Lighthouse to Lighthouse: 15 Lengths

After a record-breaking surfski turnout in 2014, the venerable Lighthouse to Lighthouse race was given a fallow year to regenerate.  Under the indefatigable stewardship of Gary Williams, however, the field was seeded for a fresh harvest this year.  And once again, the L2L would be hosting the East Coast Surfski Championship.  With 66 skis participating in the 7 and 14 miles races, this would easily be the largest surfski race east of the Rockies since the last L2L (sorry, Shark Bite - that was some rotten luck).

There's been a lot of speculation about why the 2015 race was cancelled.  One source told me that there was a permitting issue with the venue while another claimed that an important sponsor pulled their support.  Rather than just asking Gary, I started circulating my own baseless conjecture involving a beach quarantine after the loss of a nuclear sub off the Connecticut coast.  Regardless of the reason, the L2L was about to experience a glorious rebirth, emerging phoenix-like from the watery depths to raze Tokyo.  Wait... that can't be right.  Emerging Phoenix-like from its own ashes to become a popular retirement destination for aged paddlers?  Still not quite right, but close enough.

It's possible that I could have paid a little more attention at the captains' meeting.

From the start line off Shady Beach, we'd skirt outside of Sprite Island, the Peck Ledge Light, Goose Island, Copps Island, and Sheffield Island before rounding Greens Ledge Light and - all of that effort for naught - retracing our path to the finish.  Although billed as a 14 mile race, those who registered with the special coupon code (GARYRULZ) received a 5% mileage discount.  The forecast was for sun with light winds of 5 to 10 mph from the south.  With a lightly incoming tide and calm conditions, it could be a record fast day.

Our ancestors tell of a great paddler from the western frontier who would ply our New England waters every July, returning to his distant wilderness home only after besting our forefathers in ritual competition.  Seeing the mythic name of Erik Borgnes on the registration list for L2L, I looked in vain for a Junior or III qualifier.  Blowing the dust off the old Blackburn Challenge records (I really gotta clean my monitor more often), I was shocked to see that Erik had won that race as recently as 2008.  Hell, I think Wisconsin might even have been a state by then.

Ironically, once he finally got in his boat, Bruce just sat there smiling.

Erik was returning to New England, and this time he was bringing back-up.  And his father, Arne.  Sweeping through the upper Midwest on the way to Connecticut, they picked up Rob Hartman and Denny Paull - two of Michigan's finest paddlers.  With fellow Great Lakes paddlers Joe White, Ulli Sherer, John Hair, Todd Furstoss, and Paul Tomblin also making the trek east, I figured we had a pretty good shot at getting Gordon Lightfoot to write a song about the race should tragedy strike.  Other competitors from outside the immediate area included defending L2L champions Austin Kieffer (2016) and Reid Hyle (2015).

I'd never raced against Erik or Rob, but on paper it didn't look like I had much of a chance of beating them.  I had, on the other hand, raced against Austin, Reid, and Jesse Lishchuk.  On paper or on water - no hope there either.  With Eric Costanzo and Craig Impens opting to paddle together in a double, Mike Dostal competing in the ICF Marathon Worlds, and Ben Piggot resting up for the Josh Billings triathlon on Sunday (it worked - his team destroyed the field), I was able to focus 100% of my stink-eye efforts on Jan Lupinski.  Denny worried me as well, but I didn't want to make him feel unwelcome.

Overwhelmed by stress and sleep deprivation, a disoriented Gary leads us in a rousing rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game".

Once Gary had sucked all of the fun out of the race yammering on about safety and sportsmanship (apparently not a Lightfoot fan), the anxious long-race field of 57 skis (including 3 doubles) paddled out into the Sound.  On Tim Dwyer's advice, I took a position on the far side of the starting line.  Although he's not yet fully grizzled, Tim is about as well-seasoned a surfski vet as we have hereabouts.  That's why when he says "you're not extending on the catch" or "put a dash of nutmeg in your water" or "I forgot to put on underwear this morning", you pay heed.

