Blackburn Challenge: Sixth Sense

The Cape Ann Rowing Club restored the Blackburn Challenge course to its traditional 19.5 mile incarnation for 2025.  The results of last year's experimental choose-your-own-adventure race were catastrophic. While undeniably capturing the spirit (and length, in some cases) of Howard Blackburn's epic voyage, our collective navigational abilities were found wanting in the foggy waters off Cape Ann.  A half-dozen paddlers never returned, although some say that if you listened carefully, you could hear their spectral voices wafting through the mist ("Hey!  Stop auctioning off our stuff!  We're up here on the Beauport Hotel deck having mimosas!").  Three unfortunate competitors were so traumatized by their maritime experience in the void that they joined an ashram in Iowa.  I hadn't fared too badly, but was shaken enough by the experience to finally commit the complex circumnavigation to memory.

Last year's top trio of Ian Black, Ed Joy, and Rob Jehn would be returning, despite my aggressive lobbying to institute podium term limits.  Together with veteran Craig Impens (who I'm not sure is a literal veteran, but has definitely knifed some people in close combat), these guys already had 11 Blackburn championships between them, for pity's sake.  While I've also finished in the money a few times myself, I'd never achieved the kind of shiny success you can sink your teeth into.  Plus I'd qualify for a local boy exemption.  Clamoring to take a step up would be fellow Bay Stater Eli Gallaudet, who in just 2.5 years of paddling has made the dizzying transformation from up-and-comer to son-of-a-bitch.  I'd normally include John Hair in the contender list, but his non-stop litany of excuses eventually convinced me that he genuinely wasn't in fighting shape.  He's carrying those extra 130 pounds well, though.  And the two glass eyes?  Barely noticeable.

Before the race, Eli demonstrates how he will smite his opponents mercilessly.

All omens indicated that it'd be a fast year.  When you're hitting all points of the compass, wind is never going to be your steadfast ally.  Oh sure, you may get a stretch or two where you fall head over heels for a zephyr, but I guarantee she'll turn on you.  Your vows of devotion will turn to oaths of bitter frustration.  But today we'd have only a very light breeze, dying out during the race.  In this case, better to never have loved...  The outgoing tide would ferry us along for the first 7 miles - particularly in the Annisquam River - but would work against us for the final few miles.  Temperatures would be insufficient for roasting.  I figured it would take a time in the mid 2:30s to win, which meant I'd have to master temporal manipulation tout de suite to be a contender.

After dousing myself in sunscreen (because you never know when you'll lose your trousers), donning my silly hat (because I've aged into the role of that guy), and taping a few energy gels to strategically unreachable locations (because carrot and stick), I made my way to the staging area.  To limber up and give myself a shot of extra pep, I tried grabbing one of my gels before the start.  With the help of 3 other guys and an improvised pulley system, I eventually succeeded.  My calisthenics had cost me more calories than I replenished, but at least I shoe-horned a little more caffeine into my system.  

Twenty-five skis lined up and were soon launched on their way.  Within a few seconds, the top 5 paddlers had separated from the pack.  Fortunately, I had positioned myself amongst these 5 on the line.  Whisked along via the vacuum left by their instantaneous departure, I remembered wishing I had remembered to hold my breath as everything went black.  When I regained consciousness, I found that my lizard brain had managed the race pretty effectively in my absence, safely slotting me onto Eli's side draft.  That was one of my nicknames in high school, by the way.  Lizard Brain.  Also, Side Draft.  Weird.

I took stock of the situation.  Ian and Ed had gapped Rob and Craig, who in turn had gapped Eli and his parasitic sidekick.  Knowing that I'd soon lack the strength or willpower to make a token gesture towards sharing the load, I decided to get that shameless performance out of the way.  We were roughly 2 boat lengths behind Rob and Craig when I started my (ahem) surge.  Thirty seconds later, we were still in that same ballpark.  I scored this as a major victory and slowed (unintentionally, granted) to let Eli resume our shared pursuit.

Competitors from earlier heats were opting to follow the winding buoy-delineated channel to maximize the advantage of the strong tidal current.  The first 4 skis were likewise eschewing shortcuts through shallower water.  With 17 years experience navigating the treacherous Annisquam under my belt, I've learned one undisputable truth.  You can always convince yourself that the guy ahead is taking a terrible line.  Never one to ignore misinterpreted life lessons, I twice tried to improve on the route established by the ignoramuses in front.  Amazingly, these forays into uncharted waters did not end up with me beached on a sand bar, gasping for air.  But neither did they buy me any advantage.  The before and after pictures were the same - on Eli's draft.

While Ian and Ed had continued to widen their lead.  We third-stringers maintained a maddening position 2 lengths behind Rob and Craig, despite my best efforts to will Eli into bridging the gap.  At the mouth of the Annisquam, however, he finally relented and caught them.  The ongoing mental strain of serving as the conduit for all my race aspirations was apparently too much to bear.  I could see Eli straighten in the bucket as I released him from his heavy obligation.  Rob and Craig - neither lacking a robust poids-de-vivre (in a good way!) - could doubtless shoulder the load more comfortably.

