the hazy blob would catch me and worrying that I'd
take a wave over the gunnel and swamp the boat. Rounding the rock, I
saw that I had a reasonably safe lead over a focused Eric. This left me
free to obsess solely over keeping water out of the cockpit, which
helped keep my mind off the grind of the last mile and a half. It was a
slow year compared to past races, but I eventually stumbled up the beach
for the win. Although I'd have no qualms claiming the opposite had
events turned out differently, the malfunctioning bailer didn't have a significant
impact on my race.
Eric has a well-earned reputation as a
rough water and downwind specialist, but with a solid second place
finish in calm-to-modest conditions I'm afraid we're going to have to
re-categorize him as an all-purpose paddler. Andrius took the final
podium position, with Bruce missing out on the top-three accolades by
only 17 seconds. The rest of the top ten: Eric McNett, Mike, Tim
Hudyncia, Ben, Kirk Olsen, and Bob Capellini. Mary Beth was the first
woman in, claiming her fifth title of the season.
Tim thought he was a lock for the coveted "Mr. Sourpuss" award, but ultimately had to settle for "Number One Badass".
I was elated to take first, but it would have been a truly hollow victory if it hadn't been for the excellent post-race Mexican spread - the real winner of the day. Thanks, Mike and Carol! The Rose Island Lighthouse race is up next, where Jan will almost surely make me pay dearly for that scaredy-cat joke.
For years Tim Dwyer has dreamed of running a downwind race from Point Judith to Jamestown, taking advantage of the prevailing south-easterly winds to hurtle us screaming across a 10+ mile span of open water. Since this route passes by the Beavertail Lighthouse that inspired the name of the Jamestown Double Beaver race, Tim decided to make the downwind run the official 2015 course (although the Beavertail would be little more than a blinking blur to competitors). Perhaps a quarter of the starters would never be seen again, but the finishers would be too jacked up on adrenalin to care very much.
The week before the race, Tim did a dry run of the proposed course. I
was there too, but nobody told me about the "dry" part. Conditions for
our trial were ideal - sustained winds of 15+ miles per hour out of the
southeast with air temperature in the low 80s. Venturing into uncharted waters, Tim and I conservatively decided to use our most stable boats - a V8 and a V10 Sport, respectively. Like alpinists preparing to set a new climbing route on Everest, we carefully reviewed our safety equipment - leg leashes, phones, VHF radio, supplemental oxygen, flares, etc. The oxygen might not be strictly necessary at our elevation, but it'd come in handy for any below sea-level excursions. Finally, I strapped a GoPro on my head to record our historic first descent for posterity.
Launching into the calm waters of the Harbor of Refuge, we soon ventured past the breakwaters into unprotected seas. It wasn't quite as rough as this year's Blackburn, but it was plenty raucous. We had to cover a half-mile of beam and quartering waves to get clear of Point Judith itself before we could start our run. After accomplishing that rocky traverse, Tim stopped to point out the hazy purple protuberance on the northeast horizon that marked the southern tip of Jamestown, 7.5 miles downwind from us. Then, with a slightly unhinged twinkle in his eyes, he launched himself over the edge. We were off.
I won't bore you with tales of our adventure - the break-neck speeds,
the seamlessly linked runs, the thrill of catching oneself at the last
moment before disaster (at least, I assume it would be
thrilling), the bitter frustration at missing yet another runner that
Tim managed to catch so easily (recording a top speed north of 13 mph in
doing so). Suffice it to say that Dwyer's Run lived up to its future
billing as the premier New England downwind paddle. You'll never have
more fun while wearing neoprene shorts and a heart-rate monitor (I'm
guessing). I couldn't wait for everyone else to experience the downwind fun at
this year's Double Beaver.
Alas. As we now all know, Tim failed to submit the required paperwork before the deadline, and thus his application for favorable race-day winds was returned by those pencil-pushers at the Bureau with a gleefully red "DENIED" stamp. Through some back-channel maneuvering, well-placed bribes, and a dozen sacrificed chickens, however, Tim was able to secure a vague promise for northerly winds. This fallback option would allow the Double Beaver to be run as a downwind course along the length of Conanicut Island. We'd start at the north end of the island, round the House on the Rock at the south end, and finish upwind at the Yacht Club, 8.8 miles the wiser.
Somewhere around the third hour of his "History of Rhode Island" lecture, Tim started to lose the crowd.
One unfortunate consequence of the course change was that we'd never even see the Beavertail Lighthouse. Muttering something about "brand continuity", Tim petulantly refused to change the name of the race, even though I supplied him with some damned fine alternatives (like my personal favorite - the Jamestown Meager Beaver). Who knew what kind of karmic retribution this misrepresentation might call down on us? Just to be safe, Mary Beth and I arrived in Jamestown early enough for a pre-race pilgrimage to the lighthouse. Everyone else was on their own.
Twenty paddlers gathered at Bay Voyage Beach in Jamestown, nineteen of whom are required to consult with their doctors before attempting any strenuous activity. Among the grizzled regulars one fresh-faced youth stood out. This was up-and-coming flatwater specialist Jesse Lishchuk. As an international-caliber U23 paddler, Jesse could likely complete a 1000 meter sprint before the rest of us even finished taking our medication. In a 9 mile race in modest chop, however... maybe we'd managed to also get a few strokes in.