As promised, starting from the outside kept me away from the confused fray and gave a better downwind line.  That perhaps mitigated the damage I did myself during the first couple of minutes, but it couldn't stanch the hemorrhaging.  I hadn't paid too dearly for starting slow yet this season, but this was a field I couldn't afford to let slip away.  And chumming the water with an inviting blood trail was only going to encourage those few sharks I had gotten ahead of.

By the time we reached the first lighthouse, a gap of perhaps 15 boat lengths separated me from the nearest paddler ahead.  I was sitting in 8th place.  Austin, Rob, Reid, and Jesse were up front, followed by Kurt Smithgall and Erik, with Jan in pursuit.  By letting all of these guys get away from me, I had dug my own grave and lain down in it.  Seemed a shame not to just settle in for a peaceful eternity, but maybe my race wasn't yet run.  Perhaps I could rouse myself and catch at least one of those guys.  I just needed to figure out how to claw my way back to the surface

Over next four grueling miles, not much changed.  Austin gradually receded out of sight, while Rob, Reid, and Jesse converted into indistinct flickering blurs.  Erik and Kurt seemed to be working together for a while, but eventually Erik began to move ahead.  Jan had pulled even with Kurt, but was staying on his own on an outside line.  I was slowly gaining on those two, but Erik remained ahead by that magic 15 boat length margin.

Opposite Sheffield Island, something odd was going on with Jesse.  Over the last mile or so, Erik had been steadily closing the gap between the two.  Suddenly, Jesse turned hard to port and started heading perpendicular to the course.  I thought at first he might have seen a reef or mass of floating weeds ahead, but I eventually deduced that he was making a beeline to Jan.  Soon they were paddling alongside one another.  My pulse quickened as I anticipated being waved over to reunite team TripL Threat in a collaborative quest for glory, but the invitation never came.  There would be no Lishchuk-Lupinski-Lesher podium.

Remarkably, as I processed this disappointing snub, I finally managed to run down Kurt.  After chasing him for more than 5 miles, when I finally caught up, I found myself at a loss for words.  Just as well since I didn't really have the breath to voice them.  Finally feeling like I had dialed in my stroke, rather than lingering with Kurt I pushed on towards Erik, catching some adorable little runners in the process.  Glancing back, I was pleased to see that Kurt had let me by without an extended struggle.

Jan and Jesse had dropped back a bit on their outside line.  As I found out after the race, Jesse had asked Jan to clear some stubborn weeds from his (humorously large) rudder.  I continued my endless pursuit of Erik, who at this point was roughly 15 lengths ahead.  Shortly after clearing the end of Sheffield Island, Jesse caught up to me and, after cavorting dolphin-like in my wake for a few moments, pulled ahead on his own Borgnesquest.

Approaching Greens Ledge Light, I saw Reid timidly poke his nose around the far side on the start of his return voyage.  By the time I had rounded the Light, he was plotting a course on an extreme outside line (or perhaps an extreme inside line, given that Long Island appeared to be his actual goal).  Erik was veering out to give mid-Sound chase, while Jesse was angling back towards Sheffield Island.  On one hand, I had no clue which was the better route.  On the other, I doubted these outlanders did either.  Having spent the better part of my life ruled by indecision (the few decisive moments inevitably resulting in fierce regret and/or hospitalization), I felt uniquely qualified to remain in the limbo area halfway between Erik and Jesse.

