Despite the gorgeous scenery, free boat shuttle, generous post-race gear drawing, and a reasonable chance at 16 miles of downwind paddling, the Casco Bay Challenge has inexplicably drawn fewer than 10 ski paddlers over each of the last three years. I'd like to think that has nothing to do with the guaranteed presence of Chris Sherwood and myself (proud competitors at each of the 6 instances), but to be safe I've recommended that Eric stop advertising our appearance so prominently in all future promotional materials.
As we've done for the last few years, Chris, Mary Beth, and I car-pooled up together. Chris' wife, Patty - apparently having lost some kind of high-stakes bet - accompanied us as the designated driver. Pulling into the drop-off area for Willard Beach in South Portland in high spirits, my heart abruptly sank as I saw the distinctive van of a paddler who was supposed to be racing in Michigan that day.
Attendance at our Epic demo session in the parking lot of the Danvers' Stop & Shop was disappointing.
It's difficult to say when I first started feeling nauseous in the presence of Jan. Just as some people develop new allergies as they grow older, I'm now suffering from an acute case of late-onset Lupinski-intolerance. If I know beforehand that Jan will be attending a race, I can take preventive measures to mitigate the queasiness, anxiety, and hives associated with paddling against someone who is definitely going to push me to my limit. But when he shows up without pre-registering (which, let's be honest, is a good 85% of the time), the trauma of being unexpectedly exposed to such a potent competitor can send me into anaphylactic shock. Given the added twist-of-the-knife misdirection of registering for a different race, I'm beginning to suspect that Jan is taking advantage of this weakness. Fortunately my car-mates were able to resuscitate me before irreversible ego damage occurred.
I thought that Jan should have concentrated his pre-race questions on navigational landmarks rather than on Maine restaurant recommendations, but since he ended up with both the win and a killer lobster roll, who am I to judge?
Fellow surfskiers Matt Drayer, Hank Thorburn, Dave Grody, and Dale Hartt joined us on the beach. We'd be supplemented by a contingent ten outriggers, many of whom were Washington Canoe Club members who'd taken the long overland trek from DC to join us. Now that I think of it, there were a couple of SUPs at the start too. Man, those guys! Wonder whatever happened to them...
The course starts at Willard Beach and ends 16.8 miles across Casco Bay at the Mere Point Boat Launch. It's a tricky navigational feat, but after a few years you either get weeded out, or you get the hang of it. Having once again succumbed to the latest technology craze, Eric would be accompanying us across the bay in a paddle-less water buggy (on generous loan from Hank). Over the sputtering of this contraption's god-offending propulsion mechanism, he counted us down to a water start. I got off the line reasonably well and soon found myself trading advice on stroke techniques with Dale. He insisted the catch should be on the far side of my boat, while I was adamant that it should be in his footwell. We eventually just settled it like gentlemen - whacking each other's paddles for a few strokes and calling it a draw.
Matt had jumped to an initial lead some distance to my right, but by a half mile into the race I had pulled ahead. Great! This thing was in the bag. How hard could it be to just hold on for the next 16 miles? I had spotted Jan a few lengths back. I usually do a poor job of keeping track of competitors behind me - in part because I always risk rotating around an unintended axis when I turn to check on other paddlers, and in part because of my fragile psyche. But on this day, I managed to chart Jan's progress with heartbreaking precision. Over the next few miles, as the downwind conditions improved, he methodically closed the gap. Once we had cleared the seaward protection of Peaks Island, the added chop accelerated Jan's inevitable move into the lead.
At roughly the five mile point, I reluctantly handed over the baton. For the next fifteen minutes, I managed to keep in contact with Jan. Experts disagree on the exact definition of "in contact", but there's a general consensus that when you finally mutter "Screw this!", resign yourself to never catching your target, and start tabulating extenuating circumstances to explain why you weren't able - you have definitely "lost contact". I hadn't slept very well the preceding night and my addiction to pre-race turkey sandwiches wasn't doing me any favors. Maybe also weeds? Having officially lost contact, morale was pretty low in the boat. Fortunately, there was only an hour and a half left in the race.
