For 38 years the Hull Lifesaving Museum has sponsored the Snow Row - a 3.6 mile triangular course that kicks off the New England race season. Despite the fact that you can see Hull jutting proudly into Boston Harbor from just about anywhere in Massachusetts, it's virtually impossible to actually get there. Combine that with the February date, and you end up with a particularly stalwart field of toughened adventurers, willing to brave both the frigid waters of Hingham Bay and the interminable tedium of Route 3A.
In the best of years, the Snow Row is a challenging race for kayakers - to the lumbering rowboats (a generic term I'll use to encompass the dizzying array of oared craft categories - workboats, whaleboats, pilot gigs, livery boats, coxed 4s, etc.) we're little more than flotsam to be batted out of the way. Recent legislative changes have made it illegal to deliberately "whack kayakers in the melon" (typical impenetrable legalese), but the courts have shown a lot of leeway to "heat of passion" and "he had it coming" defenses. So that's in a normal Snow Row year...
The Lifesaving Museum celebrates the heroic exploits of Hull native Joshua James
and his intrepid crew of civilian life-savers. Given that it has been well over a hundred years since James has actually saved anyone (a fact that I attribute
to complacency, but most ascribe to his death in 1902), the museum lacks a certain relevance in the YouTube age. Hell, I can probably go watch an orangutan rescue a puppy trapped in a well right now. Hold on a sec. [Three hours elapse] Man, I would not have thought there would be so many inspirational orangutan-puppy scenarios, but that just reinforces my point (and makes me want an orangutan). The Museum, hoping to punch up interest by manufacturing some modern-day life-saving situations (complete with drone footage), has established a bounty program for rowers willing to "facilitate" the process by putting paddlers in peril. Of course I'm speculating here, but the evidence seems overwhelming. Several paddlers told me that the sadistic glee they're used to seeing in the eyes of the rowers in the instant before impact was augmented by cartoon dollar signs this year.
The Snow Row course begins near the Windmill Point Boathouse, rounds low-lying Sheep Island, turns again at the Peddocks Island day marker, and returns to the start. The conditions for this year's race were refreshingly mild - 35 degrees, sunny, and only a slight breath of wind. A light incoming tide would push us forward on the first leg of the course, while we could tuck along Peddocks Island to avoid the current on the return stretch. All signs pointed to a very fast race.
The surfski contingent was a dozen strong, including five first-time Snow Paddlers: Eric Costanzo, Bruce Deltorchio, Bill Kuklinski, Jenifer Carter, and Mary Beth (in a ski this year). The war-scarred race veterans pointed out the course landmarks to the newcomers, while sharing their time-tested race strategies. These recommendations were not without controversy - some of the old-timers suggested playing dead, while other insisted that you needed to curl up into a ball and protect your neck and head. On one point everyone agreed - don't be a hero out there. If you see a fellow paddler in trouble... the commotion will probably buy you enough time to escape.
Surfskis, kayaks, and sliding-seat rowers were to start on the water in the last of four heats. Racers in the previous heats would all start by running down the beach to jump in their bow-grounded rowboats. The ensuing pandemonium of this ridiculous starting procedure is always good for a few laughs as the lumbering boats struggle to turn 180 degrees in tight quarters. Frantic course corrections, oars crashing against oars, the occasional gunnel-splintering collision - all great fun. Of course, the downside is that a good fraction of the rowers leave the opening melee quite grumpy.
Inexplicably, the first three waves of boats appeared to be plotting a course 18 degrees to port of the straight-line path to Sheep Island (and they told me I needn't bring my sextant!). I bleated out a feeble protest to my fellow Fourth Wavers prior to the start, but lacking any real backbone - it impedes proper paddling rotation - I fell in with the shepherd-less flock. We'd suffer a little longer due to this detour, but at least it would be a shared misery.
As the starter counted us down, I made last minute preparations for the looming competition - starting my GPS, inserting my mouth-guard, and repositioning my cup. Before I had a chance to rethink the wisdom of even being on the water, we were off. I hopped on Tim Hudyncia's wash for the first few moments of the race, as he and Wesley paddled side-by-side out of the gate. Eric and Bruce were forging separate paths twenty meters to the left, with Francisco and Tim Dwyer off to the right. The port contingent seemed to be pulling away from the field, so I swerved around the more immediate Tim and headed over to bum a ride off of Eric.