While the reassuring warmth of uncertainty was still washing over me, I heard an odd noise from behind.  My mind raced to place the sound as it grew louder, but the best that feeble instrument could come up with was... "Some kind of firework?"  The mystery was revealed soon enough, as a low-flying drone zoomed just over my head, paused for a moment ahead, then retreated to its mother-ship.  This would have been fine, except that I possess the violent startle reflex of a slumbering cat.  This reflex is inevitably followed by a three second flash of blinding rage that I'll generously attribute to the "fight" part of the fight-or-flight response.  When a college roommate jumped out unexpectedly from behind a door to frighten me (or, in his telling, "to get the mail"), the only thing that saved me from the big house was the fact that I didn't happen to be carrying a pair of scissors at the time.  That guy later became my business partner, so eviscerating him also would have really hurt me professionally.  The drone elicited the classic response as it suddenly whizzed by my ear - exaggerated flinch, missed heartbeats, involuntary screech, incontinence, blood lust...  Unfortunately, by the time the convulsions had stopped, I had missed the opportunity to unleash an incandescent fury of paddle blows on the drone (and my chance to become a viral celebrity).

Subsequent analysis of my GoPro footage of the incident reveals that hackers tampered with the video to make it appear that the drone was always a safe distance above and to the side.

A drunken Eric tries to find his car among a sea of Goodboy racks.

Erik continued about a dozen lengths ahead and outside, dangerously close to drifting into New York territorial waters.  Jesse, however, was pulling steadily away on the inside.  I attributed this to his ability rather than to his line and therefore held true to my gutless middle course compromise.  The members of a blue ribbon committee dedicated to the topic, however, reached the post-race consensus that sticking close to the islands was the superior approach.  So Jesse is apparently slightly less phenomenal than I gave him credit for.

About halfway back, Erik cut back to a more moderate line, allowing me to get a better gauge on his lead.  Yep.  About 15 lengths.  Some long-period swells were moving in our direction.  I made some quarter-hearted efforts to catch a few, but they were too small to get worked up about.  In the shallows off Copps Island, however, they started to kick up and - with surf goggles now firmly in place - were looking darned attractive.  If I could land just a couple, I might be able to cut into Erik's immutable lead.  Unfortunately, the previous 10 miles had taken their toll on my game.  My tired pick-up attempts were repeatedly rebuffed, leaving me wallowing in the troughs of despair.

Rounding Goose Island and heading back to Peck Ledge, I conceded that there was no way I was going to catch Erik.  All I could do was cobble together enough self-respect to manage an honorable sprint over the final half-mile (which doubtless resembled one of those inspirational Ironman finishes in which the racer crawls down the final stretch, in control of about 40% of his motor functions).  Austin had finished 9 minutes earlier in a course record time of 1:39:37.  With some squinting and constructive rounding, I can convince myself that the next five paddlers finished in a tight pack - Rob, Jesse, Reid, Erik, and myself.  Erik finished 34.79 seconds ahead of me, which, at a pace of 7.4 miles per hour and a 21 foot boat length, translates to 18 boat lengths.  So much for my sprint.  Denny, Jan, Steven O'Boyle, and Matt Drayer filled out the remaining spots in the top 10.

Austin put a good face on it, but deep down, I'm pretty sure he would have preferred a check.

In the women's race, Mary Beth grabbed the lead from Jenifer Kreamer just after Sprite Island and, trading pulls with Chris Sherwood, remained out front for the remainder of the race.  First-time surfski paddler Julieta Gismondi grabbed second while Leslie Chappell took bronze.  Bill Kuklinski, who is Benjamin Buttoning the hell out of this season, was the first SS20+ finisher.  I call "not it" on driving Bill to his peewee football games next year.  Eric and Craig's bid for the overall best time fell just short, but they easily took the double's crown.  In the 7 mile race, Mark McKenzie was the winner.  Austin took the men's hotspot and Mary Beth the women's (which should really help keep our energy costs down this winter).

They can never take Mary Beth's 2016 East Coast Surfski Championship title away from her.  Although, for the sake of household harmony, I wish they'd at least try.

