Nahant Bay Cup: Ramblings

The Nahant Bay Cup traditionally marks a break in the summer surfski season.  The savvy paddler will collect enough momentum in Mike McDonough's race to carry him or her into the September races, coasting smoothly over the doldrums of late August.  The rest of us just thrash around in Nahant Bay until we find ourselves beached in Swampscott, panting heavily and praying that some good Samaritan doesn't try to push us back to sea.

Mike told us we should head "over their" and then "down they're" and then "back to hear".  I would've corrected his spelling, but I didn't want to be that guy.

Say what you like about Mike (and there's been a lot said since he hasn't been around to stop us), you can't deny that when it comes to energetic pointing during a captains meeting, he stands alone.  We, the nearly-blinded, have learned our lesson.  With Nahant Bay as his canvas, Mike finger-painted a course for us in emphatic strokes.  With an anemic zephyr from the southeast forecast to quicken to a hearty gale by the afternoon, he sketched a new route in the hopes of introducing a bracing downwind leg.  From the pier at Fisherman's Beach, we'd head across Nahant Bay for 2.5 miles to Egg Rock, then turn back into the bay to a cluster of orange buoys off of Red Rock Park, roughly 2.5 miles downwind from the island.  We'd then reverse our course, ending on the beach adjacent to the starting pier.  After a few extra jabs at the sky for good measure, Mike commanded us to storm (off) the beach with one final, imperious gesture.

At this point, Dave is more drink tube than man.

After a brief warm-up, an orderly start broke out off the end of the pier.  A lead group consisting of Eric Constanzo, Andrius Zinkevichus, and Chris Chappell quickly pulled ahead of the field.  A half mile into the race, I caught the trio and filed a formal petition to join their ranks.  Admissions officer Chris told me (exclusively via non-verbal cues) they'd get back to me in 6 to 8 weeks with a decision.  And that this decision would definitely be that I "go to Hell".  Having already visited that infernal region at last week's broiling USCA Nationals, I wasn't so keen on returning (although I hear it's much nicer in late October, what with most of the demons on earth-side holiday).  Fortunately, I had toughened myself against rejections through a rigorous acclimatization program in high school (with some follow-on university training), allowing me to shake off this latest brush-off with a minimum of tears.

I had little choice but to forge ahead on my own.  This hadn't worked out so well at the Narrow River Race, where I led the entire field around an improvised course, but that was a tricky "straight line in a tiny river situation".  Here I'd only have to locate a small set of buoys in four square miles of choppy ocean.  I was optimistic.  Mike had provided us with a landmark to key off of after rounding Egg Rock - a Christian Science church in Lynn with a white steeple and a pastor who answers to the name of "Snoopy" (a result of which is that his dog, the disastrously named "Reverend McAllister", ends up officiating a lot of weddings).  Fun fact: The fall that would set Mary Baker Eddy on the path to founding Christian Science happened in Lynn.  They still haven't fixed that pothole.

I wasn't sure exactly what was happening, but all of a sudden, everyone started paddling. (Photo courtesy of Chun Yang)

I couldn't quite make out the denomination from Egg Rock, but I was 90% sure that I was lined up with the right steeple.  When I eventually saw the parson relieving himself on the front lawn of the church, I knew I was in business.  After poking around the offshore area a little, I spotted the turn buoys.  Having enjoyed a pleasant downwind ride, I wasn't looking forward to the grind back to the Rock.  Surveying the stream of skis still making their way to the turn, I took some solace in the fact that I had a decent lead over Andrius, who appeared to be in second place.  For the next couple miles, I bounced my way back upwind.

Absorbed daydreaming about how I would spend the award money (torn between a V10 GT and cosmetic surgery to finally get rid of my fingernails), it took a few moments to register the surfski up ahead and to the left.  Must be in a different race, I figured initially.  Probably the Swampscott Ski Shootout or the Nahant Paddle Paradox.  But hold on a second, that looks like Eric.  Didn't he start out in our race?  So much for loyalty!  Wait, though.  Eric wasn't wearing the mandatory Shootout safety goggles (and didn't appear to have a paint gun). And the Paradox only allows paddlers older than the median age of the field.  I was relieved that Eric wasn't two-timing us, but appalled at the prospect of a continued life with keratin-tipped fingers.

Our paths merged just as we reached Egg Rock, with Eric perhaps a dozen boat lengths ahead.  I had chased that New Jersey devil down at the start of the race, but that was in relatively flat water.  With a decided edge in downwind conditions (which we'd see again after Egg Rock), catching Eric would be like bottling greased lightning - messy, painful, and likely to induce heart failure.  Fortunately, the confused conditions behind Egg Rock didn't sit too well with his new V14, allowing me to halve the gap before we cleared the island. 