We accept a certain level of risk when racing, but there's one peril that strikes terror into even the stoutest heart.  It hits without warning.  It's utterly debilitating.  And it will eventually happen to you.  Weed Delirium.  Like rabies, once you exhibit symptoms, you're already beyond help.  You're not slow because of current, wind, waves, fitness, balance, or fatigue.  You're slow because you have weeds.  Like being struck by lightning, this is something that theoretically can happen and merits a page 7 article in the newspaper (or, as the youngsters call it, "the what now?").  But you are not currently being struck by lightning.  And you don't currently have weeds.  At mile 4, Craig contracted Weed Delirium.

Since we had grouped up, Rob and Craig had been paddling more-or-less side-by-side, with Eli on Rob's stern draft, and me behind Eli.  From my angle, I couldn't see the tell-tale look of crazed frustration that precedes Weed Delirium, but Craig's sudden stop and subsequent back-paddling left little doubt about its dreadful onset.  The fact that he saw no weeds floating off his rudder was, of course, immaterial.  There is no cure.

Ian would have had a lonely trip around Cape Ann if he wasn't accompanied by his lucky cormorant, Cody.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

Poor Ed had only the voices in his head.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

An exceptionally strong paddler, Craig was able to sprint back onto the end of the 4-boat train.  When a boat wake temporarily disrupted our band of brothers, he leveraged the opportunity - moving quickly by me and Eli to resume his customary position beside Rob.  A little sibling rivalry, but nothing to upset the overall family dynamic.  Around 5.5 miles into the race, however, when our bonhomie was again challenged by a wake, I found myself unceremoniously disowned by my erstwhile clan.  Attempts to re-ingratiate myself - I wasn't above begging and bribing - were met with indifference.  I like to think that it was because I was already too far back to be heard.

I couldn't be too upset at how my race had progressed thus far.  Without Eli and the others dragging me, I never would have maintained such a pace.  Surely they had provided me with enough of a cushion to hold off John.  Especially if I pictured him riding low, water sloshing over the gunwales, blindly caroming from shore to shore in the Annisquam.  Nevertheless, I wasn't quite ready to phone in a 6th place finish.  If you can't paddle faster than your competitor, you paddle smarter.  And if you're not clever enough for that, you just paddle a different route.  This never works, but at least you're seizing the reins of your destiny.  Rob, Craig, and Eli were staying offshore, so I went onshore.  Bring on the destiny!

Shockingly, this "strategy" actually paid dividends.  Right near the rocky coast, I was able to find some waves to ride.  By the time we arrived at Halibut Point (a real puncture risk, given how closely I passed), I was abreast the trio - at least as seen from one particular angle, for which I include photographic proof.  However, because they were 100 feet further from the coast, I was unable to join them before we started our open water crossing of Sandy Bay.  Now that we were all paddling again in the same conditions, I started my inexorable retreat.

If Mike had only moved 20 yards to his left, I'd have been ahead of Rob too.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

Mike told me privately that as long as I included a shot of his father, I could use some of his photos.  That's nepo-daddy Phil in the back, with long-suffering Rick setting the cadence.  And apparently aghast at something just out-of-frame.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

Under normal circumstances, we'd have arrived at our denouement.  I had battled heroically, but now my race was run.  Let's just hear the results and get to the party.  But no!  Because in what should not be an entirely unexpected narrative twist due to shrewd foreshadowing... Weed Delirium.  Craig once again stopped abruptly.  I know when I've had the WDs, I mutter psychotically to myself - "Are they on me?  I feel like they're on me!  They're on me, aren't they?"  I wasn't close enough to hear Craig, but he successfully mimed the sentiment.

Thanks to Craig's inner demons, I again enjoyed a temporary promotion to 5th place.  Crossing Sandy Bay I favored an outside line, while Rob and Eli stayed well off to my right.  When Craig inevitably powered up again, he chose my route.  We paddled beside one another for a while, during which time it was all I could do to refrain from poking the bear with "What's that you have dragging from your rudder?"  After all, I'd have to eventually see Craig on dry land and I can't run as fast as I used to.

Mary Beth and Jean were so well synchronized that they shared a paddle.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

Just prior to Straitsmouth, Craig started to move ahead.  Aided again by a tight line along the shore, I was able to keep him within perhaps a half-dozen boat lengths for the next couple of miles.  The long, open crossing to the Back Shore, however, spelled my doom.  Craig pulled away, ultimately putting 2.5 minutes on me by the finish.  The remainder of my voyage was relatively uneventful, with occasional jolts of adrenalin fueled by finding myself imprudently close to shoals - it was hard to give up my successful coast-hugging lifestyle.  The final couple of miles across Gloucester Harbor were typically boisterous, but I avoided any close encounters with homicidal powerboats.

