Ride the Bull: Crash Course

By now we're all familiar with the origin story of Ride the Bull.  Concerned that surfski races were just too sedate to land a lucrative ESPN live coverage contract, Tim Dwyer and Wesley Echols devised a treacherous coastline course guaranteed to have viewers slavering at the carnage.  Taking a cue from Big Tobacco, they figured that with all the youngsters recruited via the sexy publicity, they could afford to gradually kill off their best customers.  It took them a few years of tinkering with the course, but they finally arrived at a sustainable attrition rate.  Although Wesley had taken over sole directorship some years back, his conscience finally got the better of him.  He handed the reigns over to Tim and myself this year.  Proud to carry on the tradition, we summoned paddlers to Fort Wetherill for the annual Narragansett Bay culling extravaganza.

Before getting down to the race itself, let's take a quick detour to discuss my 2022 fitness strategy.  I've started to incorporate more cross training this season, folding in healthy doses of cycling and running to my time on the water.  In general, athletes might adopt such an approach to promote sport-specific recovery, enhance motivation, or avoid overuse injuries.  My principle motivation, however, was to extend the life of the 20 year old neoprene shorts I paddle in.  If I didn't seriously curtail my bucket time, a mid-race disintegration (think Thanos finger snap) was all but inevitable.  As part of the preservation effort, I bought a new road bike this spring.

While I enjoyed riding a couple of times a week, I recently realized that although I was getting an aerobic benefit from this cross training, I should also be looking to enhance skills that would also be useful on a surfski.  With this in mind, the day before the race I found a flat and straight section on a country road to practice my remounts.  Moments later as I lay sprawled in the ditch alongside that road, I couldn't help but think that there should have been more planning on the dismount phase of the drill.  First off, a bed of poison ivy probably wasn't the ideal landing zone.  In my defense, though, even had I identified a more suitable target area beforehand, it would have been difficult to navigate to it while rag dolling along the shoulder.  Which brings me to the second major deficiency in my dismount maneuver.  In retrospect, decelerating to a stop while on the bike would have made a lot more sense.  There's a reason (perhaps a few) they don't make brake pads out of human skin.  My third and final planning faux pas was not alerting area residents that a drill was in progress.  To an unknowing observer - say an elderly woman on her mid-morning walk - it can be difficult to differentiate between a true 911 emergency (like a cyclist wiping out and disappearing off the side of the road) and a minor training snafu (same).  Next thing you know, you might be asking the EMTs if they have anything for acute embarrassment.

I'm in excruciating itchiness, but otherwise fine - my body absorbed most of the impact.  Just some minor scrapes and bruises.  Also snapped off part of my shifter assembly, but I'm told it will grow back.

Paddlers are easing back into the intimate camaraderie we had before COVID, but we're not quite there with the traditional pre-race huddle.

I'm not exactly sure why we were roasting Chris, but Tim had some of the best oceanographer-related zingers I'd ever heard.  I'm never going to hear "Woods Hole" again without laughing.

Back to Rhode Island.  Lest we get too big for our britches (that's assuming they're still in one piece), every year we order a world-class paddler from the ICF to compete in at least one of our New England races.  You never know if you'll get a Sean Rice, an Austin Kieffer, or a Nate Humberston, but we've never been anything less than completely humiliated at our relative incompetence.  Hold on.  I take that back.  One year they had a shortage and pawned a Jan Lupinski off on us.  Oh sure, he probably won, but nobody wanted to quit the sport afterwards.  This year we got the Sean Brennan model - a real bargain since we only had to pay freight charges from New Jersey.  We last saw Sean at the 2021 Sakonnet Surfski Race, immediately after which the local used surfski market crashed due to the glut of sellers.