Rounding Egg Rock in the reflective chop can be quite disorienting.  It's the surfski equivalent of that old college game where you blindfold someone and spin them around a few times before shaving their head and leaving them naked in the woods.  Now that I think of it, I never did hear back from the brothers at Alpha Sigma Sigma.  Emerging on the north side of the island, I carefully assessed my navigational options.  Failing to reach a consensus as to where to aim on the extended shoreline ahead, I decided to just follow Eric.  If I caught him, perhaps we could pool our ignorance to make some shared bad course decisions.

Eric was charting a path that was roughly 30 degrees to the right of the prevailing wind for me, but seemingly dead downwind for him.  I can't say I understand this conundrum, but the evidence was overwhelming.  I was zigzagging madly at 100% effort trying to catch Eric, while he rode a razor straight line, lazily dipping a paddle blade in the water from time to time.  It didn't seem fair, but the scales of cosmic justice are notoriously biased in favor of the skilled.  Despite working from such a disadvantage, I was slowly closing the gap between us.

When I finally caught Eric, he immediately expressed concerns that we had turned on different buoys at the halfway point.  This made some sense, given that we hadn't seen each other until we got back to Egg Rock.  Perhaps we were in different races after all.  If so, he was the clear leader of the very exclusive Costanzo Invitational.  I was pretty confident that I had rounded the McDonough-sanctioned buoy cluster, and had witnessed many of the other paddlers headed the same way.  I suggested that we wait to sort it out after the finish, but could tell that his heart was no longer in the competition.

Only Eric and I found the bonus turn buoy...

Finding the finish was proving to be a challenge.  For a while we pursued a course towards a rocky point that I argued would lead us around into Fisherman's Beach - a route that was actually angling us closer to the turn buoys than it was to the actual finish.  Eric expressed concerns that we were heading too far port.  I insisted we were fine.  Eric pointed out that the extensive field of moored boats we had picked our way through at the start was absent from the shoreline ahead.  Perhaps the entire Swampscott fleet had been commandeered for an impromptu attack against arch-nemesis Marblehead, I replied.  It was only when Eric called attention to the array of boats moored off to our right that I relented.  Evidently their raid had been successful.

Having identified the finish, we both picked up our pace.  I made the decision to pass to the right of a large moored sailboat, while Eric headed behind it.  Even with a strong incoming tide backed by the wind, I was surprised by the strength of the current.  Despite turning increasingly into the flow, I was in real danger of being side-swept into the sailboat.  My heart rate was already within a few beats of its theoretical maximum, but a fear-based shot of adrenaline now sent my pulse to eyeball-bulging levels.  As catastrophe loomed, I made one final push to avoid bisection.  After slipping just in front of the vessel, I finally realized I had made a serious frame of reference error.  I wasn't being swept sideways by the current - the sailboat was actually underway.  And doubtless wondering why an idiot kayaker seemed intent on impaling himself on their bow.  Oops.

When Mike told us the race would have a dance finish, I knew those Charleston lessons had finally paid off.  (Photo courtesy of Chun Yang)

With the ink of my new lease on life still wet, the remainder of the race was a joyful celebration of continued existence.  I pulled into the beach finish several seconds before Eric to take the celebrated (but wholly metaphorical) Nahant Bay Cup.  There was an actual traveling cup awarded at one point, but the Department of Public Health shut that down.  Given how demoralized Eric was at the prospect of having cut the course, I figured there was a pretty good chance he was just going through the motions of finishing hard so that I didn't feel bad.  I'm OK with that.  Out-sprinting someone is satisfying even when they're not racing.  But not quite as satisfying as the subsequent trash-talking.

Unfortunately, Eric was correct about turning on the wrong church-adjacent buoy, resulting in disqualification and - in an unusual cross-promotional arrangement - excommunication.  Second place therefore went to the winner of an exciting sprint between Andrius and Tim Dwyer.  Although Tim had managed to catch and pass Andrius at Egg Rock, the latter took a cleaner line to the finish to claim silver by two seconds.  Kirk Olsen pulled in alone before Wesley and Tim Hudyncia reenacted the Zinkevichus-Dwyer sprint finish, with Wesley taking fifth by half an Echols.  Mary Beth selfishly claimed victory for the women.

If it wasn't for Andrius' quick thinking, an improperly ballasted Francisco would have floated away completely.  (Photo courtesy of Chun Yang)

After a wonderful lunch prepared by Carol McDonough, Mike got down to the business of giving out awards.  The coveted "Bad Ass" title was given to mild-mannered Kirk Olsen (I assume ironically), while Bill Kuklinski was bestowed the "Baby Bad Ass" honorific (and accompanying ceremonial head gear) for wiping the ocean with competitors half his age.  Many thanks to the McDonoughs and the Staffords for a marvelous day in Swampscott.

