Blackburn Challenge: Slow Motion

The champ.  (photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)

I was excited when the Blackburn Challenge organizers announced an web-based competition to provide a pithy slogan for the race.  They were probably expecting something upbeat like "Twenty miles of liquid fun!" or "Take a magical tour of Cape Ann."  That was a miscalculation.  As we're now all aware due to the high-profile copyright lawsuit by the producers of Rocky IV, the new official slogan is "I must break you."  Odd choice to personify the race that way, but somehow apt.  I personally preferred "Nope", but admittedly that had infringement issues of its own.  Despite the ominous new tagline, competitors didn't seem dissuaded.

In the spirit of race namesake Howard Blackburn (who famously ate his crewmate before starting his epic winter row to safety, just to bask undiluted in solo glory), Mary Beth and I invited fellow competitors Tim Dwyer and Rob Jehn to stay with us before the race.  This proved to be an error in judgement on everyone's part, as we all spent the night sleepless in the candlelight, daggers at the ready.

Last year, Rob Jehn and Craig Impens battled for the entire race, with Craig getting the edge in the final sprint.  I sensed that Rob hadn't quite negotiated the five stages of grief over this devastating loss, mostly because he kept denying that he had even participated in 2022.  When confronted with photographic evidence from the finish line, he just muttered something about doppelgangers while jabbing Craig's face with a handy dagger.  C'mon, dude.  That was my phone.  In any event, Rob was looking forward to repeating his dominant performance from the last time he had raced the course, back in 2021.  He'd be joined by inveterate Canadians Jack Van Dorp and Brian Heath, who made their annual summer migration to Gloucester in hopes of claiming their own podium spots.

This one photo of the North Shore crew deserves an entire blog post of its own.

Local ne'er-do-well and perennial nemesis, Matt Drayer, would mercifully be out of my category, paddling a V10 Double with beloved native Dan Brooks.  They'd be facing off against Team Lamb (Erin & Alan, who have repeatedly rejected my preferred moniker, The Dylambic Duo) in their own class, and Wesley Echols and Tim Dwyer in an SS20+ tandem.  Other notable paddlers included the legendary Dana Gaines, who hit platinum membership way back at his 15th Blackburn and has since accrued so many multiplied miles that he'd technically be completing his 244th iteration this year.  Doubles "partner" Phil Warner was assigned to do the actual paddling, as well as serving complimentary lobster and champagne at Straitsmouth.

Before the race, I heard someone offering simple, practical advice for navigation once exiting the Annisquam - "Keep the land to your left".  Oops.  He must have misspoken.  "Port." I helpfully corrected.  Assuming the recipients of this wisdom averaged 40 miles a day, brought a few extra energy gels, and carried a change of underwear, we could expect to see them at the finish of the 2025 Blackburn.  I felt bad for the suckers who didn't bring enough cash to cover the Panama Canal transit fee, though.  Of course, the quicker circumnavigation - keeping Cape Ann to your starboard - would entail only 20 miles of paddling, although in some years that extra underwear might nevertheless come in handy. 

I lined up next to Rob, Jack, and Brian.  Or rather, amongst them.  With my less-than-explosive start, I should have known that I would soon find myself squeezed between these guys, desperately looking for a unclaimed patch of water large enough to plant a paddle blade.  After a couple of solid plants on Jack's boat threatened to cause an international incident, I relented and ceded the disputed territory of Rob's starboard draft to Jack.  I slipped onto Rob's stern, with Brian likewise behind Jack.

Rob managed to free himself of parasites within a couple minutes, opening up a half-dozen boat length gap that would persist for most of the trip out the Annisquam.  As we progressed, the strength of the incoming tide grew, knocking a knot off our speeds even when tucked out of the worst of the current.  I managed to get around Jack, who I now pulled in pursuit of Rob.  Brian stayed on the train for a mile or so, but eventually tumbled off.

I enjoy the Hokey Pokey as much as the next guy, but I'm not sure it was a particularly effective as a group warm-up drill.