Jan's lead appeared to stabilize at 30 or 40 boat lengths. I suspect the gap was limited by (a) the extra distance he covered meandering among the islands and (b) his need to keep me in clear visual range for periodic course correction. At some point, Eric pulled alongside in his motorized abomination to snap some daguerreotypes and provide words of discouragement. Truth be told, I couldn't hear most of what he shouted to me so I had to rely on an unsteady combination of lip reading and subconscious interpretation bias. I'm pretty sure I got "Jan is spanking you today, huh?" and "Matt's really closing on you fast!" right, but I'm less confident about "Collapsible monkeys eat ripe pears." That may indeed be true, but it hardly seemed relevant. Once he had completed his long exposures and finished conveying his important messages, Eric moved off to check on other paddlers.
With a few miles to go, Mere Point itself eventually resolved itself from the indistinguishable neighboring islands. As we moved into the lee of Goose Island and Harpswell Point, the sea started to smooth out. And, to my horror, I started to close the gap on Jan. This was typical Lupinski behavior. He wasn't content to just beat me, he had to crack me. Between his less-than-linear navigation and slackening pace, he opened up the merest hint of a possibility that I might catch him. Just a few moments earlier I had been content to coast in for second place (or third if Matt had the good manners to cruise past me in a definitive manner). Now I'd have to subject myself to another 20 minutes of suffering in a futile effort just to get to the point where I could then be out-sprinted in the stretch.
Given that this is the happiest Mary Beth has looked in years, you gotta wonder about her overall quality of life.
And that's exactly what happened. I managed to close to within 15 seconds of Jan, but he never needed to escalate his effort to take the win. Matt scooted in soon after to claim the final podium spot. Mary Beth took the women's gold. Luke Rhodes repeated as OC-1 champion, with Marc Lessard and Michael Fairchild claiming the OC-2 crown. After restorative food and drink, Eric awarded medals (as always, a nifty new design) and all competitors received great swag from a drawing. All in the shade provided by the awning of Jan's van. He may be toxic, but he's not such a bad guy.
My next race is out in Oregon at the Gorge Downwind Champs, where I'll be competing with Matt, Timmy Shields, and Tim Dwyer in the coveted New England Division race (which, much like pee-wee hockey, everyone else finds utterly adorable to watch). For those remaining in the east, the imposing 20 miles of the Blackburn Challenge awaits. Good luck to all!
Eric McNett introduced the Casco Bay Challenge in 2013, welcoming the paddling community into his magnificent backyard playground. There's no denying Maine's beauty. But nobody could have imagined that they would deliberately keep signing up year after year for a 16.5 mile race that arrives at about the point in the season where an extended Saturday nap would be more appropriate. Yet here I stood with Chris Sherwood and Joe Shaw, about to embark on our fifth trip across Casco Bay. Mary Beth, having skipped the inaugural year to give the fog a chance to dissipate, was looking at her fourth voyage. We'd be paddling from Willard Beach in South Portland to Mere Point Boat Launch, a few miles south of Brunswick. You're channeled in more-or-less the right direction by a series of islands, but that doesn't stop you from second-guessing your navigation decisions until your boat's on the car at the finish.
You may not have read the telegram, but Maine recently split from EST/EDT to form their own time zone.
In the days preceding the race, there was some concern that afternoon thunderstorms might put the kibosh on the competition. Given the man in charge, however, any apprehensions on this front were baseless. If an bottomless 500 meter wide whirlpool opened up in the middle of Casco Bay, Eric would simply rename the race the Maelstrom Classic, shoo us off into the vortex, and yell ambiguously that he'd see us on the other side. Fortunately, the forecast lightened as the race approached, ultimately resolving to a beautiful day with partly cloudy skies.
With 9 surfskis, 10 outrigger canoes, and a SUP, the Casco Bay Challenge would be a cozy affair this year. While the race has drawn as many as 25 skis in the past, all that talk about maelstroms has apparently scared off all but the heartiest paddlers. This just goes to show how poorly people evaluate risks. With only three lost paddlers in the first four years of the race, you're more likely to be maimed in a moose-related accident on the way to the race than you are to disappear at sea. So come on up next year and help stem the population explosion that has downtown Portland overrun by antlered menaces.