After a well-executed shuttle drop at the launch site, we gathered around to await the last-minute arrival of Jan Lupinski. As usual, he'd have been right on time had we been holding the race in, say, Denver. Once Jan had borrowed an entire paddling outfit from me (in an attempt to trick Mary Beth into cheering him on from shore), we mounted up and headed out to the starting line. The wind was northerly, but at a disappointing 8 mph wasn't going to give us much to work with. I expect Tim probably mixed a few seagulls into his offering to save a buck or two. Studiously avoiding all eye contact, our conscience-stricken race director counted us down to a start.
I shudder to think of the carnage a South African style surf launch would wreak on this crew.
Jesse jumped out to an early lead, taking a line away from shore. Jan, Andrius Zinkevichus, Eric Costanzo, Jim Hoffman and I followed in his rapidly dissipating wake, while Tim, Wesley, and Joe Shaw seemed to be holding closer to the island. Over the course of the next few miles, I managed to catch and overtake Andrius, Eric, Jim, and Jan (who, in a moment of supreme confusion, I momentarily mistook for myself before the smooth stroke gave me... I mean him... away). Jesse extended his lead during this time, but didn't seem to be running away from us.
Although we started the race shortly before high tide, the currents within Narragansett Bay are notoriously difficult to predict. I perhaps should have figured out that I was on a suboptimal line when, two miles into the race, I glanced over to see someone - let's call him Paddler X to preserve his anonymity - near the shore keeping pace with me. I don't mean to cast aspersions on him (despite his pretentious moniker), but experience has indicated that by this stage in a race I should be safely ahead of him. How could Paddler X still be in the hunt? And yet there he was in his V10 with those dumb Toy Story figurines. Oops. I may have blown your cover, X.
There was some confusion about the new Double Beaver course.
In retrospect, it seems that paddlers closer to shore were escaping the tidal current that I was paddling against out in the channel. I've found that obliviousness is much closer to bliss than ignorance. Sprinkle a little knowledge on ignorance, next thing you know you're shrouding your loins with fig leaves and looking for a new home. Obliviousness, on the other hand, can shed a torrent of facts and explanations without the least dampening of spirit. Ample evidence that I was needlessly working against the tidal current? I reject the very concept of evidence! I chose to achieve inner peace through the path of obliviousness. Which just happened to coincide almost perfectly with that of the channel.
Fortunately, many of those smarty-pants paddlers who tried to game the system ran into problems later, when the confused currents of the Bay thwarted their best efforts to divine the transcendent path. I also heard reports that the inner line was rife with floating biological contaminants. Perplexed by his uncharacteristically slow pace, Tim Hudyncia leapt overboard to inspect his undercarriage. His official report indicated that he had "significant accumulations of organic material" on his rudder. Cleaning off the weeds seemed to restore his speed, but Tim's also taking a full course of amoxicillin - just to be sure.
At the five mile point, we passed under the Clairborne
Pell Newport Bridge (more commonly known as "The bridge to Jamestown.
No, not that one. The other bridge to Jamestown. No, wait, you
were right the first time."). With a central span of 488 meters, it's
the 87th long suspension bridge in the world (in your face, 486 meter
Brooklyn Bridge!). Now that I've paddled safely under Newport Bridge, I
only have 98 items remaining on my bucket list.
The remainder of the trip to turn buoy G9 I kept an eye on Olympic
Hopeful Jesse Lishchuk (which is an awkward way to refer to someone, but
I found soothing to my ego) from a safe distance back. Didn't want
to spook the skittish youngster by appearing suddenly at his side.
After the G9 turn, I saw that Jim and Eric had graciously elected to
provide me with the same courtesy, although I remained suspicious that
one of these jokers was planning a home-stretch surprise for me.
It's unclear why exactly we recreate Al Capone's infamous 1928 luau-themed birthday party every year, but I was relieved that the hula skirts and Tommy Guns were on back-order.
OHJL
swung very wide heading back to the Yacht Club, which gave me a
fleeting hope that I might be able to catch him via a more direct line.
No luck there, of course, but at least this starry-eyed vision of glory
kept me working hard through the finish. Jim, Eric, and a
hard-charging Joe all finished within a minute of one another, with Tim
(Dwyer variety),
Andrius, Wesley, Rowan Sampson, and Bruce Deltorchio filling the
remaining top-ten spots. Jim was subsequently assessed a 3 minute
penalty when it was discovered that his bright pink shirt violated
several local noise ordinances, slipping him from 3rd to 6th place.
As has become Double Beaver tradition, Tim burned off most of the goodwill he had engendered hosting the race by dressing the podium finishers in goofy costumes and skimping on the cigars. Iceland's Finest? Come on. I'll tell you what, Tim. Host another race, a couple of Sean Rice clinics, and a paddler slumber party next weekend. We'll call it even.
In the mean time, let's see if we can finally keep the Nahant Bay Cup in New England.