Despite not having kayaked there until I was 37, my formative years were spent paddling the Annisquam. Having been practically whelped on the marshy estuary, I've been able to use a few navigational sleights-of-hand to my advantage in past Blackburns - including some feats that left Rob blinking in disbelief that his 10 length lead had been magically cut to 8 and a half.  From such harsh instruction, he's since learned to frequently check back with me, adjusting his behavior accordingly.  Little did he realize that my greatest trick had been in planning all along for just such an adaptation.

Each time that Rob started to crane back, I'd adopt a crazy new "strategy" for him to mimic.  Weaving through the moored boats.  Only paddling on one side.  Wearing my shorts inside-out.  He invariably took the bait, but these moves were just for giggles.  The real pay-off came when Rob looked back to find me cutting the final bend of the Annisquam ridiculously close to shore.  He corrected his course to adopt my purported line, while I swerved away from the sandy shallows once his gaze returned forward.  I watched with glee as Rob heeled his boat increasingly to one side to avoid scraping his rudder and then ground to a halt.  The few seconds it took him to hop out of his boat and drag it to deeper water was just enough for me to catch him.  Jack, who had remained scrupulously clear of the shallows, hovered a few lengths back.

My ingenious ploy bought me all of 3 minutes of draft time.  Exiting the river, Rob broke free once again while I was clumsily (and boorishly) trying to pass an outrigger who had the temerity to be out on the same course.  Over the next mile, Rob stretched his advantage to a dozen length lead.  A short distance back, Jack was resolved to stay on a line 50 meters inside of mine.  At one point, I tested his commitment to this strategy by angling over to within 25 meters of the shore.  Sure enough, when I glanced to the right, there was Jack, boat on his shoulder, scrambling spryly across the rocky coast.  He seemed to be gaining on me during this stretch, so I quickly veered back to open water, a subdued splash behind me signaled the end of Jack's portage.  There may have been some mild degree of exercise-induced hypoxia associated with this anecdote.

Race buddies Elmore, Jerry, and Bernie.  The camaraderie of mile 7 was inevitably replaced by the bitter recriminations of mile 12 (photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)

Although the tide had been restraining our exuberance in a motherly manner (firm, but gentle, and with occasional snacks), the sea was smooth with barely a wisp of wind.  At Halibut Point, however, we were collectively shipped off to boarding school, where "tough love" was the order of the day.  Inevitably, this would later evolve to rampant sadism and, for some of the less hardened pupils, psychotic breaks.  I'm getting ahead of myself, though.  At orientation, we were merely slapped in the face and reminded that this was the Atlantic Ocean, not our mama's duck pond.  There was some confused refractory chop around the rocky points and an unwelcome headwind, but crossing Sandy Bay towards Straitsmouth wasn't an unreasonable first assignment.

Rob was slipping inexorably further ahead during this span, but I took some solace from the possibility that Jack had the same feeling about me.  If his inside line had been helping him while closer to the coast, in Sandy Bay it was doing him no favors - I could see him gradually falling back.  A quarter of the way to Straitsmouth, I heard the first waft of the dreadful sound that would burrow itself into my brain so deeply that I hear it still.  Hut!  The six-person outriggers had started immediately after the skis.  Hut!  The lead OC-6 had blasted by as we left the Annisquam, but now the second was approaching at a rate usually associated with glaciers or your slower growing mosses.  Hut!  For the next half-hour, the rhythmic call to switch paddle sides would scrape at my nerves, fraying my sanity.  Hut!  I can now testify from first-hand experience that torture is an unreliable interrogation technique, since at one point (dear God, make it stop) I confessed to war crimes in Bosnia, cheating on my Econ 101 mid-term, and having a secret crush on Mrs. Garrett.  Hmm.  Somewhat unreliable.