Let's allow a few incredible finish photos speak for themselves. 

I don't know if the 'stache make Rob any faster, but it definitely makes him 15% cooler.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

We keep telling Eli that he doesn't need to turn his head to breathe, but he had one too many swimming lessons as a kid.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

Craig looking intimidating, but with a glimmer of the madness still in his eyes.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs).

Even a hack can appear competent when frozen in time.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

I couldn't help interrupting a little.  Nearly 20 miles of all-out paddling takes a toll even on the strongest athletes, as shown in these post-finish shots.

These guys left everything on the water.  (Photos courtesy of Mike Sachs)

Holy Hell!  What happened here?  Best guess - this geezer was buried at sea 80 years ago and some shaman reanimated his corpse for the race.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs.  Thanks, Mike.)

My time of 2:49:35 put me just a scooch behind Ian's winning time of 2:35:42.  Two scooches, maybe.  Ian and Ed had duked it out for a few miles of the race before separating, with Ed finishing 2nd at 2:37:33.  Ed won this race back in 1996, so it's heartbreaking to see how he's let himself go in the intervening 29 years.  Rob and Eli were even coming around the Dog Bar, but Rob had the superior harbor cruise to take 3rd.  Stacy Wu was the first woman across the line, in an impressive 3:01:39.  The local team of Bernie Romanowski and Andrew Metz claimed the double's crown.  Andrew's been out there fighting the good fight lately, so it's gratifying to see him get an unqualified win.  Bernie I couldn't give a fig about.

The super-podium consists of exactly as many people as needed to get me on it.

Even ice cream couldn't erase the bitter taste of yet another loss to Rob.

Once again, I wrote too slowly for anyone to register for this coming Sunday's Bay State Games Paddling Competition, but do me a favor and put it on your calendar for 2026.  I'll get credit for the referral.  For those of you who prefer your water fresh and flat, the USCA Nationals are coming up August 7-10 on the Connecticut River in Northfield, Massachusetts.  Looks like we'll have a field of heavy hitters for the unlimited kayak race on the 8th.  On August 23, you can choose your poison - the rescheduled Sakonnet Race (Sakonnet inlet, Portsmouth, Rhode Island), The Trojan (Hudson River, Athens-to-Troy, New York), or The Penobscot Passage (Penobscot River, Bangor, Maine).  See you there.  Or there.  Or there.

Blackburn Challenge: Odyssey

When you've been paddling competitively for a certain number of years, the races tend to run together.  But the Blackburn Challenge always stands out in your memory.  And among those races, certain Blackburns are seared into our collective consciousness, universally referenced by simple monikers.  The Rough One.  The Hot One.  The One I Shouldn't Have Eaten a Huge Breakfast Burrito Right Before.  Nobody doubts that the 2024 Blackburn will be added to this pantheon.  I spent the better part of a day workshopping names involving cool terms like "atmospheric condensate" and "compromised visibility", but in the end, I settled for the lowest common denominator.  The Foggy One.

I've been on the Blackburn podium several times, but the top step has eluded me.  Every year I hope for the stars to align in my favor, but since the Cape Ann Rowing Club has repeatedly rejected my requests for veto power over registrants, I'm doomed to compete instead under the black cloud of misfortune.  This year I counted no less than 5 paddlers who would almost surely finish ahead of me.  This list contained 3 previous Blackburn winners - South African Ian Black (2019), Rob Jehn (2021, 2023), and Ed Joy (1996, 1998, 1999, 2001).  Other contenders for the crown included Rob Foley and Matt Drayer, both of whom have been force-feeding me humble pie this season.  I had also heard frightening things about young sprinter Sam Rhodes, although this would be his first ocean race.

At the captain's meeting, we reviewed the basics.  Racers would circumnavigate Cape Ann in a clockwise direction, starting in the Annisquam River and ending 19.5 miles later in Gloucester Harbor.  The skies were overcast, with 10-15 mph winds blowing from the southwest.  On a playful closing note, we were notified of a great white sighting along the course the previous day.  Opportunistic vendors at the launch made a killing on shark repellent, tourniquet kits, and blindfolds.  Once a dozen earlier waves had been launched down the Annisquam - including one with 7 double skis - the 24 singles lined up for our start.  After a lot of confusion about whether racer #45 was present (turns out I was), the starter sent us off.

I doubted that I could keep up with the leaders even for a few seconds, and that proved to be the case.  Ian, Ed, and Rob J made an early break, with Rob F in pursuit.  After a few minutes of jostling, Nick Robison, Sam, and I settled into the next chase group.  This was Nick's first ever race, and he had started paddling less than a year ago, but fortunately I wouldn't become aware of those demoralizing facts until afterwards.  I might also have felt a little guilty taking advantage of his generosity in pulling me (and Sam) for the first 10 minutes of the race.  Nope... that sounds nothing like me.  As we lined up for the final bend in the Annisquam, I swung left and moved past Nick and Sam.  Sam followed on my wash, but Nick took a different line and started to drop back.

