Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Casco Bay Challenge: Spring Tide

Eric McNett introduced the Casco Bay Challenge in 2013, welcoming the paddling community into his magnificent backyard playground. There's no denying Maine's beauty. But nobody could have imagined that they would deliberately keep signing up year after year for a 16.5 mile race that arrives at about the point in the season where an extended Saturday nap would be more appropriate. Yet here I stood with Chris Sherwood and Joe Shaw, about to embark on our fifth trip across Casco Bay. Mary Beth, having skipped the inaugural year to give the fog a chance to dissipate, was looking at her fourth voyage. We'd be paddling from Willard Beach in South Portland to Mere Point Boat Launch, a few miles south of Brunswick. You're channeled in more-or-less the right direction by a series of islands, but that doesn't stop you from second-guessing your navigation decisions until your boat's on the car at the finish.

You may not have read the telegram, but Maine recently split from EST/EDT to form their own time zone.
In the days preceding the race, there was some concern that afternoon thunderstorms might put the kibosh on the competition. Given the man in charge, however, any apprehensions on this front were baseless. If an bottomless 500 meter wide whirlpool opened up in the middle of Casco Bay, Eric would simply rename the race the Maelstrom Classic, shoo us off into the vortex, and yell ambiguously that he'd see us on the other side. Fortunately, the forecast lightened as the race approached, ultimately resolving to a beautiful day with partly cloudy skies.

With 9 surfskis, 10 outrigger canoes, and a SUP, the Casco Bay Challenge would be a cozy affair this year. While the race has drawn as many as 25 skis in the past, all that talk about maelstroms has apparently scared off all but the heartiest paddlers. This just goes to show how poorly people evaluate risks. With only three lost paddlers in the first four years of the race, you're more likely to be maimed in a moose-related accident on the way to the race than you are to disappear at sea. So come on up next year and help stem the population explosion that has downtown Portland overrun by antlered menaces.

You don't usually see this kind of fashion sense among paddlers.
Two years ago, a horde of well-mannered Canadians swept down upon the race in an attempt to silence their unruly neighbors. Flatwater specialists Neil Lang and Robert Lang finished fifth and sixth that year, despite my chants of "USA! USA!" from the vaunted seventh position. Robert returned this year, driving down with four-time Blackburn veteran Tim Milligan. Given that Robert will be representing Canada in the 60-64 age group at the Marathon World Championships this fall, he seemed like the man to beat - even in ocean conditions. I also couldn't rule out Joe, for whom 16.5 miles is a light pre-breakfast paddle.

Turning on my GPS after launching my boat, I was startled to find that I was technically dead. Until I realized that I had just forgotten my heart rate strap - an uncharacteristic oversight. Since I rely heavily on heart rate to gauge my effort (I'm likely to answer "10" to any question about perceived effort, even while lounging on the sofa), I'd be paddling blind. Or, at least, paddling dumb.

Tim and Robert ignored my pleas to "do something Canadian" for the photo. Or did they?
After sending the lone SUP out as a sacrificial offering for any bloodthirsty ferry captains on duty, Eric pointed us in the right direction and dispatched us on our way. We were starting an hour after spring tide. As Chris helpfully pointed out beforehand, this meant that as we approached the finish in a couple of hours, we'd be struggling against a massive outgoing current. Although Max Ebb would start pummeling us soon enough, in theory we'd enjoy a tidal boost for the first few miles.

The initial mile was a bit confused from boat wakes, but I was able to work some small runners to hop out to a quick lead. I noticed that quite a few people were angling towards the Diamond Islands, but I stayed out closer to Peaks Island. As we gained protective cover from the open ocean, the Bay flattened out and my speed started to drop. Given that the tide was supposed to be on our side and yet I was operating a few tenths of an mph below my expected flatwater speed, I suspected weeds. I stopped and back-paddled a few strokes. Much like my 11th grade career aptitude test, the results were inconclusive (unless you count "nothing that involves sharp edges" as definitive). This was to be a recurring theme. I had on a larger rudder than usual and there was a fair amount of floating vegetation, but I'm guessing that at least three-quarters of my dozen or so stops were for phantom weeds.