You may be wondering why I failed to mention Swampscott local Matt Drayer.  Unwilling to risk the humiliation of defeat on his home surf, Matt cowardly opted for a leisurely day paddle from Cape Cod to Cape Ann.  Some have described this first-ever 43 mile jaunt as "historic" and "ground-breaking".  However, I'm pretty sure this circus stunt will quickly be forgotten, while the winner of the 2016 Nahant Bay Cup will remain engraved in our collective memories forever (because, remember, there is no actual cup).  If you must, read about Matt's trip here.

Worried about the recent increase in US shark attacks, Bill figured he'd play it safe at the after-party. (Photo courtesy of Chun Yang)

We all look forward to the day when robots will relieve us of the burden of slogging through these reports and making our own toast.  But for now, we've earned a break.  At least on the blog front.  Assuming Elon Musk doesn't make any immediate breakthroughs, we'll meet back here in three weeks, after the Great Peconic Race (register at PaddleGuru) and the Great Stone Dam Classic (no preregistration required).  Those will be excellent warm-ups for the biggest east coast surfski event of the season - the Lighthouse to Lighthouse (register at PaddleGuru - the price goes up September 10).

USCA Marathon Nationals: Flattened

The USCA National Championships were held in Northfield, Massachusetts this past weekend.  I competed in the K1 Unlimited class on Friday.  Although I finished well, I felt about as lousy as I've ever felt after a race.  It's been a tough week to put together this blog entry, what with work, family commitments and having to watch all the team handball consolation matches.  And, honestly, this isn't a race that I'm eager to write about.  Through poor decision-making and boat handling, I inadvertently knocked a competitor from the field.  I'm embarrassed.  And sorry, of course.  As a result, this is going to be a quick-and-dirty summary in "just the facts" mode.  I'll return to my standard "facts optional" mode for the next report.  This will be dry, so remember to hydrate frequently.

Bottleneck at the launch.

There was an impressive field of more than 50 kayaks on Friday, including many of the Northeast's best ocean and flatwater paddlers and a healthy infusion of racers from further afield.  This latter group included two former Olympians (Mike Herbert and Roei Yellin).  Although the Unlimited class is open to all kayaks, the vast majority of the competitors were on surfskis.  That being said, several of the fastest paddlers - including Mike Dostal, Mike Herbert, Jim Mallory, and Hugh Pritchard - chose to race in their ICF boats.  The 13 mile course on the Connecticut River would send us downstream for 0.5 miles before turning on a pair of buoys, then upstream 6 miles to the Route 10 bridge (passing to the right of Kidds Island) before returning to the start.  To add a bit of technical challenge, we'd make a counterclockwise curlicue around Kidds Island on our downstream route.

From the starting line, the first turn buoy looked to be disturbingly close to the left shore.  Fortunately, there was just enough distance for me to overcome my typical leisurely start and get into a respectable position entering the queue for the turn.  A pack of four paddlers - Mike, Mike, Roei, and Jesse Lishchuk - had quickly separated themselves from the field and were threatening to salt the race away in the first mile.  Chasing were Hugh, Steven Rankinen, Jim, myself, and Dave Thomas (and presumably others behind Dave that I couldn't see).

Start of Open, Master, and Senior groups.

With the lead group continuing to pull away, 1.5 miles into the race I figured it was time to push the pace of our pack.  Fresh off a clinic in which Sean Rice discussed the superiority of riding side wash over riding rear wash, I decided to pull up along the right of our line, catching side drafts along the way.  I made it past Jim, but struggled to move up to Steve.  Obviously, what I should have done was to move well outside of Steve's wake to the right, pull up into drafting position, then ease my way back onto the draft.  Or just have sucked it up and moved past both Steve and Hugh to take the lead of our group myself.  What I actually did was bounce around sloppily off Steve's rear quarter trying to climb onto his side draft.

This wouldn't have been an issue if Steve's stern draft was unoccupied, but of course Jim was sitting in that spot.  As I veered to the left, Jim's paddle nicked my boat.  I apologized but stupidly kept to my plan.  Unsurprisingly... same action, same outcome.  This time our paddles hit, then Jim's paddle hit my boat (or, rather, vice versa), then our boats thudded together.

While such negligent maneuvering would have normally earned me a well-deserved upbraiding before we both carried on with our race, the repercussions of this collision were more serious.  Having suffered a pothole-induced bike crash last summer, Jim required surgery to repair his wrist tendons.  While he's now able to paddle without pain, unexpected flexions - such as having your paddle jammed by a boat - are trouble.  Although I didn't realize it at the time, the crash caused enough ongoing discomfort that Jim was forced to withdraw from the race - the first DNF of his long paddling career.

Naturally, I'd feel terrible about knocking anyone out of a race - let alone a legendary competitor who had a shot at the title.  In gentlemanly fashion, Jim left my name out of it when explaining to people why he didn't finish the race.  We spoke afterwards and he graciously accepted my apology.  I also promised to avoid risky maneuvers until I have enough skill that they're no long risky.  I'm relieved to report that Jim's weekend wasn't entirely lost.  He downshifted to a V8 and dominated the K1 Sea Kayak class on Saturday (winning by over 7 minutes) and paired with Matt Skeels to take the K2 Unlimited crown on Sunday.  Those wins underscore what a threat he would have been in Friday's race.