You don't usually see this kind of fashion sense among paddlers.
Two years ago, a horde of well-mannered Canadians swept down upon the race in an attempt to silence their unruly neighbors. Flatwater specialists Neil Lang and Robert Lang finished fifth and sixth that year, despite my chants of "USA! USA!" from the vaunted seventh position. Robert returned this year, driving down with four-time Blackburn veteran Tim Milligan. Given that Robert will be representing Canada in the 60-64 age group at the Marathon World Championships this fall, he seemed like the man to beat - even in ocean conditions. I also couldn't rule out Joe, for whom 16.5 miles is a light pre-breakfast paddle.
Turning on my GPS after launching my boat, I was startled to find that I was technically dead. Until I realized that I had just forgotten my heart rate strap - an uncharacteristic oversight. Since I rely heavily on heart rate to gauge my effort (I'm likely to answer "10" to any question about perceived effort, even while lounging on the sofa), I'd be paddling blind. Or, at least, paddling dumb.
Tim and Robert ignored my pleas to "do something Canadian" for the photo. Or did they?
After sending the lone SUP out as a sacrificial offering for any bloodthirsty ferry captains on duty, Eric pointed us in the right direction and dispatched us on our way. We were starting an hour after spring tide. As Chris helpfully pointed out beforehand, this meant that as we approached the finish in a couple of hours, we'd be struggling against a massive outgoing current. Although Max Ebb would start pummeling us soon enough, in theory we'd enjoy a tidal boost for the first few miles.
The initial mile was a bit confused from boat wakes, but I was able to work some small runners to hop out to a quick lead. I noticed that quite a few people were angling towards the Diamond Islands, but I stayed out closer to Peaks Island. As we gained protective cover from the open ocean, the Bay flattened out and my speed started to drop. Given that the tide was supposed to be on our side and yet I was operating a few tenths of an mph below my expected flatwater speed, I suspected weeds. I stopped and back-paddled a few strokes. Much like my 11th grade career aptitude test, the results were inconclusive (unless you count "nothing that involves sharp edges" as definitive). This was to be a recurring theme. I had on a larger rudder than usual and there was a fair amount of floating vegetation, but I'm guessing that at least three-quarters of my dozen or so stops were for phantom weeds.
I could see a line of paddlers back a few lengths way to the left, but I could never quite convince myself that they were on a better line. I made a couple of half-hearted efforts to veer in that direction, but since I never committed to a full-out course change, ended up cutting a middle path among the islands. The water was now very calm. With little else to work with, I had to get resourceful in exploiting the occasional boat wakes that came by - timing my deweeding breaks so that I could recycle those waves.
For no apparent reason a following current picked up when I was adjacent to Long Island, along with some glassy swells. With the sun reflecting off the wobbling and glossy surface, concentrating too hard on identifying the crests and troughs was a recipe for nausea, so I had to paddle mostly by feel. My steady-state speed jumped by more than a mile per hour. Within ten minutes or so, however, the helpful current started turning on me. I fought desperately to keep the pace up, my heart pounding hard enough to register a signal on the GPS even without a transmitter. Fish started floating to the surface, stunned by the concussive beat, but the effort was to no avail.
Only five miles into the race, and now the spiteful current was wholly against us. Despite my earlier (and later) speculation that staying left was the better route, I angled closer to Chebeague Island on the right to escape the flow. Nope. And I had to waste more effort swinging wide to avoid the shallows around Division Point. I'd estimate the current at around a mile per hour from mile 7 to 12, stepping up gradually from there. I wasn't going any slower than I would have been paddling into a strong breeze with a neutral tide, but because there was no tangible evidence as to why I was having trouble breaking 6 mph, it felt much more dispiriting. Also, it was hot and I hadn't packed enough water. By mile 13, I was downright listless.