Before you comment that "the OC-6 paddlers themselves seem to have no problems maintaining their sanity after 3 hours of calls", I'd say that (a) you apparently haven't met that many outrigger paddlers and (b) it's a matter of context.  If your own 5 year old (it's Walter, right?) whacks you repeatedly on the head with a croquet mallet, that's adorable.  If it's me getting whacked on the melon, that's felonious assault and Walter is going to be spending the next 35 years in the Big House.  I forgot to mention that in this analogy, we're in Canada - they don't mollycoddle minors up there.  In any event, my hypnotherapist (you may remember Dr. Huber) has promised to wipe all memory of the traumatizing chant, but so far he's only succeeded in making me forget where I put my wallet.

By necessity (except, perhaps, for shore-clambering Jack) boats are funneled through the narrow Straitsmouth gap after traversing Sandy Bay.  I must have got a hold of some bad juju before the race (never trust unlicensed parking lot vendors), because, despite my best efforts, I arrived at the throttle point simultaneously with the OC-6 mentioned in passing above, two rowboats, and a double ski piloted by Chris Kielb and Rob Flanagan.  The tightening situation required deft maneuvering to avoid incident, but I instead opted to close my eyes and hope for the best.  Only when the screaming (mine) stopped did a I dare to reopen them.  I have no new scars, so it seems like everything worked out just fine. 

If technique and style points were factored into the results, I would have been disqualified.  (photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)

Although tempered by the disturbed waters around each subsequent headland, we enjoyed a tidal boost after Straitsmouth.  This uncharacteristic respite from antagonistic conditions faded after clearing Lands End, where we started our 3 mile trek across open water.  Our punishment now took the form of a headwind and waves predominantly from the quarter beam.  Seconds stretched to minutes, and minutes stretched to curses and impassioned prayers that the distant coast would get at least marginally less distant.  That particular request wasn't immediately granted, but I did receive one unexpected blessing from above - the OC-6 took an outside line ahead and was finally out of earshot.  On a negative note, Rob had similarly advanced, and was finally out of eyeshot.

Many of those anxious for landfall after their endless odyssey found themselves in emotional turmoil after achieving their goal.  On one hand, Hooray!  On the other, Zounds!  It's tough to describe the chaotic ocean surface exactly, but perhaps "prickly" comes closest.  We would also accept "nettlesome".  Between the prevailing beam waves, slop reflected randomly from the craggy shore, and undersea seismic activity, conditions were sub-optimal for paddlers who already had 15 miles worth of balance fatigue under their belts.  Although challenging even for veterans, this rough-and-tumble hazing took its toll on the underclassmen.  Several had to be hustled into decompression chambers after the race, lest the sudden change in anxiety levels burst their fragile psyches.

I managed to bumble through the disorder, bouncing along haphazardly in a path that led more-or-less in the right direction.  How different from my early Blackburn years, where I mostly floundered instead of bumbling.  Rounding East Point, the beam waves were finally forced into a more favorable alignment, providing juicy rides along the Dog Bar, just waiting to be harvested.  That's more of a theoretical than empirical observation, since fatigue prevented me from actually sinking my teeth into most of those plums.

The two mile trip from the Dog Bar to the finish across a busy Gloucester harbor is typically an interminable slog - a life sentence punctuated by moments of powerboat-induced terror.  With a breeze at our backs and the reduction of the bounty on paddlers (recently reclassified from "pestilent scourge" to "nuisance species" by the Harbormaster), this year's traverse was only 95% as unpleasant as usual.  And now with a sustainable cull rate!  For once I passed the finish line looking robust enough that concerned spectators weren't calling 911.

Two legendary watermen.  That's 12-time Molokai winner Oscar Chalupsky in the black shirt.  And Blackburn rower extraordinaire Rich Klajnscek in the blue shirt and orange hat.  Our staff is still trying to identify the guy next to Oscar.

No single stretch of the Blackburn was particularly onerous this year, but the relentlessness of unfavorable conditions made for a humbling race.