Back on the water, I offered an embarrassed apology, slowed to let Jim get on my wash, and resolved to pull him for as long as I could as a kind of penance.  I thought he was with me over the next mile, but obviously it was someone else (perhaps Dave).  Although the flow of the Connecticut River was anemic, everyone was sticking to the river racing game plan - bouncing from bank to bank to stay out of the current.  Cutting across from left shore to right in preparation for a rightward bend, I took a shallower angle than Hugh and Steve.  With a hard interval, I was able to merge just ahead of them.  The four leaders continued to pull away ahead, while Hugh latched competently onto my side draft.

Over the next couple of miles we picked our way through the women's C2s that had started a few minutes prior to our heat.  At times the leaders were out of sight around bends in the river, but at one point when they reappeared in a straightaway, I noticed that Roei had dropped off the back of the group.  With an obtainable goal ahead, I put in another strong interval to drop Hugh.  With a little under a mile left to the bridge turnaround, I caught Roei and we commenced working together.  We had no hope of catching the lead group, but perhaps we could limit threats from the lurking horde behind us.

At the bridge turn, the Elites were roughly 2 minutes ahead of us.  They'd add another 4 minutes to that gap before we were done.  I had been looking forward to turning downstream so that the slight breeze would be in my face.  It was some relief but wasn't as invigorating as I had hoped.  I had been forced to tap into my strategic vigor reserve to catch Roei in the stifling heat, leaving me with nothing to work with in the second half of the race.

I wasn't aware until after the race that Roie was such an accomplished paddler (competing in the 2000 and 2004 Olympics), but it was obvious at the time that he was operating in a different realm of efficiency.  In one stretch I measured our cadences from my GoPro.  He was at 72 strokes per minute, while I was at nearly 100.  And this was when he was pulling me.  I didn't like my long term odds of staying with him.

Roei and I remained together until we hit the bottom of Kidds Island.  On the upstream paddle I hadn't even noticed the island, making me eventually wonder if I had DQ'ed myself by failing to pass to its right (Hugh and my GoPro verified after the race that I was weaving through canoes at the time, apparently filtering out such trivial details as the "river" narrowing to 1/10th its former width).  As we started our counterclockwise turn of the island, Roei and I took different lines.  By the time we rounded the upstream end, he had a clear lead that he would never relinquish.  I had gotten several glimpses of Steve close behind me while circumnavigating the island, but was able to narrowly hold him off to take fifth place.  Of course, if Jim had been able to continue in the race, there's a good chance we'd be looking at a different top five.

Tight finish between Jesse and Mike Herbert.

Up ahead, realizing that he couldn't out sprint his rivals closer to the finish, Mike Dostal made his move with a mile still remaining, separating himself from Jesse and Mike Herbert.  He held on to win by 20 seconds, with Jesse nipping the other Mike by a half boat length.  The top 10 was rounded out by Doug Howard, Joe White, Hugh, and Dave. Congratulations to age group champions Mike (Open), Steve (Senior), Joe Shaw (Veteran 1), Bob Capellini (Veteran 2), Dave Grainger (Grand Veteran 1), and John Stover (Grand Veteran 2).  In the women's K1 Unlimited race on Sunday, champions included Hype Mattingly (Overall, Senior), Sara Jordan (Open), and Jen Kreamer (Master).  In Sunday's ICF race, Jesse dispatched the Mikes to take the overall crown.

The once and current champions.

 That's it.  Nahant Bay next.

Battles of the Bay: Sean vs Us vs Jan

As all New England paddlers know, Jamestown is the heart of the New England surfski scene.  This is home to three open-water races, the Dwyer family, and the best black raspberry milkshakes in the greater Narragansett region (I was a bit off my game this year, only logging 3 for the weekend).  For the second year running, Tim would be hosting 2014 world champion Sean Rice, who'd be racing in the Battle of the Bay and holding several clinics.  Like moths to a flame, the lure of Sean's brilliance drew us once again to Rhode Island, despite our solemn vows to boycott the Ocean State in protest of its disproportionate representation in the US Senate (and, of course, its aggressive pest spraying program).

Mary Beth and I arrived in Jamestown Friday afternoon so that I could take a private lesson with Sean.  I had asked MB to spend the drive down criticizing my technique, hoping that this would  inure me to any harsh judgments made during the session.  In retrospect, I should have been more specific about the critical domain - seems that I need a lot of work across the board.  Despite finding  serious flaws in what he diplomatically referred to as my "crazy paddle thrashing", Sean was a patient teacher.  With his recommendations for improving my stroke seeded in my brain, it's safe to say I will not be a competitive threat in the future.  I just hoped I could prevent these suggestions from germinating before the Battle.