The lead trio split into a duo, with Rob J chasing.  Sam and I were closing on Rob F, but we wouldn't catch him until leaving the river and passing the Annisquam light.  He hung with us for a while, but dropped off after a few moments - marshaling his resources for the long race, I imagined.  I had no such long-term strategy.  Which is probably why, for the next six miles, I did the majority of the pulling.  Sam's turns in the lead were noticeably faster than mine, but also much smarter (by which I mean: shorter).

With little wind on the north side of Cape Ann, I was getting a little toasty.  Relief was right around Halibut Point, however, as we started heading southeast across Sandy Bay towards the halfway point, a cool breeze now in our face.  Reaching the safety boat at Straitsmouth, we yelled out our numbers (actually, I yelled out Rob J's, hoping to get him DQed under the broad "Unspecified shenanigans" clause).  In return, we were met with frantic arm-waving and shouts that I couldn't quite make out.  Maybe "Your dog is dead!", which was technically true, but 40-odd years too late to be breaking news.

If they added a few intermediate postures, Sam and I could be the end points on one of those "Evolution of Man" diagrams.  (Photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)

Shortly thereafter, Sam warned me that Rob was catching us and that "there's also some creep lurking further back in a black boat".  That had all the earmarks of Matt.  Rob soon joined us.  With 12 miles under our belt, I still felt relatively fresh.  That is, until I realized that the difference between my 57 years and the combined lifetimes of Sam and Rob left enough extra time to produce a bottle of 12 year old scotch, some well-marbled blue cheese, and several seasons of a brooding Norwegian detective show.  I suspected that those spirited moppets might finish with slightly more vigor than I could muster.  After gamely hanging with them for the next mile or so, I watched the youngsters move ahead and dissolve into misty obscurity.  Given my advanced age, I wasn't particularly surprised at developing cataracts, but the sudden onset over the course of just a few minutes was slightly alarming.

It took me a moment (as would be expected in my dotage) to reconcile the warning shouted from the safety boat at Straitsmouth with my incipient blindness.  "Fog ahead!"  Both mental and physical, it seems.  I was soon enveloped in an otherworldly mist.  Unfortunately, the arrival of the fog coincided with the leg that required we navigate a 3 mile open stretch during which a straight-line path would leave us at least a half-mile from shore.  With shifting visibility in the 100 to 500 feet range, there'd be no landmarks for navigation.

We've had a number of fog-bound races in New England over the past decade, but those have been modest affairs where the loss of, say, ten percent of the field wouldn't raise a public outcry (particularly if one were to select those 1.7 missing paddlers carefully).  Should 20 people go AWOL, however, you can bet the Gloucester Times would have a field day with the debacle.  Some of the more prepared competitors had GPS waypoints or compasses to guide them.  Others wisely decided to hug the shoreline, knowingly adding nearly a mile to their circumnavigation in exchange for not being featured in the full-color In Memoriam insert.  And then there was the "How hard can it be?" crowd, who figured they could dead reckon a straight line through the limbo.

It should go without saying that I was an enthusiastic member of the know-nothing camp.  Fortunately, the misguided confidence in my navigational skills initially worked in my favor.  I missed the "turn off" at Lands End that would send me into open water, inadvertently following the shore for an extra 3/4 of a mile before heading out to sea.  This shifted the crossing closer to shore, which allowed me to use the distant sound of crashing breakers to my right as a guide.  And by keeping the incoming swell (from the southeast) on my left, I hoped to maintain a consistent southwest bearing.

Something they don't tell you about paddling in the fog (probably because they assume that the one thing they do tell you - don't - should be enough) is the amount of second guessing you'll experience.  Usually I decide on a course of action and then ride that decision to its inevitably disastrous outcome.  But now I would repeatedly say to myself (aloud, mind you, to help break the eeriness) "You've got the line now!", only to be convinced moments later that I'd be making landfall on a different continent.  Perhaps one that doesn't even exist in our normal space-time continuum.  This uncertainty also impacts motivation.  It's difficult to maintain a competitive drive when you're 90% sure you're paddling in the wrong direction.  Also, when you're already in purgatory, hard work and clean living are no longer going to earn you any credit.  Which helps explains all the swearing and boozing.

Like they always say, the camera adds 100 feet of visibility.  It felt even foggier than this.