There's a vigorous debate over which paddling event has the best post-race raw bar (although we can probably agree that Ride the Bull isn't really in the running - Wesley and Tim's DIY approach of pointing us at West Cove and saying "Have at it!" doesn't count), but the L2L has my vote.  The rest of the spread was somewhat less decadent (Domestic caviar?  Please.), but still hit the spot.  The awards started about 2 and are scheduled to end next Tuesday - the peril of having a multi-craft, multi-course, multi-gender, multi-age group race.  Mary Beth, of course, has fashioned her two oversized checks into a sandwich board which, due to losing a regrettable wager on our relative race performances, I must wear around the house between the hours of 5 and 8.

The logistical challenges of throwing an event like the L2L are staggering, and yet everything hummed along smoothly on race day (at least from the perspective of a competitor - I suspect at HQ it never feels that way).  I can't say enough about Gary and his crack team of volunteers, so I'll leave it at that.  Thanks also to the numerous race sponsors, with special appreciation for the ECSC cash prize donors - Stellar Kayaks, WomenCan International, Think Kayaks, and Nelo.  I expect you'll be sending someone around soon to exchange the big checks for cashable ones, right?

Great Stone Dam Classic: Apples and Oranges

Despite being an undeniably flatwater race (I measured) during ocean racing season, the Great Stone Dam Classic has become an essential stop in the New England surfski circuit.  Hosted by the Greater Lawrence Community Boating Program, co-chaired by Francisco Urena and Shawn Burke, and staffed largely by an enthusiastic army of student volunteers, it's no secret why the GSDC has become such a favorite.  Sure, it's an appealing venue - a magnificent boathouse set on the verdant shores of the Merrimack River.  And yes, participants enjoy the warm glow that comes from helping to fund a wonderful youth program.  The real reason most of us show up, however, is our shared respect and esteem for Francisco.  And by "respect and esteem" I mean, of course, "fear".  After all, Francisco has some very powerful friends.  Skip this race and you just might wake up one night to find Governor Baker preparing to smother you with a pillow.

Robin was quite tolerant of Mary Beth in the tandem, despite the fact that (based on first-hand K2 experience from our past) she consistently does everything completely wrong.

The GSDC is a classic out-and-not-quite-back-and-out-and-over-and-back course totaling 8.2 miles.  From the boathouse dock, we head upriver 3 miles to turn around Pine Island, then return towards to the start.  But wait, there's more!  With the finish line tantalizingly close, we must reluctantly turn around a "No Wake" marker, head back upstream to round inflatable buoys on each shore, then finally head back to the boathouse to be put in a medically-induced coma until the burgers are ready.

The forecast indicated that a band of storms would move through Lawrence prior to the 11am start, leaving us with breezy but mostly clear conditions for the race.  As we milled about and tweaked our equipment, a disturbing band of dark clouds that had been gathering intensity over the last fifteen minutes off to the west suddenly hurtled in our direction.  Having recently painted our house, I still had the Benjamin Moore color-chooser app on my phone.  Pointing it at the sky, it reported a hue halfway between Deep Charcoal and Impending Apocalypse.  Just as a helpful competitor pointed out that a deadly tornado had swept through Lawrence back in 1890 ("Touched down just over there, if I'm not mistaken!"), the first drops of rain started to fall.  After ensuring that my boat was securely strapped to the car and quickly scanning the heavens for tell-tale flying cows (clear), I high-tailed it for the boathouse.  From there, we watched as the passing storm whipped the Merrimack into a white-capped frenzy while - based on the sound, at least - smaller livestock thudded down on the roof.

Given the likelihood that the raging waters of the Merrimack would soon sweep us all away, the gang was remarkably cheery.

Within fifteen minutes, the squall had passed through with no damage.  With the radar showing no significant threats heading our way, racers started launching their boats and massing for the on-water captains meeting.  In a rush to join them, I tucked my GoPro (which I call GP - short for George Parker) in my PFD pocket, grabbed the V14 from the car, and waded into the river.  I had intended to mount the camera on my boat during launch, but in the adrenaline-fueled excitement, I found myself up the river without GP saddled.  Was that a groan I heard?  Hey - nobody is forcing you to read this. 