We spent a pleasant evening in Jamestown before retiring at the Dwyer's.  We slept on an air mattress which was also legally classified as a trampoline in 36 states, meaning that any time one of us moved during the night, the other was in danger of being tossed like a rag-doll into the ceiling fan.  Despite some contusions and a couple of lost toes (if they turn up, Tim or Alyce, they'd make great keepsakes of our visit), I awoke refreshed and looking forward to my first milkshake of the day.  Soon after, we headed down to Bay Voyage Beach for the race.

John and Jim drove from Western New York expressly to demonstrate to Tim Hudyncia that Worcester is not "inland". 

I should point out that Mary Beth and I had brought the air mattress with us.  And apologize to any of our own guests who might have spent a fitful night dreaming of free fall.

After getting a taste of the ocean at the Blackburn (despite being warned of the consequences), Jim Mallory and John Hair joined us again from Rochester to top off their electrolytes.  As a native myself, it was nice to reminisce about the Fast Ferry ("Rochester to Toronto in just two... Hey, where did our boat go?"), to agree that Kodak was "just about to turn the corner", and to rail against Buffalo for stealing our god-given 716 area code.  The remainder of the field was composed mostly of paddlers who had been unable to find their way off the island after last week's Double Beaver.

In honor of the Olympics, Jan started us off the day with a rousing rendition of the national anthem.  On a roll, he continued with a medley of 80's era Polish commercial jingles and closed with "Single Girl".

The traditional Battle of the Bay course loops across the bay to Newport and back.  However, the brisk southerly winds would have made this route a little more demanding than Tim thought appropriate for Sean.  Despite living in the Golden Age of Cartography, it took us twice as long to devise a simple alternative than it did to actually paddle it.  In our defense, most of that time was spent fruitlessly trying to find Jamestown in Penobscot Bay (with a break to watch some baby sloth videos, naturally).  In the end, Tim settled on a route that would limit our cross-wind exposure while providing a couple of downwind legs.

Tim walked us through the revised course, although it was hard to understand him once we got into deeper water.  From the Conanicut Yacht Club pier, we'd head upwind 1.4 miles to buoy G11 (which, rumor has it, is vying for a pivotal role in the next Star Wars movie), downwind 1.6 miles to a concrete stanchion of the Newport Bridge, back to G11 (oddly, 3.5 miles in the upwind direction), back to the stanchion, and end back at the pier.  Wesley - who had been inappropriately giddy at the prospect of spending half the race in challenging beam conditions - appeared despondent about the change.  Others unclenched and wept with relief.

Apparently it's still too soon for Bernie jokes.

Unlike the start of last week's Double Beaver, in which we couldn't see the ocean for the weeds, we had clear sailing at the outset of the Battle (which I still think should have disqualified Joe Shaw and Bob Wright, but whatever).  My own start was even more gradual than usual, as I had to wait for Tim Hudyncia to finish strutting diagonally in front of me before I could even move (he'd later get plenty of fretting in too, stretching his allocated hour to an hour-and-a-quarter).  Slowly picking my way through mooring balls and competitors, I eventually took the lead of the first wave.  The second wave would consist of Sean.  He'd start several minutes later, but would surely sweep over us by mid-race.

Jim's role in this production was clearly described in the script.  The race director had cast him as the cocky flat-water specialist that would get his well-deserved comeuppance in the angry sea.  Jim had botched a similar part in last year's Casco Bay Challenge (by winning) and his take on cockiness was coming across more as affability, but apparently he's related to the executive producer or something.  In any event, halfway to G11 it was obvious that he was going rogue again.  Despite getting bounced around paddling into the chop, he was sticking tightly on my stern draft, while the stage directions had him capsizing (and disappearing through a trapdoor - it would have been a magical effect).

Having assumed that I was safely in the lead, it was with some disappointment that I noticed Jan had slipped by on an outside line.  As an excellent upwind grinder and a solid downwind paddler (whereas my downwind skills are gelatinous, at best), he was going to be a real threat - 98% of this course was either upwind or downwind.  Jan arrived at G11 a couple of boat lengths ahead of me, with Jim still right on my tail.  I had hoped that once we entered the downwind portion of the race, I'd be able to exploit the latter's relative inexperience.  Sure enough, I was able to catch a few nice runners immediately after the turn and pull free from Jim.

Caught in the middle of a phase shift while rounding G11.

Jan seemed to be taking a very wide line to the designated bridge stanchion, but I figured he must have found some righteous waves to surf out further in the channel.   Fighting the urge to follow the dude, I kept working back to the left to stay on line for the next turn.  After a few minutes of this, I lost track of Jan.  It was the last anyone would see of him.  Arriving at the concrete support, I spotted three boats making the turn behind me - Jim, Sean, and a non-Jan mystery paddler.