Although it seemed improbable that Sean would be seriously challenged, if anyone could be forgiven for dreaming above their station, it'd be fellow out-of-towners Rob Jehn and Ed Joy.  Rob has been repeatedly kicking the beloved local favorite in the groin this season and yet for some reason we keep letting him come back.  Although Ed has some mileage on him (including serious off-road ventures while a younger man, as he told us at lunch), he's got a rebuilt drive train and the best rough-water navigation system money can buy.  And as the two-time defending champion, he wasn't about to let a "candy-ass teenager" like Rob beat him on this course.  I figured.

We're not even halfway through the list of outside barbarians that stormed the gates of Fort Wetherill.  For weeks, Rob had been frightening me with tales of Anthony Colasurdo's ferocity from shared NJ training sessions.  New York's John Hair is always a wily competitor, but this year he's taken things to a new level - creating a bogus Strava feed designed to make it look like he hasn't been training much.  Finally, Epic Kayaks muckety-muck Bruce Poacher would be paddling a double with Eric Costanzo (yet another Jersey boy).  Bruce flew his parents over from South Africa and then drove them up from Tennessee so that they'd have a chance to apologize for the cold-hearted manner in which their other son (Ross) had eviscerated me in the 2019 Blackburn.  That's the kind of thoughtful gesture that makes everyone love the (non-Ross) Poachers.  Also, Bruce brought snappy Epic hats for everyone.

I just found out about the "Psychedelic" setting on my GoPro.  Groovy.

The area we use at the park also serves as a base for scuba diving certification, so for once we weren't the silliest looking bunch of weirdos in the parking lot.  We were however, the baldest, with nearly half the paddling crew opting to redirect our supply of testosterone to, uh... more critical areas.  Eyebrows, ears, noses, etc.  Behind more than a few diving masks, I noticed the distinct glint of envy.

With an assist from Sean's encyclopedic knowledge of the navigational markers of Narragansett Bay (get that guy on Jeopardy!), Tim deftly guided us through the 8.8 mile course at the captains meeting.  Starting from West Cove, we'd motor west to round a rocky island just inside Mackerel Cove, head out into the bay to turn on bell buoy G7 (recently refitted with a state-of-the-art Hayes-Kendall "Monsoon IV" free-swinging clapper, as Sean helpfully informed us), continue northeast past West Cove and the House on the Rock to G11 (criminally outdated with a Maritime East "Flop-About" dangler), and return to the mouth of West Cove.  Just to make sure we got it right, Tim asked that we then repeat the loop a second time.  After that, we'd be rewarded with an extra leg that would take us directly back to G7 for one more glorious bell recital before returning to the finish. 

The launch area was congested with floating weeds and scuba students (almost always grounds for an automatic failure), so once we picked our way through to open water, we carefully checked each other's rudders for tangles of regulator hoses.  We soon made our way next door to West Cove and lined up for the countdown start.  Tim's gotten so good at counting backwards that he earns a little extra dough on the side as a test subject for anesthesiologist training.  Based on general demeanor I suspect he may have taken a few too many hits of ether over the years, but on the brighter side he never has to worry about his tonsils, appendix, or gall bladder giving him any problems.  He was in fine form today, though.  We were underway exactly 54 seconds after the one minute warning.

Knowing we'd soon be making a hard right turn around a particularly solid looking rock at the mouth of the cove, I had lined up on the left side of the pack to avoid any temptation to heroically cut things close.  Struggling to get by Tim on the outside, I couldn't lend much attention to what was happening in the thick of things over to the right.  Based on what I saw after clearing the turn (and Tim) and angling towards the point marking the entrance to Mackerel Cove, however, I can only assume that what had been happening was a whole lot of cheating.  That's the only rational explanation for the fact that scarcely a minute into the race I had already lost contact with the first 5 boats.  Sean, Ed, Rob, Bruce & Eric, and Anthony were well out in front.