I could see a line of paddlers back a few lengths way to the left, but I could never quite convince myself that they were on a better line. I made a couple of half-hearted efforts to veer in that direction, but since I never committed to a full-out course change, ended up cutting a middle path among the islands. The water was now very calm. With little else to work with, I had to get resourceful in exploiting the occasional boat wakes that came by - timing my deweeding breaks so that I could recycle those waves.

For no apparent reason a following current picked up when I was adjacent to Long Island, along with some glassy swells. With the sun reflecting off the wobbling and glossy surface, concentrating too hard on identifying the crests and troughs was a recipe for nausea, so I had to paddle mostly by feel. My steady-state speed jumped by more than a mile per hour. Within ten minutes or so, however, the helpful current started turning on me. I fought desperately to keep the pace up, my heart pounding hard enough to register a signal on the GPS even without a transmitter. Fish started floating to the surface, stunned by the concussive beat, but the effort was to no avail.
Only five miles into the race, and now the spiteful current was wholly against us. Despite my earlier (and later) speculation that staying left was the better route, I angled closer to Chebeague Island on the right to escape the flow. Nope. And I had to waste more effort swinging wide to avoid the shallows around Division Point. I'd estimate the current at around a mile per hour from mile 7 to 12, stepping up gradually from there. I wasn't going any slower than I would have been paddling into a strong breeze with a neutral tide, but because there was no tangible evidence as to why I was having trouble breaking 6 mph, it felt much more dispiriting. Also, it was hot and I hadn't packed enough water. By mile 13, I was downright listless.

The entrance to Merepoint Bay was guarded by two vast unbroken arcs of seaweed, separated by perhaps a half mile. The Circles of Hell. I had sworn earlier that I'd be damned if I let Robert catch me again, but seemingly this was one of those do/don't invariant scenarios you hear about. I searched anxiously for a breach in the first of these floating barriers, but ultimately had to plow through and immediately deweed. When I got back up to speed (such as it was) and saw the next barricade curving ahead, the last few drops of my morale evaporated. Momentum was the one thing in life I could call my own, and now that too was going to be taken from me. An unrefreshing wave of despair washed over me. Speed bleeding off with each stroke, I made it through the flotsam. After reversing to remove the bountiful harvest from my rudder, I looked around from a stop to get a rough estimate of how many people would be passing me in the final mile. I saw nobody, but that was hardly a relief. It just meant that I'd have to suffer a hard push before being caught unaware by a descending fleet.

As it turns out, none of that happened. The hard push was more of a lethargic drag. And the fleet graciously waited until I had finished to come pouring in. It took me 25 minutes longer than last year, in a time only marginally slower than my fastest Blackburn. Indefatigable Joe was the second ski to finish, with Robert claiming third. On the women's side, Kathleen McNamee won and Mary Beth took the silver. In a year in which almost every other repeat paddler added 15+ minutes to their time, Luke Rhodes topped the OC-1 field by shaving 8 minutes off his 2016 time, taking the second overall position. Mark Lessard and Andy Hall repeated as OC-2 champs, while Mark Preece persevered on his SUP.

Attempts to resuscitate me were met with grumpy refusals.
While professing empathy, I was inwardly delighted to find that many other paddlers had also wallowed miserably on the course. The current, the heat, the weeds, and the mesmerizing stretches of glassiness had taken their toll. Even a sighting of the happy-go-lucky seals on Bustins Ledge elicited only the merest blip of cheer. There was a general consensus that the suffering was less acute along a left course line, but if half the fun of a race is complaining about it afterwards, those foolhardy competitors short-changed themselves. If complaining isn't half the fun, I may need to rethink my life strategy.

Thanks to the McNett family for carrying on the tradition of hosting us for a memorable day in Maine.

On to the next race! Due to climate change, the Jamestown Double Beaver will be blossoming several weeks earlier than usual. You must preregister for the July 8 race through PaddleGuru. Even if you have no plans to race, why not throw a few bucks in the pot so that Tim can upgrade to an open bar at the after-party?

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