The upwind leg back to G11 was uneventful.  Sean, who had started 5 minutes after the "plodders" (as I imagine he calls us when we're not looking), was courteous enough to cruise by at a significant lateral distance away.  Any closer and the pressure wave he pushes ahead of him might have shattered my eardrums as he passed.  After turning on the buoy, I got an oblong look at my closest pursuer, but couldn't make out who it was.  Didn't seem to be Jim, though.

The second downwind leg wasn't as productive as the first, since the fickle tide had now fully turned against us.  But, as the saying goes, even the worst downwind is better than the best broccoli.  While I struggled to get into a rhythm, Sean gave a free clinic on how to milk every runner.  Ahead by twenty lengths at the turn (plus the 150 or so he had spotted us), he put his awesome abilities into perspective by swiftly receding to the vanishing point.

I managed to sneak in a chuckle at the last moment, but John almost managed to get the last laugh.

I eventually followed Sean around the stanchion for the final turn and made the short trip back to the Yacht Club to finish in second at 58:34 - only 9 minutes behind the winner.  Moments later, my anonymous stalker was revealed to be John - an impressive showing for a paddler without much time on the ocean.  However, as I watched him weave through the moored boats, I saw Jan angling in from a completely different direction to nip John at the line.  Comparing notes, we determined that Jan had been paddling the alternative alternative Battle of the Bay course, turning twice on the wrong concrete stanchion.  He had traveled slightly (100 meters) farther overall, but graciously DQ'ed himself.  At least, that's how I interpreted his excited shouts of "Third place!  Third place!" - as a congratulatory shout out to John.

As any ethnographer will tell you, ritual humiliation is an essential component of indoctrination ceremonies in primitive cultures.  They generally don't use the loaded word "primitive" nowadays, but in this case, I think they'd make an exception.

Despite losing ground on the downwind legs to more experienced ocean paddlers, Jim managed to hammer through the upwind portions, finishing just ahead of Tim to take the final first wave podium spot.  Tim was followed by Joe Shaw, Bob Capellini, Andy Knight, and Bob Wright.  Although there were a few DNFs (primarily of the "Ugh.  It's not worth the second lap upwind effort." variety), most seemed pleased with the revised Battle of Jamestown Harbor.

Once Tim had bestowed inflatable awards upon the winners (not as fun as you might hope), the afternoon was spent on milkshakes, discussion of future races, and discussion of future milkshakes. After a leisurely dinner at Simpatico ("Largely skunk-free since 2013!"), we retired to the Dwyer House again to rest up (and down, and up, and down) for Sunday's all-day clinic with Sean.

Sean's beginner clinic focused mostly on the importance of humbly deflecting praise in a charming accent.

The next morning's session consisted of land-based instruction, drafting practice, discovering how inept we were at fundamental drills, and pestering Sean with incessant questions (mostly about South African wildlife).  With winds building from the southwest, we relocated to Fort Wetherill for the afternoon.  Sean outlined downwind techniques and strategies, at one point commenting that if you had to brace for balance more than once every ten minutes during a downwind run, you should be in a more stable boat.  I wanted to ask the limit on falling out of the boat, but was afraid I wouldn't much like his answer.  I decided to just classify that maneuver as a full-body brace.  Once per ten minutes?  I could probably manage better than that in the V10.

My appearance at breakfast didn't evoke the joyful ovation that the Dwyer House Yelp reviews had led me to expect.

After the instruction, we enjoyed some rewarding out-and-back downwind runs.  Although there was some slop mixed into the more ordered waves, I managed a few excellent rides and a couple of spectacular full-body braces (which, unfortunately, Sean didn't see - I think the South African judge would have given me high marks).  Tim claimed that the downwind conditions were pitiful.  Jaded by his recent experience at the Gorge, if a tsunami swept through New England and carried him and his V10L clear to Ohio, Tim would spit on the still-damp ground and complain about the lack of a shuttle back to the start.

Despite his churlish stand on New England paddling conditions, Tim deserves our gratitude for all the work he put into a great surfski weekend - hosting Sean, putting up a passel of paddlers, organizing the race, supplying equipment to literacy-impaired beginner clinic participants, buttering up Alyce, etc.  Thanks as well to Alyce, Finn, and Gaelyn for enduring a full 48 hours of non-stop paddling talk and unsavory types traipsing through their home.

Some of us are off to the USCA Marathon Nationals this Friday, where surfskis and ICF boats will combine in the unholy amalgam known as the Unlimited K1 class.  After all my (good-natured!) gibes at the expense of flatwater paddlers, I fear retribution may be at hand.  Those guys have no sense of humor.