The entrance to Merepoint Bay was guarded by two vast unbroken arcs of seaweed, separated by perhaps a half mile. The Circles of Hell. I had sworn earlier that I'd be damned if I let Robert catch me again, but seemingly this was one of those do/don't invariant scenarios you hear about. I searched anxiously for a breach in the first of these floating barriers, but ultimately had to plow through and immediately deweed. When I got back up to speed (such as it was) and saw the next barricade curving ahead, the last few drops of my morale evaporated. Momentum was the one thing in life I could call my own, and now that too was going to be taken from me. An unrefreshing wave of despair washed over me. Speed bleeding off with each stroke, I made it through the flotsam. After reversing to remove the bountiful harvest from my rudder, I looked around from a stop to get a rough estimate of how many people would be passing me in the final mile. I saw nobody, but that was hardly a relief. It just meant that I'd have to suffer a hard push before being caught unaware by a descending fleet.
As it turns out, none of that happened. The hard push was more of a lethargic drag. And the fleet graciously waited until I had finished to come pouring in. It took me 25 minutes longer than last year, in a time only marginally slower than my fastest Blackburn. Indefatigable Joe was the second ski to finish, with Robert claiming third. On the women's side, Kathleen McNamee won and Mary Beth took the silver. In a year in which almost every other repeat paddler added 15+ minutes to their time, Luke Rhodes topped the OC-1 field by shaving 8 minutes off his 2016 time, taking the second overall position. Mark Lessard and Andy Hall repeated as OC-2 champs, while Mark Preece persevered on his SUP.
Attempts to resuscitate me were met with grumpy refusals.
While professing empathy, I was inwardly delighted to find that many other paddlers had also wallowed miserably on the course. The current, the heat, the weeds, and the mesmerizing stretches of glassiness had taken their toll. Even a sighting of the happy-go-lucky seals on Bustins Ledge elicited only the merest blip of cheer. There was a general consensus that the suffering was less acute along a left course line, but if half the fun of a race is complaining about it afterwards, those foolhardy competitors short-changed themselves. If complaining isn't half the fun, I may need to rethink my life strategy.
Thanks to the McNett family for carrying on the tradition of hosting us for a memorable day in Maine.
On to the next race! Due to climate change, the Jamestown Double Beaver will be blossoming several weeks earlier than usual. You must preregister for the July 8 race through PaddleGuru. Even if you have no plans to race, why not throw a few bucks in the pot so that Tim can upgrade to an open bar at the after-party?
While it's not unknown for a paddler to diverge slightly off the best line or inadvertently cut (or extend) the course by turning on the wrong waypoint, most New England races follow simple routes that would make it impossible to get truly lost. If you wander astray in Eric McNett's Casco Bay Challenge, however, you're likely to spend the remainder of your days trying to identify the mainland amidst a sea of islands. The winner of this race is awarded not only a medal, but also the Marine Navigation merit badge, a special commendation from the National Geographic Society, and a commission in the US Navy.
In theory, it's simple. Start at the bottom of Casco Bay at Willard Beach. Paddle northeast
until, 16.6 miles later, you hit what you hope will be Merepoint boat launch on the other side
of the bay. In practice, well... let's not get ahead of ourselves.
The Maine Tourism Board was laying it on a little thick on race day. While Mary Beth and I waited for the rest of the field to arrive, we surveyed a panorama that included a dozen islands, two light houses, a pair of 19th century forts, schooners, lobster boats, ferries, sandy beaches, rocky shoals... We get it. It's damned scenic. If only there had been a moose spitting blueberries at us, we'd have filled every square in the Maine bingo card given to us at the border.
There was a pretty strong temptation to just skip the race, but since we already had our neoprene shorts on...
Although 14 outriggers accepted the Challenge, the surfski field was limited to a meager 7 boats - quite surprising given the robust fleet of 25 skis in 2015 (including a strong contingent from our neighbor to the north). Scholars argue about the precise reasons for this, but most agree that contributing factors include the competing Seas It race in NJ, the recent Canadian referendum that sent potential cross-border paddlers scurrying home (the so-called Canexodus), and Matt Drayer's stubborn insistence that his young children are more important than "Eric's stupid race" (I know - seems harsh, but those are the words falsely ascribed to him). Whatever their misguided rationales, with a steady southerly breeze of 10+ mph at our backs, the absent paddlers would be missing record-fast conditions.