Rob had notched his second Blackburn championship in 2:54:03.  I don't mean to take anything away from his performance, but I'd hardly be a conscientious journalist if I didn't point out that this was the slowest winning time in nearly 25 years.  I will, however, graciously admit that his 5 minute advantage over 2nd (me) and 10 minute edge over 3rd (Jack) indicates that Rob isn't quite the slouch the facts objectively show him to be.  Johna Till Johnson claimed the women's HPK class, while Jean Kostelich won the SS20+ class.  John Stevens was the men's SS20+ champ.  The HPK tandem team of Matt & Dan came in as the overall fastest surfski at 2:51:50, while the SS20+ duo of Wesley & Tim slotted themselves between me and Jack as the 4th overall ski.  Rejuvenated by his first tandem race, Wesley was heard to shout "We're going around again!" just prior to being knocked unconscious by Tim.

Here's the prescription for those who need to ease themselves back into racing after their 3-to-7 hour long Blackburn trauma.  Start with a flatwater outing on the relatively tranquil Connecticut River - the New England Paddlesports Championship (register at PaddleGuru) on July 30th in Hinsdale, NH.  Follow that with the more adventurous Clean Ocean Access Paddle 2023 in Newport, RI on August 19th (register at PaddleGuru).  Then throw yourself whole-heartedly back into the open water fray at the Nahant Bay Cup in Swampscott, MA on August 26th (probable date - keep tuned).  

You can view many great photos of the race from Phil Sachs (at Halibut Point) and Glen Tine (at Straitsmouth). 

Hut!

Double Beaver: Double Trouble

There's been a lot of speculation as to exactly how Tim Dwyer manages to convince world-class paddlers to participate in one of his races every few years.  I suspect he has some dirt on the Rhode Island Bureau of Tourism that he leverages to obtain generous subsidies, because the alternative - his warm personality, long history in the sport, and extensive network of paddling contacts - doesn't make for good copy.  For this year's running of the Jamestown Double Beaver, Tim really put the squeeze on the Visitor Services Officer (not his real name) to arrange a public appearance by US national sprint team member Jesse Lishchuk.

I'm old enough to remember being beaten by Jesse as a child prodigy (him, not me), but for others this would be their first chance to meet this amazing athlete in person.  He didn't disappoint - in either the race itself or in his post-lunch workshop.  Jesse spent the race flitting around like a deranged hummingbird, combining interval training, paddler wellness checks, and just plain youthful exuberance.  If there were classes in this race, starting with Jesse alone in "Elite" and progressing through "Expert", "Advanced", and lesser levels from there, we'd have had about 7 empty classes before getting to the rest of us in "Present".  It goes without saying - at least from this sentence on - that Jesse won.  Poof.  For the purpose of this report, he wasn't in the race.

With the kid out of the picture, recent Ride the Bull champion Ed Joy was undoubtedly the favorite.  Ronald Rivera finished only a couple minutes back in that race, after having honed his rough-water skills dodging ferries (as well as items left best unidentified) in the disturbed waters around Manhattan.  Hailing from western Massachusetts, flatwater specialist Joel Pekosz had edged me out in the Oxbow Paddle earlier this season.  A few weeks later, however, I really turned things around when we met at the Mystic River Herring Run.  Alas, not in a good way - Joel absolutely kippered me at that race, smoking me by several minutes.  I'd need a little help from a surly ocean.

During the captain's meeting, Tim had trouble competing with the contradictory instructions I was relaying via my drone's loudspeaker.  We came this close to running a half mile version of the race where we paddled backwards.

Just in case you're wondering, the guy with the paddle - that's the international-caliber athlete. (photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Intriguingly, 4 doubles would be competing.  It seemed quite likely that the pairings of Tim & Wesley, Max Yasochka & Andrius Zinkevichus, and Mary Beth Gangloff & Kirk Olsen would be mixing it up with the top singles for the overall title (again, excluding Jesse).  Robin Francis & Igor Yeremeev might not be contenders, but it was nice to have a tandem that wasn't crewed by scurrilous cutthroats.  In addition to the skis, we were joined by a handful of OCs and SUPs of undetermined demeanor.