I paddled alone through the void, no sign of fellow man.  Time was now without meaning, but at some "future" point the Back Shore of Gloucester loomed colorlessly into view.  I'd discover later that my open water path had been more EKG-like than you'd prefer, but in broad strokes you could describe it as linear.  I could now feel my way along the coast, making frequent course corrections to avoid a rocky end to the race.  I finally started to encounter other racers and/or spectral manifestations, materializing from the haze ahead.  I was tempted to test their corporeality by passing straight through one of them, but then remembered how difficult it is to remove ectoplasm from neoprene.

After turning one corner (maybe... who can tell?), I was surprised to see Sam and Rob emerge from the gloom.  Giving them the benefit of the doubt as to their physical reality, I assumed that they had squandered some of their zest in taking a longer open water path.  This hypothesis was bolstered by the fact that when I first saw them, the two paddlers were literally heading at right angles to one another.  I wondered for a moment if a lost child had been reported in the area - splitting up for such a search seemed the most likely explanation for such behavior.  Since Rob seemed to be paddling directly for shore (which was, granted, invisible) I decided to follow Sam.  With any luck, I'd be out of earshot by the time Rob met his doom.

Sam would have surely melted into the fog had he not been pathfinding - zigging right to find the shore, then zagging back to avoid the same.  A half-dozen lengths back, I could just make out his wandering silhouette, allowing me to average his deviations to an approximation of a straight line.  After an interminable span tailing Sam in this manner, the Dog Bar breakwater eventually appeared - an unmistakable milestone that would guide us to the entrance of Gloucester Harbor.  Without navigational challenges to slow him down, Sam started to pull away.

I was clinging onto fifth place entering the harbor, but was almost immediately knocked another notch down by Rob, who apparently had managed to avoid being shipwrecked.  With nearly two miles of open water separating the Dog Bar from the Greasy Pole, many racers once again had their heads in the (surface-level) clouds with no concrete target.  As Matt's GPS track later revealed, a few minutes later he would do a full loop within the harbor - disoriented and seasick.  I was fortunate to have a fading string of boats ahead.  Assuming that somewhere sufficiently further up the procession, someone could actually see the finish, our well-spaced fleet would also arrive there safely.  Of course, like a game of telephone, a few distortions were inevitable as the bearings were relayed visually down the line.  My track was vaguely sinusoidal, but got me safely to a 6th place finish without excessive meandering.

Ian had finished first, clocking in at 2:49:54.  Of course, as an aquatic demigod, he has celestial seafaring resources (no, not GPS - the mystical kind) unavailable to the rest of us.  Despite taking a longer coastal route, Ed and Rob finished only 6 and 7.5 minutes behind Ian, respectively, to claim the other podium spots.  Jean Kostelich defended her SS20+ women's title, with Emerson Yang taking the men's award in that category.  In their first ocean race, seasoned flatwater team Joel Pekosz & Chris Weaver destroyed the course, putting in the fastest time of the day at 2:45:23.  In the SS20+ double's race, Bernie Romanowski & Andrew Metz won as the fifth overall surfski.

Five-sixths of the SS20+ doubles podium.  Apprehensive about blowing his witness relocation cover, Igor opted to make himself scarce.

Of course, a race report wouldn't be complete without a well-composed photo of the winner.  That's Ian on the far left with the expressive eyes.

The typical post-Blackburn discussion topics - bad boat choices, funny hats worn by racers, the proletariat's role in post-industrial societies, etc. - were swept away by fog tales.  In the topsy-turvy world, competitors compared distances rather than times, with bragging rights secured by those with the longest trips.  The minority of well-prepared paddlers with GPS guidance were shunned by the clueless daredevils.  These sad pariahs stood mutely by as the rest of us swapped tales of staggering navigational incompetence and giggled over the outrageous tracks shared on our phones.  The median distance was probably in the 20.6 mile range (a mile and change longer than usual), but some intrepid explorers logged well over 22 miles.  Legendary waterman Dana Gaines, with 30+ Blackburns under his belt, showed off his skills by writing messages (in Greek, no less) with his GPS track.  Eli pioneered a new overland route via the sandy causeway linking Salt Island to the mainland - possibly setting himself up for a more extended portage from Good Harbor Beach to Gloucester Inner Harbor in 2025.  We were each Odysseus, searching endlessly for home.

OK, there was also some talk about Ed's ridiculous hat.

The inaugural Bay State Games Paddling Competition is up next this Sunday (July 21) at Wollaston Beach in Quincy, MA, but if you haven't already registered you're gonna have to settle for spectating.  Or, more likely, sleeping in.  However, you can still get in on the New England Paddlesports Championship (register at PaddleGuru) on Sunday, July 28.  This 12 mile course on the Connecticut River in Hinsdale, NH promises to be not only fun, but dangerously close to the excellent pubs across the river in Brattleboro.

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!