Once clear of the well-protected start cove, the true nature of the race conditions were revealed.  Between the brisk northwest wind, swells from the south, boat traffic, and refraction from the rocky coastline, there were waves traveling in pretty much any direction you wanted.  Conanicut Island was blocking most of the 12-15 mph wind, so none of the legs would be an upwind slog.  Technical conditions, but not overly demanding.  I figured it would give competitors with years of varied ocean paddling (like Sean, Ed, and Tim) the benefit.  I have more than a decade of open water experience under my belt (and, quite often, over my head), but by stubbornly refusing to learn much from this exposure, I remain mid-pack in my abilities.  Perhaps by waterlogged osmosis I had absorbed skills enough to catch newcomer Anthony, however.

Amazingly, there seemed to be some merit to this hypothesis.  Anthony had dragged me around most of the Narrow River Race a couple of months earlier, but in livelier conditions I was rapidly closing his early lead.  Being in a more stable boat doubtless helped.  Turning around Southwest Point into Mackerel Cove, I took a tight line inside him (only semi-heroically close to the rocks) and moved safely into 5th place.  Now all I had to do was linger close enough to the pursuit group (Ed, Rob, and the double) to pick off any exhausted stragglers.

You'd never have expected it from him, but as we passed in opposite directions at turns I heard a steady stream of motivational obscenities directed at the "gutless maggot" up front by drill sergeant Bruce.

At the completion of the first lap, the pack ahead extended their gap while demonstrating an uncommon degree of cohesion.  The two smaller boats and the larger double appeared to be atomically linked - the H2O of the paddling world, so to speak.  I'm working towards a spectacularly tortured metaphor/pun here, so bear with me.  Here's the premise.  Water is known as the "universal solvent" because almost everything dissolves in it.  But "solvent" also means "having sufficient funds to pay one debts".  So if the group is universally solvent, they have unlimited resources.  Which explains why they were showing no signs of fatigue!  I spent about an hour unsuccessfully trying to craft this harebrained premise into a Shakespearean turn of phrase that would at best elicit a collective groan, and would more probably elicit a collective "Close Tab".  I mostly write to amuse myself, and I failed at even that.  I did come up with the hilarious-to-me phrase "pithy apothegm" while brainstorming, however, so it wasn't a complete loss.

Enough self-indulgence.  Let's get back to the actual topic of this report.  The advantages of liquidity!  The inseparable Fluid Crew were nimble and flexible, while I plodded behind, all of my assets frozen in stodgy long-term investments (like life insurance, which I might well dip into sooner rather than later).  Sorry.  I could've sworn there'd be a payoff in doggedly pursuing this angle.

The remainder of my race overflowed with adventure and excitement (look for the Netflix miniseries in October), but since I've wasted so much space on tangents, I'll distill it to the essentials.  Periodic checks on Anthony after each turn revealed that I was maintaining a solid grasp on 5th place.  As the pursuit pack pulled further head of me, it became difficult to tell how close-knit they remained, but at the final discordant turn on G11, I could see that Rob and Ed had dissociated themselves from Bruce & Eric.  The singles would struggle for supremacy over the final couple of miles, with Rob out-sprinting Ed for the silver.  In winning 4 minutes earlier, Sean had established a new course record of 1:11:56.  Finishing 4th overall about a minute behind Ed, Bruce & Eric were forced to share the doubles crown, leading to quite the fracas in the parking lot.  We had a couple of fatigue-based DNFs, but a 100% survival rate.  We'll have to try harder next year.

I guarantee you that in reality, the field wasn't nearly this photogenic.

For a final ocean tune-up before the Blackburn Challenge, you have two options.  If you just can't seem to kick the Rhode Island habit, head back down for the Jamestown Double Beaver on July 9th (register at PaddleGuru).  For those looking for a different kind of fix, you can see what kind of thrills New Jersey has to offer at Toms River Paddle Race on July 10th (register at PaddleGuru).