While Eric provided the lift I needed, I soon got the sense that he begrudged me the transport. He was too polite to say anything, but I did receive a text in which he intimated - via some disturbingly graphic emojis - that I was a blood-sucking parasite. And here I thought we were symbiotic. Not one to overstay my welcome (once engorged, that is), I eventually wormed my way past Eric and set out on my own. Eric had other ideas, however, and turned the tables by latching his mandibles onto my wash. I tried everything I could to shake the freeloader over the next half-mile, but even the pepper spray failed to dislodge him.
Despite being only one-third of the way into the race, navigating the treacherous waters around Sheep Island is the crux to a successful Snow Row. The field is often thinned by a shallow reef that extends off the southern tip of the island, but the real carnage takes place in the lawless frontier on the west side. The island focuses the broad spectrum of boats into a concentrated stream of white-foamed havoc, as rowers struggle to seize the best line and to vie for valuable paddler scalps. Hidden by the island from the watchful gaze of authorities back on the beach, chaos reigns. Like a mouse caught in a stampede of murderous elephants, the surfskier's only hope is to dart nimbly through the pack. I made it through by a whisker, but my tail wasn't so lucky.
Eric was knocked clean off of the draft by a few well-placed blows to the head and body. Fortunately, he's a doctor and was therefore able to successfully resuscitate himself and continue racing. I suspect that this encounter left him a little oar-shy, however, since he wasn't able to pull himself together enough to threaten me again. Slightly behind Eric, Bruce was using his boat as a shield - deftly maneuvering it to absorb the blows raining down in his direction.
Pretending not to hear the commotion behind me, I congratulated myself on dropping Eric through superior fitness. During the trip to the Peddock Island marker, I amused myself by sidling up close enough to rowboats to give them a sense of hope, then scurrying away at the last moment before they could strike. How I laughed at their impotent rage as they cursed after me! Surely there'd be no comeuppance in my immediate future. I rounded the marker and headed for home.
Closing rapidly on a pair of rowboats sparring with one another ahead, I needed to decide whether a port or starboard passing route would minimize my deviation. Despite the inconsequential nature of the decision, my fatigue-addled mind refused to offer up a definitive course. Like Solomon, I had no choice but to split the difference. The astute reader may sense where this is going.
I must admit that, in retrospect, I have some misgivings about the effectiveness of the Snow Row's new concussion protocol. It's unlikely that the the official who administered the test was holding up "twelve to sixteen" fingers or that he believed that my name was really Pocahontas McGee. And I'm not sure why exactly I had to turn my head and cough. Regardless, there I was paddling anew - none the worse for the... where am I again?
With a quarter mile left and no more slower boats ahead within motivational range, I felt my resolution to finish strong slip a few notches. Apparently sensing my flagging willpower, a four-man sliding seat boat surged into my starboard periphery. Their coxswain calling out the strokes, they quickly pulled even in preparation for a swift kill. I had jousted unsuccessfully with this same Cohasset behemoth last year (from a comfortable distance several dozen boat lengths behind, of course - no need to poke the beast unnecessarily), but thought that perhaps I could tilt the scales in my favor this year with a little demoralizing smack talk.
I can't recall exactly what was said, but after the race my GoPro audio was subpoenaed for the upcoming hate speech trial. Who knew rowers were a protected class? My playful gibes (as my attorney recommends I call them) didn't have quite the effect I had anticipated. Rather than causing them to collapse into a despondent torpor, those whimsical taunts (see previous comment) energized the Cohasset crew. Seconds later, I found myself sucking on their turbulent wash. Just like rowers, right? Cowardly running away from a fight, even though they had me outnumbered four-and-a-half to one (and no, your honor, that was not a small cox joke).