Blackburn Challenge: Showing Up

After retreating into seclusion in 2020 citing "public health reasons" (as if we knew nothing about the sordid affair with Chattajack), the Blackburn Challenge unexpectedly turned up last year in Gloucester as a "semi-organized group paddle" - a ridiculous disguise about as effective as a stack of kids wearing a trench coat.  With the release of a recent tell-all memoir ("Currents of Passion"), however, the Blackburn embraced the scandal and was in full promotional mode for 2022.  Not everyone has forgiven the 35 year old race its indiscretions (as evidenced by lower attendance), but I think it's safe to say that after the excitement of this year's surfski competition, the public will see the past in a more forgiving light.

As is my habit (or pathological mania, Mary Beth might say), I pored over tthe registration list to generate a handicap sheet that the Vegas bookies would have killed for.  Or perhaps the Atlantic City odds makers would have been more interested, given that the top two prospects hailed from New Jersey.  I'm referring, of course, to thoroughbreds Rob Jehn and Craig Impens.  Both are previous Blackburn champions.  Rob has been trampling my ego all season, but now Craig would finally have a chance to get in a few kicks of his own.  At the recent Toms River Race, Craig edged out Rob by less than a minute - the only time they've been head-to-head in the last 4 years.

With the blasted border open again, Canadians Brian Heath (12 top-ten finishes, including two silver medals) and Jack Van Dorp (Mr. Consistency - placing between 4th and 7th in each of his seven appearances) would again be lapping on our shores.  Area favorite Matt Drayer would be trying to improve on last year's second place, while local pariah (hey... what the hell?) Greg Lesher would be latching on to the draft of whomever wasn't quick enough to swat me off.  So it would be a battle between New England, New Jersey, and New Brunswick.  Jack and Brian are actually Ontarians, but I poetic licensed them a couple of provinces east for symmetry.  With his usual mind-boggling fitness level but very limited bucket time - Gloucester native Janda Ricci-Munn opted for the SS20+ class, hoping to be the first ever to break the 3 hour mark in such a craft.  The slower among the contenders hoped that he wouldn't also break us in the process.

Matt was so focused on the upcoming race that he struggled with even the simplest tasks.

Obsessing over Saturday's weather, Matt, Janda, and I had been keeping a dedicated team of meteorologists employed.  Netflix only wishes it could have a streaming hit that garnered the kind of binge watching that WindFinder.com enjoyed over the past two weeks.  Despite offering little in the way of plot or character development, we'd gather every couple of hours to gossip about the latest twists of our Blackburn fate and debate how scripted our favorite reality show actually was.  Despite our write-in campaign to influence the outcome, the weather eventually unspooled exactly like it had to.

Let's get this out of the way.  The race between Craig and Rob has been branded as an instant classic - one of the greatest head-to-head match-ups in the annals of New England racing.  Strategic maneuvering.  Attacks and parries.  Feints and dodges.  It was legendary!  Maybe.  I mean, sure, we saw them jockeying for the lead at the start and a few people watched Craig surge to the victory in a final sprint.  And there are a few photos of them "dueling" at Halibut Point.  But they were so far ahead of the field that the majority of their race was conveniently witness-free.  For all we know, Rob and Craig flipped a coin before the race and spent the majority of the Blackburn tour getting their stories straight.  They couldn't fake blowing everyone else off the water (unless... could we all have been in on it?), but the evidence for a GOAT race is circumstantial at best.  Nice try, chumps.

As usual, my starting strategy was to sidle up to Rob and try to cadge a ride off the line.  I've got a little "Reserved" placard that I set on his rear deck to prevent other moochers from horning in on my turf.  Over the years I've developed a preference for Rob's port draft.  His paddle release on the left provides a gentle spray of fine droplets, while the right has a chunkier consistency more likely to induce draftee spluttering.  In retrospect, I should have worried a little less about exhaust streams and more about relative paddler positioning.  Craig started to the left of us, with Brian and Jack between.  Given that Rob and Craig would most certainly converge while fighting for the lead, in hindsight it seems obvious that any bystanders between the two would be the hapless victims of an unintended pincer movement.  Within seconds of the start, I found myself interlacing strokes with Jack as we were forced to share an increasingly narrow lane of international water.  On his other side, he and Brian were similarly squeezed, although in their case I sensed some internecine rivalry as paddles clashed and jaunty repartee followed (they are Canadian, after all).  While fine-tuning my stroke synchronization mechanism, I slipped off of Rob's side draft.

Number 34 was a worthy competitor, but Jack and I eventually were able to drop him. 

Rob soon pulled into the lead, with Craig nonchalantly brushing off my placard to claim my port draft exemption.  We unfortunate three teetered for a moment on the razor's edge of a stern draft before tumbling into an abyss of despair and regret.  The lead pair opened a gap of a couple of lengths, with Rob making erratic course changes in an attempt to either avoid being torpedoed or to shake Craig off his draft.  I pulled slightly ahead of Jack to move briefly into third, but after taking a wider line around a river bend found myself again by his side, with Brian and Matt in close proximity.  While I'll admit that I was morbidly fascinated by Jack's eclectic garb (signature floppy hat, floral compression shorts, knee socks, and epaulets), by avoiding staring directly at his outlandish costume I was able to focus enough to pull ahead again, this time opening a decent gap on Jack, Brian, and Matt.  The lead pair continued to extend their lead through the winding Annisquam, while we four pursuers wove independent paths along markedly different lines - fruitlessly trying navigational tricks to gain some advantage.  A superposition of our GPS tracks would resemble nothing more than a spirograph trace.