Sakonnet Surfski Race: Becalmed

The Sakonnet Surfski Race celebrated its 15th installment this past weekend.  This is the longest continuously operating surfski race in New England.  The youngest competitor this year, Sam Duffield, wasn't even born when the gun first fired on the Sakonnet.  Oops.  Might just have blown his cover with the Navy.  When Wesley Echols started the race way back 2008, who could have guessed that any of the competitors in that inaugural race would still be paddling today?  Now well into their twilight years, four such elder statesmen showed up this year, although only Wesley seemed to know exactly where he was.  

Several years back, Wesley and his neighbors convinced their town to restrict access to their local beach at McCorrie Point to only those with resident permits.  Unfortunately, not all paddlers got the memo that they were now persona non grata at the ancestral home of the Sakonnet race.  As a result, in early June of every year, the town constabulary has to extract neoprene-clad geezers stuck firmly in the razor wire and rake up the detritus left by those who made it as far as the mine field.  We probably have a few more years of safe access to the new venue at Island Park Beach before the inevitable lock-down on invasive species, but if you notice a red dot on your chest or a billowing yellow cloud of noxious gas heading your way - maybe just drop your boat and start running.

Tim's attempts to recruit new members to the Narragansett Paddle Drill Team were, once again, unsuccessful.

You can thank me later for cropping this photo in such a way that exactly what Igor just realized he forgot isn't explicit.

Although there was historically a "standard" course for the Sakonnet, varying weather conditions (and now the venue change) have necessitated frequent ad hoc changes.  At times, these revised directions have had the distinct feel of a scavenger hunt.  One year, the winner was the first paddler to return to the start after finding (1) a Clorox jug inscribed with the Sanskrit word for "fellowship", (2) a bobbing flock of Buffleheads ducks, and (3) a patch of floating seaweed in the shape of Poland.  So naturally I was suspicious when Wesley instead described this year's course with clinical precision.  We'd proceed 4.63 miles towards the mouth of the Sakonnet, turn on navigation buoy RN6, and return to the start.  I kept waiting for him to add "... and also circumnavigate the completely submerged wreck of the trawler Glory B", but he kept silent.  Doubtless he'd wait until just before the start to spring that course addendum on us.

With just a few days left until the race, it appeared that the entire field might earn spots on the podium.  By Saturday, however, our ranks had been swelled by procrastinators, impulse registrants, and parolees assigned to the paddle release program.  Twenty-one paddlers showed up, but since there were only 18 boats we played musical buckets to decide who had to double up.  We can't seem to move our races far enough from New Jersey to keep Rob Jehn from attending.  As winner of the last couple of races, he was naturally the favorite.  Matt Drayer was also competing.  I had recently beaten Matt in consecutive races in our Tuesday night league, but my margin of victory had shrunk alarmingly between the two.  Another 4 days worth of whatever super-soldier serum he's been taking might well make the difference here.

Since discovering that tattoo removal isn't covered by his insurance, Timmy has taken to passing the hat.

In our previous two races, I had clung desperately on Rob's draft until my grip gave way, then faded gradually behind in quiet despair.  I'd only been 15 to 20 seconds back at the finish, but the gap seemed so insurmountable it might as well have been 18 to 23.  Those earlier races had been contested in dead flat conditions, but any hope (unwarranted, granted) that the rougher water of the Sakonnet would mix things up were dashed by the forecast - a whispered breeze from the north at race start, dying to a preternatural calm (weird for the National Weather Service to phrase it that way, but whatever) midway through.  I therefore decided to just make a couple of tweaks to my tried-and-true "draft, fade, despair" strategy.  As we lined up for the start, I could barely contain my excitement at implementing the improved "draft longer, implode, despair" approach.

To maximize drafting time, I maneuvered to set myself up on Rob's port side as Wesley counted us down to the start.  He must of forgotten about the course adjustments.  The usual suspects - Chris Chappell, Tim Dwyer, Matt, and Rob - shot off the line, but this time I was dragged along with them.  Unaccustomed to the g-forces associated with such sudden acceleration, I blacked out briefly.  When I came to, I was still safely ensconced in the warm embrace of Rob's generosity, pulling away from the rest of the field.  It might have been a little warmer if I wasn't catching a paddle-scoop of water in the face every few seconds, but after the race I was happy to provide Rob with a few tips for maximizing my future comfort.