This would be at least the 15th running of the notoriously challenging race - it's hard to pin down an exact count since many of the early records still remain sealed due to ongoing litigation by next of kin.  Racers would start off the end of the Conanicut Yacht Club dock, proceed 1.5 miles across the relatively protected waters of Jamestown Harbor, round Bull Point, then spend 3.5 miles crossing open water to the Beavertail Light buoy before returning to the start.  Traditional geometry puts the total length at 10 miles, but after factoring in boat wakes, refractory waves, and unpredictable tidal currents, I've seen paddlers who have logged thrice that in subjective distance.  Sorry, typo.  Not "seen", "been".  Although the forecast was for mild conditions and the harbor was calm, veterans knew to strap down their valuables, get their affairs in order, and gird their loins.  That may seem redundant, but it pays to triple-check these things.

Here's the take home from this picture... In a fight with Andrius, you'd end up stabbed through the heart with your own broken femur.  In a fight with Max, he'd set a kitten on your head. (photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Chris watched, forlorn, as the last paddler left the beach headed to the start.  A single tear ran down his cheek.  Then he remembered that he brought a boat too.

If anyone was hoping for a gradual enough start by the leaders that they could slot in easily on a draft, I was sorely disappointed.  The abrupt acceleration of Ronald, Ed, and Max & Andrius practically dislocated my confidence within the first 15 seconds of the race.  With some moral (and hydrodynamic) support from Joel and Tim & Wesley, however, I managed to cling to a glimmer of hope.  After weaving through the densest concentration of boats and buoys in the harbor (with one notable near-collision where I nearly dropped a stitch), I noticed Ed pulling landward to catch a few runners.  He's a master at finding the subtlest boosts.  Knowing that anything I could do, Ed could do better - but hoping that anything he could do, I could do maybe 72% as effectively, I followed his lead.  Joel did as well, but I was pleasantly surprised that my mere 100-fold advantage in ocean paddling hours allowed me to crack a gap between us.  He soon reverted to the outside line that most of the other leaders were pursuing.

At Bull Point, Max & Andrius and Ed had a 10 length lead over me, with Tim & Wesley right on my tail, Ronald just behind them, and Mary Beth & Kirk less than a half dozen lengths further back.  Now targeting the distant Beavertail Light, I pulled slightly ahead of the others.  I chased the leaders from 5 lengths back.  When I again noticed the other three boats a few minutes later, they were a good quarter mile outside of me in approximately the same arrangement.  I was clearly still ahead of them, until, in a matter of less than 10 minutes, I wasn't.  I'd heard Tim claim many times that even though he'd been paddling here for nigh on 75 years (he's older than he looks), he was still as confused by the Narragansett tidal currents as he was by push-button telephones.  I bought into this hokum, in part because I'd repeatedly seen him searching for the finger holes on his cell phone.  But I should have known that the crafty locals would be taking the best line for the outgoing tide.

I tried not to be squeamish about it, but I wasn't exactly thrilled about the last-second cockpit adjustments Wesley asked for help with.

While Max & Andrius and Ed slowly lengthened their lead, I merged with the train led by Tim & Wesley as the upcoming Beavertail headland began pinching us together.  I zippered in a couple of lengths behind their double, and a couple ahead of Ronald and Mary Beth & Kirk.  Tim & Wesley looked more comfortable than one would have liked at this stage - not exactly paddling languidly, but at a measured pace that hinted at deeper reserves.  Figuring I'd better give myself a buffer before they spooled up to full power, I used some interval efforts to put them back behind me.  At the Beavertail buoy, Ed and Max & Andrius were 10 lengths ahead of me, Tim & Wesley 3 lengths back, with Mary Beth & Kirk and then Ronald each a half-dozen lengths further back.