In addition to seasoned Casco Bay paddlers Joe Shaw, Bruce Deltorchio, Chris Sherwood, Mary Beth, and myself, we were joined by fledglings Nat Woodruff and Dale Hartt. Nat would be paddling a Think Uno Max, while Dale would be in an Epic V14 GT - both advanced boats. This would be the first time flatwater paddler Nat would be in a surfski. And canoeist Dale hadn't used a wing paddle, let alone been in a ski, until 3 weeks ago. While some expressed concerns about these inexperienced paddlers tackling 16.5 miles of cold and unpredictable Maine waters, I figured they would never make it far enough from the starting beach to be in any danger.
Bruce, Chris, and Mary Beth wait in vain for me to come up with a humorous caption.
Over the years, Eric's directions to the assembled field have grown increasingly terse, as he relies heavily upon the course veterans to lead the unsuspecting newcomers. His instructions this year were limited to "follow the surfskis" - roughly akin to relating the "physician, heal thyself" proverb to a doctor suffering a heart attack. Presumably he was talking mainly to the OCs. The joke was on him, however, as only two skis finished before the first outrigger.
With the nebulous directions fresh in our minds, we soon assembled on the water. Designated boat wrangler Joe lined us up and Eric startled us on our way with an airhorn blast from shore. With a good jump, I set a route directly towards the right edge of what I took to be Great Diamond Island. I suppose I should admit that, despite stern warnings about doing any unsportsmanlike course planning, I had consulted Google Maps the previous night.
After a few minutes, I glanced back to check the state of the field. I was in a surfski. I was in the lead. But the entire field was pooh-poohing Eric's sole instruction. Nobody was following me. The outriggers and the other skis were bunched in a pack well off to the right. What was going on? Did I perhaps miss the part of the pre-race briefing where we agreed to land on House Island to stage a surprise attack on poorly-defended Fort Scammel? No... it looked like they would all be going to the right of House Island! I wavered in my conviction that I knew where I was going. Within minutes, I was suffering from a debilitating case of navigation fatigue. Demoralized, I started to angle towards the group.
After I had closed half the distance, however, it became clear that the other paddlers would pass to my side of House Island. Somewhat relieved, but still shaken by my crisis of confidence, I resumed my original course. Conditions at the start had been a bit disorganized, but as we started to put some islands between us and the open ocean, the waves started to line up with the wind. Not wanting to get left behind, the incoming tide got in on the action as well, pushing us gently across the bay.
Do people still use the term "cabin cruiser"? Seems hopelessly antiquated, like "horseless carriage", "Bill Cosby comedy album", or "my parent's dreams for me". In any event, the Devil (always a little behind the times) took the form of a cabin cruiser. Not to smite me (that'd be more of God's purview), but rather to tempt me. The GPS was stroking my ego - I'm sure just to butter me up for later disillusionment (much as my early coloring book prowess did for my folks) - but Satan came puttering by a full mile per hour faster with a billowing wake that can only be described as luscious. I could stay within the prescribed lines of race decorum, or I could shake off the bonds of propriety and submit to out-of-class drafting temptation. Mind racing, mouth watering, I weighed my options.
The
next 45 minutes went by in a flash. As I cleared the end of Chebeague
Island, however, my once-reliable companion abandoned me, like that
deceiver always must. I'm referring, of course, to my unwarranted sense
of downwind competence. I had let the tantalizing cabin cruiser pass
me by - more out of fear that Joe or Bruce might be close enough to
witness my transgression than any moral compunction, sure, but perhaps the road
to heaven is paved with thwarted bad intentions.
With a favorable wind behind us, Bruce was able to complete the entire race just by maintaining this pose. (photo courtesy of Eric McNett).