We continued peacefully in this mutually satisfactory manner.  The sea was so smooth that we'd occasionally see stripers finning at the surface ahead, darting away in a confused swirl at the last moment.  Rob made perfunctory efforts to shake me from time to time, but it was obvious that he wasn't seriously committed to these attack intervals.  He could hardly maintain his delusion of being in a competitive race if he dropped me so early.  I wish he would have made a little more effort to sell these break-out attempts, however.  Checking email while ostensibly sprinting?  Come on. On my part, I didn't bother with even a token show of trying to seize the lead (or take a turn pulling, as Rob might have worded it) - the most credulous audience would hardly have bought such a fiction. 

Halfway to the turn buoy, I sensed we had established an uneasy truce.  I'd keep on his draft so that Rob didn't have to admit to himself that he drove 5 hours for a cake walk, and he'd let me stay on that draft because he sensed the looming darkness of competitive irrelevance that lay in my future.  We'd carry on this pitiful charade until the buoy, at which point Rob would break our wispy bond of mutual deception.  And that's pretty much what happened.  Rob's Nelo gave him superior turning agility and his strength gave him superior acceleration.  There's no way I could keep with him.  At least, that was the rationalization I used for not gutting it out and fighting back to his draft immediately after being dropped.  

I took some solace in surveying the oncoming field as we headed back towards the start.  Rob had pulled me well clear of Matt, who in turn had opened up a solid lead on Tim.  For the first couple miles of the return trip, I managed to keep within a half-dozen lengths of Rob.  My planned implosion was disappointingly fade-like - my end came not with a fffwoomp, but with a whimper.  As I fell further back, I resorted to increasingly wild-eyed tactics.  I weaved to and fro searching for non-existent waves or tidal currents I could exploit to negate Rob's advantage.  I'm ashamed to admit that I grew so desperate that at one point I resorted to trying to paddle really hard.  Not my finest moment.

With a half-mile to go, I heard a tremendous splash just behind the bucket on the starboard side.  Despite any corroborating evidence from my other senses, and perhaps a little addled by lack of oxygen to the brain, I suspected that I had fallen out of the boat.  And on my weak remount side!  Fortunately, a quick head count revealed that all the crew were accounted for.  Apparently a large striper had taken offense at my trespassing through his domain and decided that retribution was in order.  The worst thing about being a fish, however, is that you lack convenient access to the judicial system.  That and gill worms.  Lacking any legal remedy against my incursion, he settled for a startling splash.

The capsize scare failed to quicken my heart rate - I am, after all, still around to write this - but it did provide a sufficient boost of adrenaline to see me through to the finish.  Rob had crossed the line 35 seconds earlier at 1:15:58.  Matt came in a few minutes later to claim the final podium spot, with Tim and John Redos taking 4th and 5th shortly after.  Leslie Chappell earned the women's title, while Bill Kuklinski & Kirk Olsen were the double's champions.

Bill placed 14th in the first Sakonnet race, but even while carrying a passenger, improved all the way to 5th this year!

Having survived the Great Kumquat Deluge of 2012, the odd banana peel doesn't phase Matt at all.

Thanks to Wesley for having us down for a fantastic day on the water.  We'll be back in Rhode Island on June 18th for Ride the Bull (no charge, but please register at PaddleGuru).  Some paddlers were disappointed that this year's calm Sakonnet didn't provide a suitable warm-up for the notoriously lively conditions at the Bull, but I think it'll make for a better consumer experience.  Would Friday the 13th have been any good if Jason made his first appearance skulking around basket weaving class in broad daylight?  No!  In his initial reveal, he's gotta be stabbing a counselor in the eye.  So buck up little campers!  You're in for a treat.