Let's skip ahead and get right to the important lesson I learned a few moments later.  It's actually two lessons.  First, that I'm 90% bonehead.  Preaching to the choir on this point, doubtless.  Second, that everything Archimedes said about GoPros was indeed true.  They do lack sufficient volume to displace a weight of water equal to or greater than their own mass.  And they should always be tethered.

As an unblinking witness (and inveterate blabbermouth), GP has captured (and heartlessly disseminated) many of the more thrilling (and humiliating) moments in my life.  Although we often locked horns over what was appropriate for public consumption, I was saddened to think of my friend documenting his final frames from the forgotten depths of the Merrimack.  The cosmic irony of not being able to broadcast this particular blunder would not be lost on him.  Some time after the race was over and we perhaps were enjoying lunch, the fight to carry on would just be too much for GP.  Battery exhausted, his recording indicator light would courageously flash until the dark curtain fell at last.  Blink...  Blink...  Blink...  The rest is silence.

[I'm going to leave an open space here so that I can insert a jubilant coda when GP is ultimately dredged from the river and returned to me in 2087.]

Shaking off my recent misfortune (after all, it only ranks about 7th on this season's pre-race bloopers), I surveyed the field of 25+ skis.  Chris Chappell had brought a shiny new toy to the race - one of the first reinvented Nelo 560s to find its way to the Americas.  Designed to slip between individual water molecules, the boat is ridiculously tiny.  Chris spent most of the morning looking for it after inadvertently setting the boat in the grass near his car without first activating its locator beacon.  Despite its meager 18' 4" length, all reports indicate that the 560 is as fast as a grown-up ski.  I figured this made Chris my biggest threat.

I also had to be concerned about the Human Alphabet, Andrius Zinkevichus.  If his muscular build, imposing accent, and 32 point Scrabble surname weren't intimidating enough, the guy can paddle.  I had beaten Andrius at the Nahant Bay Cup a few weeks earlier, but that was on choppy ocean waters.  This time, he'd be in an ICF boat and in his more natural flatwater milieu.  He'd also bulked up since the last race, adding an entire second paddler.  David VanDorpe would only be contributing 14 points to their combined total, but his impressive paddling resume would more than compensate.  To make matters worse, the duo would start in the heat ahead of me.

The double kayaks, which included Mary Beth (in her first-ever doubles race) and Robin Francis, were sent off first while the skis and ICF boats paced nervously in the on-deck basin.  Less than a minute later, we were ourselves underway.  Poised atop his micro-ski, Chris jumped to an early lead, with Francisco and Wesley in earnest pursuit.  As Francisco told me after the race, since he's been too busy nobly working to improve the lives of Massachusetts' veterans to actually train, he sprints at the start so that he can be in the lead pack for at least a little while.  That guy... always making the rest of us question whether we add any value to society (when he's not sending the governor out to settle scores, that is).

We keep telling Kirk it's "hands high, chin up, back straight, elbows down", but all he ever seems to hear is "tongue out".

After the first few hundred meters, Chris started to pull away from the field.  As a member of that field, I took umbrage at the cavalier attitude with which he was abandoning us.  No over-the-shoulder cry of "Good luck, chaps!" or wistful look back at his former comrades.  I imagined him sneering in contempt ahead.  Watching Chris recede over the next few moments, this expression started to sound increasingly appealing.  Adopting a pay-it-forward approach, I separated myself from the field with a similarly callous disregard for esprit de corps.  I sneered as well, but the only contempt I felt was for [melodramatic pause, followed by breaking voice] myself.