Given Tim & Wesley's line-related gains on the outbound leg, I probably should have shadowed them on the way home.  In my defense, they were flagrantly ignoring my navigational lead after the turn, so I felt petulantly justified in refusing to acknowledge the superiority of the upstarts' course, even after they slipped ahead on an inside line.  I was, however, willing to eat enough crow to, uh, let's say, trend in their general direction to avoid being lapped.  Ed and Max & Andrius, who had started their return on a line much further out than mine, realized how much of their effort they were wasting against the current as they fell behind both the new lead double and me.  They veered shoreward in response.  I now had Ed and two doubles in pursuit as Tim & Wesley widened their lead.

Being ahead of Ed had a "I'm just happy to be nominated" feel to it.  Now that we were on the same line, it wasn't likely I was going to win the award, but if I could drum up some kind of grassroots support from the other paddlers while simultaneously waging a black-ops smear campaign on Ed, maybe I'd have a chance.  Unfortunately, nobody was close enough to either pull me to victory or cancel Ed.  After a heated battle (that is, Ed periodically overheating and stopping to douse his head), he overtook me in the polls and opened a runaway lead.  Now I had only Max & Andrius and Mary Beth and Kirk to thwart.

Although I wasn't obsessing about the relative position of the pursuing doubles, a mild curiosity resulted in what my new orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Huber, refers to as "severe C1-C2 degradation due to excessive head rotation".  If I were the anxious type, the fact that Max & Andrius loomed comically closer with every backward glance might have sent me into full-blown hysteria.  The memory of my actual reaction is a little vague, however, since Doc Huber also has me on pretty heavy doses of Paxil and Klonopin.  He's kind of a jack-of-all-trades.

Inevitably, Max & Andrius passed me shortly after we entered Jamestown Harbor.  After the race, they complemented me on my ability to navigate through the rocks at the entrance of the harbor without once actually looking forward.  When fighting for dominance, it's important to maintain eye contact to avoid the appearance of weakness.  Based on the results, however, it's evidently more important to actually not be weak.  With Max & Andrius successfully flushed from the Worry Pool (as Hube suggests I call it), I could concentrate on the existential threat posed by Mary Beth & Kirk.

Kirk demonstrates why the Epic V8 Double is nicknamed "The Crotchbuster".  (photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Up ahead, Ed challenged Tim & Wesley for the lead, but wasn't able to permanently overtake them due to ongoing malfunctions in his heat dissipation subsystems.  Steam (hopefully) venting from his orifices, he had to settle for the non-Jesse solo crown 15 seconds behind the non-Jesse overall champions, Tim & Wesley.  Max & Andrius took third overall 16 seconds later.  Driven to a berserker state by the prospect of having to move out of our house to avoid the incessant gloating of Mary Beth (just packing up my Hummel collection by itself would be unthinkable), I actually managed to close to within 20 seconds of Max & Andrius while staying well ahead of Mary Beth & Kirk.  In the Big Bang cosmology time-frame, that 8 second gap encompassed at least a half-dozen distinct epochs.  I particularly enjoyed the Inflationary Phase.  Ronald took the non-Jesse solo bronze soon after.

While rinsing off the heat beyond the finish line, we excitedly rehashed the events of the race.  Usually such discussions are peppered with "shoulda" and "if only" lamentations, but, miraculously, the paddlers from the 6 lead boats all seemed to be pleased with their performances.  Well, it was tough to tell with Ed since he was cooling off by floating face-down in the water during the 15 minute discussion, but he definitely wasn't complaining.

One of the fan favorites of Jesse's post-race clinic was this moment.  They eventually had to call in 3 more people to wrestle me into the proper paddling position.

She's mocking me, isn't she?

At roughly half the length of the Blackburn Challenge, the discomfort engendered by the Double Beaver should be sufficient to dissuade even the hardiest of paddlers from subjecting themselves to the longer race on July 15th.  Please keep that in mind before registering and foiling my rapidly diminishing chances at ever winning the thing.  Better see if the Hubester has anything that might help.

You can find additional photos of the Double Beaver by Olga Sydorenko here.