Jamestown Double Beaver: Whale Hunt

If any one New England race can be described as "passing Conanicut Island's Beavertail Light twice", it's the Jamestown Double Beaver and this year's Ride the Bull.  My math may be off a bit.  This was to be the 8th to 12th running (look, numbers just aren't my thing) of the Quintuple Beaver (see?) - a storied race in which paddlers contend with the worst that Narragansett Bay can throw at them.  Unpredictable currents and winds.  Incessant boat traffic.  Hidden rocks.  Jazz.  Jazz, for pity's sake!  With a mild north-easterly wind forecast, at least conditions would be favorable.  We'd never be downwind of the festival in Newport.

With four weekends of consecutive races, we need to pace ourselves on the race reports.  Just remember - a month from now we'll be past this dark time.  To help us along, I'll try to keep the reports tight and concise.  That won't actually happen, of course, so you'll just have to buckle in and bear down.

After last year's incident, Tim was adamant that simply carrying pants on your boat would no longer be sufficient.  They must be worn.  "On your legs!" he hollered after us as we ran bare-assed to our boats.

Over the past few years, race organizer Tim Dwyer has grown increasingly obsessed about running the Double Beaver out past the Beavertail bell buoy to turn on Whale Rock - a low-lying island stripped clean of its lighthouse by the Great New England Hurricane of 1938 (this was back before storms had fanciful names like "Andrew" or "Sweet-Talkin' Bess").  Like Ahab, however, the Whale has eluded him.  Whether it was Borys Markin turning prematurely on buoy G3 or impending thunderstorms shortening the course, we never quite achieved Tim's goal.  Legend has it that only one person had ever seen the Whale up close, but the name of that stalwart soul is long forgotten (no need to fact check this one, editor).  Tim was convinced that this was the year he'd encircle the beast, although rechristening his ski Pequod and constantly referring to Wesley as "Queequechols" seemed to be tempting fate.

"The first one is free," said Chris Sherwood with a sly grin.  I'm still not sure exactly what it was, but it tasted like something Tim Hudyncia might enjoy.

After a brief and maniacal captains' meeting, we launched our fleet of 16 skis and an outrigger.  Given the mild forecast, flatwater specialist Mike Dostal seemed particularly threatening - and not just because when nobody was looking, he glowered at me while slowly drawing a finger across his throat.  Eric Costanzo was also intimidating, having brought some New Jersey muscle with him to remind me how things stood (him on the top step of the podium, me somewhere else).

Armed with sophisticated computer models of tidal eddies in Jamestown Bay supplemented by years' worth of empirical records collected by his field team, Tim had been able to pinpoint where mats of surface weeds were likely to accumulate.  And then set the starting line in the heart of one such archipelago of floating vegetation.  While some paddlers questioned this choice, I was glad to be able to stretch my legs with a brisk stroll before the race.  Unfortunately, we'll be unable to utilize the same weed field for next week's Battle of the Bay start since most of the flotsam was dragged out to the open ocean by inconsiderate Double Beaver paddlers. 

Jan makes a few last minute adjustments to his attitude.

We tried a "shock start" approach in which we'd be given a one minute warning, at any point after which outrigger paddler Carol Choi could choose to jump in the water to clear her rudder, thus signalling Tim to immediately start the race.  Given how effective this procedure was in preventing anyone from getting an unfair jump, here's hoping we can convince Carol to attend every race.

With moored boats dotting the harbor, we were quickly pachinko-ed into separate streams.  After a couple of minutes I had worked my way past Wesley, Joe Shaw, and Matt Nunnally.  With an outgoing tide, I figured an outside line to House on the Rock would be the quickest route.  Having been fooled by the inscrutable currents of Narragansett Bay in the past, I was relieved to see Eric corroborating my preferred line several boat lengths ahead.  Sure, we might both be mistaken, but it's a lot easier to maintain conviction in the face of contrary evidence when you have a like-minded zealot.  After working my way up to Eric (and exchanging our secret hand signal, of course), I pulled ahead.

Bob gets a little sensitive when you question why Rhode Island was the last colony to ratify the Constitution.

On a slightly more inside line, Mike had made a strong start and easily seized the overall lead.  Moving across the harbor, however, I managed to close the gap such that when our paths merged a mile into the race, we were even.  You may recall that way back in the previous paragraph I had thought that the outside line was superior, but to give myself an ego boost, I rapidly reversed that sentiment (one of the advantages of zealotry - no reason to be tied down by logic or consistency).  Just like that, I had now caught Mike despite the disadvantage of taking the inferior route!

Before the race, Mike had explained the reason behind the crazy patchwork of duct tape that covered parts of his V12.  While staying on the Isles of Shoals, a freak storm had lifted his ski from the ground and tossed it along the rocky terrain, cracking it in several places.  Let's ignore the imprudence of not properly securing one's boat.  And also look past the questionable judgment in making key structural repairs using tape.  Mike's real blunder here was the complete lack of imagination he showed in failing to embellish the story.  Maybe he pitch-poled during a treacherous surf landing.  Or was hit by a lobster boat in heavy fog.  Heck, I'd have even bought a giant squid attack.  Our small lives need more excitement than the truth can supply (uh, this blog excepted, of course).  Ski blown away on land?  Please.  That's like me telling you this scar I have on my side came from a childhood fall.  Rather than from a squid beak.