Chris had started out perhaps four to five boat lengths ahead, but I quickly closed the gap to three to five boat lengths, then to two to five lengths.  I figured if I left some ambiguity in there, he wouldn't feel as threatened as I (possibly) crept up on him.  When I eventually I reached the lesser end of zero to five boat lengths, there's was nothing he could do about me snapping concretely onto his stern draft.  After resting for a moment or two - the legendary wash that the Bunyonesque Chris provides is notoriously difficult to give up - I reluctantly pulled around to take the lead.  Of course, he didn't take this move sitting down.  Extraordinary balance, I must say.  He yoked himself behind me and inexplicably shouted out, "Whoa there, Big Blue!  Almost got away from me!"

I tried to free myself from Chris' pitiless grip several times, but he would not be thwarted.  When I've been pulling someone, I try not to look back too often to ascertain if they're still there.  When the situation is reversed, I always interpret the back-glance a sign of weakness.  Sure enough, whenever I succumbed to temptation, I could see Chris smirking at my vulnerability.  Well, I couldn't see much more than a vague shape in my periphery, but since I've already started ascribing facial expressions willy-nilly, let's say he was smirking.

After a mile of this, a quick peek back revealed that I had wiped that smug expression off of Chris' imagined face.  I had finally gapped him.  Shortly afterwards, I passed the last of the doubles, excepting Andrius and Dave.  They were still toiling well ahead, but I was definitely closing on them.  By the time we rounded the upstream end of Pine Island, they were squarely in my sights.  Having seen me so close behind at the turn, I figured they'd scramble away rabbit-like and the chase would commence in earnest.  They weren't into playing the prey, however.  Like a viper, they reared back as I approached, then sank their fangs into my port draft.

I haven't mentioned that we had been bucking a headwind on the upstream part of the course.  We now enjoyed a stiff quartering breeze behind us.  At the next turn of the river, we'd be going dead downwind.  Figuring the two boats had roughly the same sail area (that is, one upright paddler silhouette's worth) but mine had roughly half the weight, that's when I would try to pry myself loose from the tandem.  It was a plan backed up by hard science, but two attempts at super-maximum intensity intervals failed to produce noticeable results.  Presumably the guys had set out a jib or spinnaker or something.  Finally, on my third attempt, just as I was about to go into the light, I heard a slight pop as Andrius and David disengaged from the draft.  Evidently Andrius, stewing in the skirt-covered front cockpit, had overheated and called off the pursuit.

The remainder of the race was painful, but mostly uneventful.  Surprisingly, I found the downstream turn-around marker without problems, and wasn't slammed in the chest by either of the remaining two inflatable turn buoys.  As I approached the finish, a roar rose up from the dock.  The volunteer kids were cheering me home!  Unused to such outbursts from spectators (or, for that matter, spectators), I was quite startled, but managed to stay upright - narrowly avoiding an embarrassing photo finish.

I don't recall doing multiple tequila shots after the race, but that pose is unmistakable.

Chris finished (grinning, let's say) in an easy second, with Tim Hudyncia taking third.  Kirk Olsen and Bruce Deltorchio rounded out the top five (despite Bruce taking the "No Wake" turn buoy a little too seriously by giving it 75 meters of leeway).  Jenifer Kreamer and Leslie Chappell battled the entire race for the women's lead, with Jen eventually earning the win.  Of course, Andrius and David claimed the tandem crown.  Afterwards, we enjoyed burgers and dogs while Francisco gave out awards and liberally distributed bags of fruit (to the great disappointment of those of us who were told there were donuts and Twinkies inside).  Thanks to the Greater Lawrence Community Boating Program (which should consider adopting a cool acronym, like GLAWCOBOP), and to the many volunteers who made the race possible.

The Lighthouse to Lighthouse is this coming Saturday (register at PaddleGuru by 11pm on Thursday, 9/15).  It's also the East Coast Surfski Championship, with $2,000 in prize money split evenly between men and women paddlers.  Is it going to be competitive?  Let's see.  Austin Kieffer.  Jesse Lishchuk.  Reid Hyle.  Rob Hartman.  Erik Borgnes.  Apparently the men's places start at 6th.

Check out the drone footage from the GSDC.