Sakonnet River Race: Right Tool

The Sakonnet River Race is traditionally the first rough-water race of the New England season.  After careful consideration, however, race director Wesley Echols made a tough game-day decision.  We  had a handful of flatwater races under our belts, but given our collective performance at the most recent outing (three players with a half-dozen errors between them - myself included) he decided that we weren't ready for the majors.  We'd paddle the traditional course (12.6 miles round-trip from McCorrie Point to Third Beach, by way of Sandy Point and Black Point), but Wesley would use his administrator privileges to override the defaults and dial conditions down to "Mill Pond" - giving us one last shot to prove ourselves.

MB wouldn't be attending.  My helpmeet needed a little time away from home to "reevaluate her options", in large part because I insist on introducing her as my helpmeet.  Instead I'd be accompanied by my compeer, Bob.  [touches imaginary earpiece] Erstwhile compeer, I'm just being told.  He now prefers "acquaintance".  We carpooled down with my surfski catechumen, Janda.  [earpiece again] I see.  Is "fellow human" acceptable?  Good.  In any event, we three frabjous popinjays wended our way... [and again] Balderdash! [extended tinny harangue, audible to bystanders]  My apologies, folks.  I've been informed that the whimsical use of bygone vocabulary for humorous effect is no longer sanctioned.  [continued tinny denunciations]  Was, in fact, never sanctioned.  Oops.

A healthy quorum of regional paddlers met us at McCorrie Point Beach.  In addition to the cast of repertory players, we were joined by recent ski convert Andrew Metz and first-time racer John Litherland.   I figured my main competition would come from Matt Drayer (well-known by the Swampscott police from all those pre-dawn 911 calls regarding a wetsuit-clad prowler on the beach), Mike Florio, and Janda Ricci-Munn.  With flat conditions forecast, I felt comfortable bringing my V14, but Mike was playing it safe in his V10.  Ryan Bardsley, despite temperatures in the high 60s, was also playing it safe by dressing in head-to-toe neoprene.  Nobody was sure what the flash point of human flesh is, but we'd likely find out prior to the end of the race.

As Ryan is about to discover, Janda's bear hugs lie in that gray area between collegial bonding and stranger danger.

I tried to get Igor to share his larval hash with me, but turns out it was just cold risotto.  Blech.  No thanks!

You may have already noticed that the photos are better than usual.  Acquaintance Bob foolishly agreed to act as race photographer, not realizing that by borrowing my camera he had entered into an implicit licensing agreement that would prohibit him from sharing the profits I'd make from the lucrative surfski photo resale market.  He did get a free trip to Rhode Island out of the bargain, so he's really got nothing to complain about.

We find ourselves in the midst of a dangerous, bank-busting arms race.  I believe Tim got the ball rolling with his black-and-white Elite V10 3G last season.  Bruce Deltorchio followed suit earlier this year with the same boat.  And Matt showed up to the Sakonnet with an Elite V12 2G so new that its gelcoat was still tacky.  That's 63 feet of carbon hull between those three boats, the total probably weighing in at less than the first kayak I owned.  Of course, Wesley had gone nuclear long ago.  He just had the cunning to choose brands that don't broadcast their firepower by color.

"And if you'll just direct your attention this way..."

"...you'll be able to add the yellow-banded paddle stork to your life list.  No, stork.  S. T. O. R. K."

Soon enough the 23 skis were on the water setting up for another battle.  Wesley bellowing "Hold the line!" as he coordinates our rolling start has become something of a Rhode Island tradition.  I don't know about the others, but it makes me feel like we're not fooling around - there's really something at stake.  In an inspired twist, this year Wesley shamed a creeping scofflaw by name.  Wasn't me, but I won't rat out the weasel.  You can clearly hear in the first few seconds of my video, but even that doesn't remove all ambiguity.

We take turns so that he doesn't get suspicious, but every race someone mentions to Chris Chappell that there's a substantial payout for the first paddler to the 500 meters hotspot.  It's tough to maintain a straight face after all these years, but poor credulous Chris bites hard every time.  Once he's taken the bait, we let him make his run before reeling him in and breaking the bad news.  No, no, it was 1000 meters, not 500.  Or 2000.  Or whatever it takes until someone finally gets in front of him.  We then make sure that whoever that is flashes around a wad of twenties after the race to help perpetuate our cruel ruse.

Opening day of ocean ski season brought out quite the crowd.

Naturally, Chris rabbited to an immediate lead while the rest of us snickered behind his receding back.  After a start on the Essex that would charitably be described as "anemic", I vowed to at least splash around more at the onset of the Sakonnet.  My sound and fury approach appeared to be working, although I suspect it was just because everyone missed a stroke or two while glancing over to see who was being attacked by geese.  Within a minute I had caught Wesley, Tim Dwyer, and Ryan (trying to achieve ignition temperature right out of the gate, apparently) to move into second place.  A minute later, I passed Chris.  For the first time ever, I may have legitimately stolen the hotspot from him.  While abreast of Chris, I noticed that we were skimming through maybe a foot of water.  I made a mental note of how shallow it was 50 meters off of McCorrie Point and filed it under "Facts to Soon Be Forgotten" for safe-keeping.

After years of working on my start, I finally discovered the key to success was cropping technique.