Approaching the rocks that guard the strait between Bull Point and the House on the Rock, I managed to catch a few small runners to put a boat length between me and Mike.  As we turned the point and headed into unprotected waters, I watched him drifting in and out of my periphery - never more than a couple of boat lengths back.  Where were the unsettled conditions we've come to expect in Narragansett Bay?  I'm all for a level playing field.  Just not literally.  I'd need things to slant my way to pull free.  Fortunately, a large boat wake eventually provided the edge I'd been waiting for - knocking Mike over (ostensibly out of view and earshot, meaning that I needn't even slow to disingenuously offer assistance).  As the day wore on, the increasing lumpiness of the bay provided me with some measure of insurance against further attacks from Mike.

On paper, the tide had looked ideal.  The race straddled slack tide, meaning we'd be gently nudged out to Whale Rock on the outgoing current, then shepherded home on the newly turned tide.  Prior to the race, however, oceanographer Chris Sherwood had said that we probably "wouldn't get any help on the way back" (in an ominous tone that made me wonder if I should pack some extra provisions).  Despite being the only person with any legitimate credentials in this area (I'm 95% sure that Tim Hudyncia just made that "Master of Tides" badge himself), most of us chose to ignore his dire warning.  Passing by the Beavertail can, however, I had to concede that Dr. Sherwood's years of graduate training had finally paid off.  Ignoring the fact that it was supposed to be slackening in preparation for coming about, the outgoing tide was still lending us more than a kilometer per hour.  Presumably it would be asking us to repay that loan on the return trip.

After turning on Whale Rock (with its cryptic and faded "MB '13" graffiti), I dutifully started contributing 12% of my velocity back to the sea.  Given that I was also tithing another few percent to the headwind and making the occasional balloon payments on some lingering Blackburn debt, I was barely able to scrape by.  I understood from a logical perspective that hugging the coastline would provide some relief from the current and wind (an onshore tax shelter?), but my lizard brain kept pulling me back onto the straight line home.  As in life more generally, I made a half-hearted show of doing the right thing before succumbing to my baser instincts.

The crawl back to the House on the Rock was enlivened by an increasingly disordered jumble of boat wakes.  This gave me a chance to practice what I call my "scuttle stroke" - a rapid, short, horizontal stroke designed to ferry me safely through rough patches.  Although not strictly required (as it is in the related "scamper stroke"), I like to make mouth-smacking critter noises in time with my cadence.  I've also found that a modest dose of panic helps in keeping your paddle nimble.  Regardless of whether it was because of, or in spite of, the scuttle, I made it back into the relative calm of Jamestown Harbor and scored my first Double Beaver victory.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.  Unless you're wearing the new German-engineered, hydrogen-filled Hindenkrone!  As the tagline says, "What could possibly go wrong?"

Despite paddling in unfamiliar conditions on a less-than-forgiving V12, Mike managed to hold on for second place over Eric (who was on a downright-unforgiving V14).  Tim finally got the better of Whale Rock with a strong 4th place finish (and all limbs intact), while Joe Shaw took 5th.  Mary Beth seized the women's title, throttled it, then ripped at its carcass with her teeth.  I'm not sure what got into her.

As you ocean paddlers know, our program to inculcate a sense of inferiority and shame in flatwater paddlers has been a great success.  Our only hope against these speed demons is to keep them apprehensive about paddling in the ocean.  By consistently downplaying conditions when these unfortunates are within earshot - for example, referring to Ride the Bull as a "walk in the park" or the Blackburn as "dead calm" -  we've shattered their confidence.  After the Double Beaver, Mike was practically begging us to admit that the course wasn't flat, but I'm proud to say that we maintained a unified front.  None of us could remember such mill pond-like conditions.  Kirk Olsen's claim that he dozed off a few times during the race was a particularly disheartening touch.

If Bob were twenty years younger, you wouldn't dare mess with him.  Or twenty years older, now that I think of it.

Once all of the paddlers had been accounted for (give or take), we settled in to attack lunch.  Several of us contracted diabetes just from looking at the mountainous platter of cookies.  Keeping with tradition (his own, but still), Tim provided the top five with gag gifts that wouldn't be out of place at a six year old's birthday party - perhaps a little advanced for our crew, but we'll grow into them.  Thanks to Tim for another exciting Double Beaver.  And to the Finn triplets for being everywhere along the course taking photos.

Hold on a second, paddler.  You're not escaping Rhode Island that easy.  You'll have to fight your way out via the Battle of the Bay this Saturday.  Register at PaddleGuru.  If you survive the tussle, don't leave until after Sean Rice's beginner/intermediate clinic in the afternoon.  Register at Paddle Life.