I had one final trick up my sleeve, however, and given that we were apparently throwing sportsmanship out the window, I had no qualms about using it. Cutting sharply behind the Cohasset boat on the starboard side, I aimed for a point just inside the outer finish line marker. In doing so, I cut a couple of boat lengths off the course length. My less maneuverable competitor couldn't match this, and I was able to apply a final burst of acceleration to nip them at the line by 3 seconds.
With a time of 28:48, I had easily broken the surfski course record. Now I just have to wait for the sands of time to obscure the fact that I was racing in extremely favorable conditions, and perhaps I'll be remembered as a paddler worthy of that honor. Even with his buffeting, Eric finished only a minute behind me (just missing the old record himself), with Bruce and Tim D about a minute behind him. Tim H might conceivably have been able to challenge those two paddlers for the final podium spot, but had to settle for fifth after suffering a last-minute capsize so violent that most of his cold-weather apparel was stripped from his body. That guy doesn't do anything halfway. Mary Beth edged Jenifer (appearing in her first ever race) to take the women's title.
Over the years, the modest post-race meal at the Snow Row has grown to become the area's premiere all-you-can-eat soup festival. That's particularly apt, because the competitors truly need the warmth and sustenance of nature's semi-liquid bounty to survive a harrowing awards ceremony that literally lasts longer than the race. I clocked it at 31:24, although that falls well shy of the 2014 record, during which a disgruntled rowing team from Connecticut filibustered for five and a half hours.
Our next race is on April 2 in Rhode Island. For the first time, the good folks at Narrow River Race LLC have decided to use PaddleGuru for registration. Give it a spin. It's a free race, but Tim and Wesley would appreciate knowing who's planning on coming. See you there!
*For the record, no paddlers were harmed in the running of this race. Any lasting oar-induced trauma was purely psychological. While Eric and Bruce were innocent victims (at least, in their telling), I'll admit that perhaps I did indeed "have it coming".
In the best of years, the Snow Row is a challenging race for kayakers - to the lumbering rowboats (a generic term I'll use to encompass the dizzying array of oared craft categories - workboats, whaleboats, pilot gigs, livery boats, coxed 4s, etc.) we're little more than flotsam to be batted out of the way. Recent legislative changes have made it illegal to deliberately "whack kayakers in the melon" (typical impenetrable legalese), but the courts have shown a lot of leeway to "heat of passion" and "he had it coming" defenses. So that's in a normal Snow Row year...
 |
| Bill Kuklinksi, Bruce Deltorchio, and Bob Capellini are influential figures in the surfski community, but everyone knows Bob Wright is the true ringleader of the powerful SeaB Coalition. |
The Snow Row course begins near the Windmill Point Boathouse, rounds low-lying Sheep Island, turns again at the Peddocks Island day marker, and returns to the start. The conditions for this year's race were refreshingly mild - 35 degrees, sunny, and only a slight breath of wind. A light incoming tide would push us forward on the first leg of the course, while we could tuck along Peddocks Island to avoid the current on the return stretch. All signs pointed to a very fast race.
 |
| My crack team of inspectors uncovered indisputable evidence of WMDs being stockpiled on the beach. |
Surfskis, kayaks, and sliding-seat rowers were to start on the water in the last of four heats. Racers in the previous heats would all start by running down the beach to jump in their bow-grounded rowboats. The ensuing pandemonium of this ridiculous starting procedure is always good for a few laughs as the lumbering boats struggle to turn 180 degrees in tight quarters. Frantic course corrections, oars crashing against oars, the occasional gunnel-splintering collision - all great fun. Of course, the downside is that a good fraction of the rowers leave the opening melee quite grumpy.
Inexplicably, the first three waves of boats appeared to be plotting a course 18 degrees to port of the straight-line path to Sheep Island (and they told me I needn't bring my sextant!). I bleated out a feeble protest to my fellow Fourth Wavers prior to the start, but lacking any real backbone - it impedes proper paddling rotation - I fell in with the shepherd-less flock. We'd suffer a little longer due to this detour, but at least it would be a shared misery.
 |
| Wesley and Tim attempted to paddle off into the sunset, but found that this wasn't so simple given that it was only 12:30. |
While Eric provided the lift I needed, I soon got the sense that he begrudged me the transport. He was too polite to say anything, but I did receive a text in which he intimated - via some disturbingly graphic emojis - that I was a blood-sucking parasite. And here I thought we were symbiotic. Not one to overstay my welcome (once engorged, that is), I eventually wormed my way past Eric and set out on my own. Eric had other ideas, however, and turned the tables by latching his mandibles onto my wash. I tried everything I could to shake the freeloader over the next half-mile, but even the pepper spray failed to dislodge him.