As promised, conditions were ideal for a lightning fast initial leg.  The previous Tuesday, Matt had dismantled my carefully arranged Salem League winning streak in convincing fashion, and now here he was in a faster, lighter boat.  Besides that, Iron Mike was finally in a ski he could hammer away from.  If those motivating factors couldn't push me to record speeds, then what could?  Hmm?  What's that?  Glass-flat conditions and a ripping tide propelling me along?  Well, agree to disagree.

Over the first several miles, I was pushing within a few tenths of 9 mph.  My hard training had finally paid off.  Like Bruce Banner or Peter Parker, all the disciplined hours spent in the "lab" had unlocked my latent abilities!  The sudden increase of 1 mph in my cruising speed was no surprise.  One expects such discontinuities in performance.  Pete didn't go through a phase where he could "kinda" hang upside-down from his fingertips.  During the early phase of flexing my new paddling muscles, I discovered that I grew even more proficient the more towards the center of the bay I tracked.  This correlation perplexed me for a while, until I figured out that dry land must be my (Uh-oh, should have thought my metaphor out a little better.  Oh well...) kryptonite.

I've written myself into a corner here, so I'm going to use my first "Get Out of Contrived Fantasy Free" card to snap back to reality.  Ish.  I did spend the first half-mile or so in awe of my ability to maintain such a blistering pace.  But as my speed continued to increase, it gradually dawned on me that a humdinger of a tidal current was mostly responsible.  Once I had made this realization, I could start properly obsessing over exactly how far out from shore I should be to optimize the speed-distance trade-off.  And, on the flip side, worrying about how much shore-hugging to do after the turn.

Shortly after passing Black Point, some unwelcome texture started to appear on the water.  Although you would be hard-pressed to categorize the subtle ripples as waves, I share no such compunction.  As far as me and my V14 were concerned, conditions transformed from calm to rollicking.  I didn't feel compelled to abandon ship and swim for shore, but I was destabilized enough to throw off my finely-tuned flat-water stroke (stop smirking, Jan).  My speed started dropping, a trend that was exacerbated as I moved out of the tidal current - edging shoreward in preparation for the turn-around off of Third Beach.

I always suffer from navigation anxiety when trying to identify the correct mooring buoy at the Sakonnet, despite Wesley's detailed instructions on triangulating a course using a house-less chimney, a lifeguard chair, and a cormorant.  My brain was too oxygen-deprived to pull up the specifics, but I did recall that the buoy was numbered 114.  In 8 point font.  Slipping on my reading glasses, I scrutinized each buoy in the bay until finding the correct one and turning for the return leg.  I could now see that Matt trailed by about 90 seconds, with Mike maybe half that far behind him, and Janda a comparable distance behind Mike.  With a sizable gap to the next paddler, it seemed like the podium we be drawn from us four.

Only after the fog lifted did Matt and I realize that we had been circling one another for the past twenty minutes.

I kept along the coast until reaching Black Point - a no-brainer since this was both the shortest path and avoided the outgoing tide.  After that, however, I had to choose between a straight-line course and a more circuitous track that would have me dipping into each bay between me and McCorrie Point.  Clearing Black Point, it was obvious that the once-friendly tide had turned openly antagonistic.  And, in bald-faced defiance of all meteorologists, a playful headwind was also greeting me.  Not knowing how much current the coastal route would avoid, I decided to choose the devil I knew.  For most of the remainder of the race I would only see 7 mph when an anomalous mini-wave happened to be heading my direction.  I nervously monitored the inner passage to make sure that nobody was zooming up the shore, but since I still had my reading glasses on, they would have to be waving giant fluorescent banners for me to actually spot them.

Given what I wrote a few paragraphs ago, you'd be forgiven for thinking that I'd soon be crashing into the rocky bar off of McCorrie Point.  That was misdirection.  I didn't, in fact, forget how shallow it was off the point.  I forgot how far off the point it was that shallow.  As a result, I swung ridiculously wide, setting up a half-mile in advance for a sweeping turn that would have allowed a supertanker to skirt the point unscathed.  Only to find criminally inadequate docking and off-loading facilities.  One port-a-john for a crew of 27?  Oof.

Although Matt swears by the express route he took along the shoreline, the proof is in the plodding.  My path may have been slow-going and tedious, but it ultimately got me to the finish first.  Matt pulled in shortly after to claim silver, with Mike outlasting a hard-charging Janda for the final podium spot.  In the women's race, Leslie Chappell took the crown, followed by Melissa Meyer and Jean Kostelich.  These three paddled together for the first leg of the race, but Leslie had another gear when she needed it.

How is it that Timmy is smiling in every photo?  It's starting to get a little creepy.

All those clinics have done wonders for Bruce's technique.

Thanks to Wesley and Betsy for hosting the race.  I wouldn't miss it for the world.  Unlike, say, Mary Beth.  Just something to think about after she trades up and you need to choose which of us to remain friends with.

We've seen a whole lot of flat this season, but rest assured that this is about to change on June 15 at Wesley and Tim's Ride the Bull race.  Should there be not a breath of wind, should all other boats be banned from Narragansett Bay, should the moon be reassigned to another planet to stanch the tides... we'd still be bouncing around while cursing the diabolical duo that created this abomination.  Probably also a little concerned about the ecological and political chaos associated with the moon thing, but there'll be plenty of time to fashion our paddles into weapons after the race.  Please register at PaddleGuru.  Don't forget to indicate your blood type and post-apocalyptic tribe preference.