I took a hard look at my situation as I passed Annisquam Light at the mouth of the river.  Craig and Rob were each demonstrably faster than me on their own.  Having one another for drafting and motivation would only widen that performance gap.  If inspirational sports movies are to be believed, sometimes it's more about heart than strength, ability, or stamina. But in that regard I found myself lacking as well.  I'd be happy to win this thing, but I was too fundamentally lazy to do anything as taxing as bursting the shackles of physical limitations.  All that wasn't quite enough to cause me to abandon all hope, so I devised a couple of fictitious reasons to nudge me over that line - my rudder was jammed at full right deflection and I was born without any ribs.  Mission accomplished!  I could now coast around the remainder of the course (clockwise, luckily) with a clear conscience.  And little to impede torso rotation.

Would the leaders have been so poised and confident if they knew that... (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

... this guy was watching them steadily pull away? (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

A few minutes after arriving at this happy conclusion, the beaver of doubt began gnawing at my resolve.  Weren't there, at some previous point, surfskis in this race other than Craig, Rob, and me?  And if by some chance there were, mightn't some of these wispy memories be endeavoring to overtake me?  By following this impeccable chain of reasoning, I reached a terrible conclusion.  My race was not yet run.  Suffering and woe lay ahead.

While the fear of being overtaken by faceless pursuers was enough to kick me back into high gear (having been a recurring nightmare since hearing an old-timey radio horror show as a child that featured an antagonist with no mouth, nose, or eyes), I soon chanced upon a more concrete form of motivation that might be sufficient to keep me pushing through the finish.  Passing the double ski of Robin Francis & Igor Yeremeev (mercifully,with faces intact), I remembered that there were 3 more such doubles up ahead.  With a 5 minute head start (or even without), I might not catch them all, but at least I'd have specific targets to shoot for.

You know, it's not like I grew up in the 40s.  I need to have a talk with my parents about why I was listening to antiquated (and wholly kid-inappropriate) AM radio shows rather than playing Atari or grooming my pet rock.

Operation Treble Double was a success of sorts, although it developed at the same leisurely pace that ultimately put Kodak out of business.  I would invariably spot the next double from quite some distance behind, but given that my pace was at best a fraction of a mile per hour faster, it took some imagination to convince myself that I was actually in the process of overtaking them.  And inevitably, I'd become their motivational fodder when I appeared alongside,  As a result, I'd be unable to complete the passing operation until they achieved motivation-fatigue equilibrium.  I caught Ed Duggan & Bruce Deltorchio just before Halibut Point, Erin & Alan Lamb at Straitsmouth gap, and Bernie Romanowski & Andrew Metz without a nameable landmark in sight.  I passed so much time overtaking the Lambs that I'm now to be the proud godfather of their unwitting third passenger.

Actually, I already know the answer to the question.  I wasn't playing Atari because we didn't have one.  I asked for the game on my 11th birthday, but instead got a mustard-colored knock-off Pong console (made in Bhutan, if I'm not mistaken) with sliders rather than knobs.  And as for the Pet Rock, well, it was "too dangerous".  So I suppose old-timey radio was really my only entertainment option.

The next time I'm struggling to get out of bed for a morning workout, I'm going to remember Craig's savage grin at the finish.  And, realizing that I'm never going to match that intensity, hit the snooze button.  (Photo courtesy of John Costello)

By the time I had inched by Bernie & Andrew, roughly 5 miles remained in the race - a short enough distance for a go-getter like me to self-motivate through.  Water conditions had been neutral in the Annisquam, favorable to Straitsmouth, and mildly irksome since - a light headwind and current working against us.  Making landfall near Brace Cove, however, reflected waves and tidal eddies reformed the ocean surface into a nubbled canvas.  Some quirk of the wind then applied a glossy sheen, making it difficult to discern the irregular hills and valleys.  I found the experience to be much like attending an experimental theater production - you didn't really understand what was going on, you felt a little nauseous, and you were terrified that the next scene might include nudity and/or audience participation.  So I adopted a similar coping strategy - I kept my head down and repeated "it will soon be over" to myself until I emerged on the other side of the confusion, fully clothed and with a new appreciation for the avant-garde.