Despite being only one-third of the way into the race, navigating the treacherous waters around Sheep Island is the crux to a successful Snow Row. The field is often thinned by a shallow reef that extends off the southern tip of the island, but the real carnage takes place in the lawless frontier on the west side. The island focuses the broad spectrum of boats into a concentrated stream of white-foamed havoc, as rowers struggle to seize the best line and to vie for valuable paddler scalps. Hidden by the island from the watchful gaze of authorities back on the beach, chaos reigns. Like a mouse caught in a stampede of murderous elephants, the surfskier's only hope is to dart nimbly through the pack. I made it through by a whisker, but my tail wasn't so lucky.
Eric was knocked clean off of the draft by a few well-placed blows to the head and body. Fortunately, he's a doctor and was therefore able to successfully resuscitate himself and continue racing. I suspect that this encounter left him a little oar-shy, however, since he wasn't able to pull himself together enough to threaten me again. Slightly behind Eric, Bruce was using his boat as a shield - deftly maneuvering it to absorb the blows raining down in his direction.
Closing rapidly on a pair of rowboats sparring with one another ahead, I needed to decide whether a port or starboard passing route would minimize my deviation. Despite the inconsequential nature of the decision, my fatigue-addled mind refused to offer up a definitive course. Like Solomon, I had no choice but to split the difference. The astute reader may sense where this is going.
I must admit that, in retrospect, I have some misgivings about the effectiveness of the Snow Row's new concussion protocol. It's unlikely that the the official who administered the test was holding up "twelve to sixteen" fingers or that he believed that my name was really Pocahontas McGee. And I'm not sure why exactly I had to turn my head and cough. Regardless, there I was paddling anew - none the worse for the... where am I again?
 |
| While this kind of passing maneuver might fly with another ski, the repercussions of attempting it with a rowboat are still reverberating in my skull. |
I can't recall exactly what was said, but after the race my GoPro audio was subpoenaed for the upcoming hate speech trial. Who knew rowers were a protected class? My playful gibes (as my attorney recommends I call them) didn't have quite the effect I had anticipated. Rather than causing them to collapse into a despondent torpor, those whimsical taunts (see previous comment) energized the Cohasset crew. Seconds later, I found myself sucking on their turbulent wash. Just like rowers, right? Cowardly running away from a fight, even though they had me outnumbered four-and-a-half to one (and no, your honor, that was not a small cox joke).
 |
| Two of the SeaBs try to convince MB to drop the "Mary" and join them. |
With a time of 28:48, I had easily broken the surfski course record. Now I just have to wait for the sands of time to obscure the fact that I was racing in extremely favorable conditions, and perhaps I'll be remembered as a paddler worthy of that honor. Even with his buffeting, Eric finished only a minute behind me (just missing the old record himself), with Bruce and Tim D about a minute behind him. Tim H might conceivably have been able to challenge those two paddlers for the final podium spot, but had to settle for fifth after suffering a last-minute capsize so violent that most of his cold-weather apparel was stripped from his body. That guy doesn't do anything halfway. Mary Beth edged Jenifer (appearing in her first ever race) to take the women's title.
 |
| Francisco pulled a few political strings to catch a ride home on Sea Force 62, cutting three days off his trip. |
Our next race is on April 2 in Rhode Island. For the first time, the good folks at Narrow River Race LLC have decided to use PaddleGuru for registration. Give it a spin. It's a free race, but Tim and Wesley would appreciate knowing who's planning on coming. See you there!
*For the record, no paddlers were harmed in the running of this race. Any lasting oar-induced trauma was purely psychological. While Eric and Bruce were innocent victims (at least, in their telling), I'll admit that perhaps I did indeed "have it coming".