Needless to say, I was disappointed to discover that hang time wasn't factored into your final score.  (Photo courtesy of John Costello)

Approaching the final leg of the race, the ocean remained disgruntled, but in a more predictable way.  I kept well off the Dog Bar, fearing: instability-induced slowdown in the confused waters, catching my rudder on a stray fishing line, and being dashed to a pulp against the ragged granite (in no particular order).  I was able to catch a few decent waves out there, but marveled at how effectively an OC-1 I had previously been overtaking was now exploiting the rebound close to the rocks.  Clearing the end of the Bar and turning into the harbor, I finally took a good look behind to confirm that I could safely phone in the last leg.  Seeing nobody, I had just cracked open a Mai Tai (everything comes in a can these days) when I heard a little voice in my head saying "Greg... I'm gonna catch you."  That didn't make much sense since I generally refer to myself in third-person internal dialog as "Your Grace" (or "Melon Head" if I'm in a playful mood).  I glanced around again, this time catching the barest suggestion of a dark V12 moving silently along the Dog Bar.  The bright orange person sitting on top of it definitely helped.  Whether Matt had actually yelled out that taunt or my subconscious had generated it in response to some tickle of recognition after the first glance, only Matt can say.  And he says "You're an idiot, Melon Head."  Which I believe leaves some room for interpretation.

Matt, who I had assumed had been lost at sea a couple of hours ago, was actually perhaps only 15 boat lengths back.  Quickly chugging the remainder of my citrus cocktail to calm my nerves, I girded my loins (I'll let you know in a couple of days if duct tape was the smart approach) and pointed my bow towards home.  Although the tide was against us, there was a slight wind at our back and some incoming swell.  In a conversation I once had with Sean Rice, he said that every wave you miss in a downwind run is one your competition won't.  He was also somehow Foghorn Leghorn at the time, which makes me wonder if maybe this didn't occur in a dream.  Nevertheless... it rings true.  I took the giant rooster's axiom to heart, adding my own corollary - every wave I was on, my competition wasn't.  This doesn't make any sense, but I can't say that logic was a high priority at this point.  Doubly prompted, I drove myself to catch every little bump.  Thankfully, the girding held up under the strain.

Andrew struggled to disguise his grimace as a smile, but piteous moaning betrayed his fundamental misery.  (Photo courtesy of John Costello)

It's reassuring to know that Janda wasn't handed that sub-3 hour SS20+ time on a silver platter.  (Photo courtesy of John Costello)

Craig told me after the race that whenever Rob threw a look over his shoulder in the final stretch to check his lead, it fueled Craig's confidence that he could overtake Rob.  If that were likewise the case for Matt, he would have wagered his children against a fiver that he'd end up ahead of me. Halfway across the harbor, I figured it made more sense to stop glancing backward, and instead start glancing forward.  Even with near-constant surveillance of Matt, I oscillated between imagining (A) myself congratulating Matt for pushing me to the limit and expressing sympathy for just missing a medal and (B) Matt spitting contemptuously on me from the podium.  It was good to know that, regardless of the outcome, I would have been the more gracious winner.  As the finish line grew closer, however, option A seemed increasingly likely.  Or at least the part about me earning bronze.  I coasted in 30 seconds ahead.  Fortunately for Matt, I was too dehydrated to work up any condescending contempt.

As I alluded to above, after a spirited mano-a-mano brawl (alleged), Craig passed Rob in the final few hundred feet to take his third Blackburn title in 2:40:46.  The nine second gap between gold and silver was the narrowest margin of victory ever in a full-course Blackburn.  I finished nearly 5 minutes behind the leaders, but as a "fellow" podium dweller I was shielded by tradition from spittle.  Janda was successful in his bid to break the 3 hour mark in the SS20+ class, finishing 7th overall in a time of 2:55:46.  The top 6 have already conspired to exaggerate expected ocean conditions for the 2023 race in an effort to keep him in a fat boat.  On the women's side, Mary Beth chalked up her third HPK Blackburn title, but in a Janda-esque effort Beatrice Weinberger notched the fastest women's surfski time in winning the SS20+ class in 3:33:23.  Bernie & Andrew claimed double's gold in 2:53:58.

As in the race itself, I was asked to keep my distance from the leaders in the podium photo.

Thanks to the many volunteers from the Cape Ann Rowing Club and beyond who resuscitated the Blackburn.  To relive the excitement, check out the stunning photos of the race by John Costello, Mike Sachs, and Granite State Race Services.  As a bonus, if you step through John's 1,800+ pics at 24 frames per second, you can essentially watch a video of the event.

A slight pause in the New England ocean racing schedule will give us all plenty of time to formally withdraw our post-Blackburn renunciations of paddling.  Next up is the Paddle for Access in Newport, RI on August 20th (register at PaddleGuru), followed by the Nahant Bay Cup in Swampscott, MA on August 27th (watch for details).  If you'd like to decompress on some flatwater prior to those efforts, try NECKRA's New England Paddlesports Championship (register at PaddleGuru) on August 7th in Hinsdale, NH.