In the open water past the northern tip of Chebeague, I lost my downwind thread in a tangle of side chop, boat wakes, and hard braces. Another gap in the protective barrier of islands was letting the ocean conditions seep through. For the next couple of miles, I struggled to cut this Gordian knot and restore my former rate of progress. I took one brief break to awkwardly smear a power gel on my face and hands - it was the new Topical Fruit flavor - but I never got the osmotic boost of power that I had hoped for. Next time maybe I'll try Supposiberry.
Eventually I made it to the protection of French's Island and I was
able to stop flailing wildly... and start flailing with real purpose.
Unfortunately, the nagging navigational doubts that had been planted
earlier were now flowering into full-blown neuroses. Everything seemed
vaguely familiar, but what if I was wrong... I grew
progressively more confident that I was heading into the wrong cove, as
Francisco Urena had done in the inaugural Challenge. We've hardly seen
him since. After another mile of gnawing doubts, I sprinted to cross in
front of a lobster boat and flagged him down to ask directions.
This
encounter didn't go quite as either of us planned. Apparently, the
lobstermen couldn't hear my question about Merepoint properly over their
diesel engine. They responded by asking if I needed a ride to shore. I
thought they were making a joke, but apparently my unintelligible speech,
wild eyes, and spastic paddling had convinced them I was in distress.
The still-unabsorbed facial goo doubtless contributed to their concern.
While I was trying to make them understand I just wanted directions,
they were trying to pull me on board to administer CPR. Fortunately, a
slippery sheen of sunscreen, sweat, and power gel prevented them from
getting their claws on me, allowing me to make an escape and continue my
uncertain course.
A half-mile later, I approached an
anchored pleasure boat (once you get more than a mile off the Maine
coast, pretty much anything is legal) to again ask directions. Given
how completely unaware he was of the local waters (and his insistence on
calling me "Barry"), the captain had apparently been drugged and
blindfolded before emerging in a half-conscious state to find himself
in Casco Bay. I waited the better part of an hour while he leafed
clumsily through maps to get his bearings, but seeing the approaching flash of paddle blades behind me, I decided that I needed to commit to a
route. I threw myself back into action, leaving the captain to find
himself.
I wasn't convinced that I was in Merepoint Bay
until I eventually saw Eric standing on the finish line pier, verifying
his identity using a driver's license and our pre-arranged password
("blunderbuss"). Although he was also suffered from debilitating disorientation pangs, Joe finished a convincing second. Bruce took the third spot, with newcomer Nat only 30 seconds behind. Chris came in next, followed by Dale. Who would have guessed that the bad decision of the day wasn't paddling a V14 across unpredictable Casco Bay with barely any surfski experience, but rather doing so with a surf rudder and no weed guard? Mary Beth was the women's champion. For the outriggers, Marc Lessard and Andy Hall finished as the first OC-2 (third overall), Andrey Drachenko as the first OC-1 guy (fourth overall), and Carol Choi as the first OC-1 gal.
Seconds after this photo was taken, Eric unexpectedly yelled out "Grab whatever you can!" I broke a pinky and have an impressive scar on my forehead now, but at least I got that orange.
After a picnic lunch, podium finishers in the various classes were awarded snazzy race-customized medals. The entire field also got to choose from a swag table with items from Adventurous Joe Coffee, Vaikobi, and Epic. Thanks to Eric and Maggie Clement for a memorable day in Maine.
Despite our best attempts to delay the inevitable, the Blackburn Challenge is almost upon us. Good news, though. After intense negotiations, I've managed to wring a concession from the organizers. From now until the race, you'll be earning triple training miles every time you hit the water!
From its murky origins in 2013, the Casco Bay Challenge has quickly grown to be an important race on the New England calendar. In theory, the course is dead simple: Proceed northeast from Willard Beach in South Portland 16.5 miles across Casco Bay to the Mere Point boat launch. In practice, picking out the optimal path amongst the dozens of similar-looking islands is no mean feat. On the positive side, Casco Bay encompasses only 958 square miles, so if you wander off course the Coast Guard will likely find you before the ice sets in (which would be in late August, I believe). Eric McNett and family would again be serving as our hosts.
On a sunny day with a moderate breeze on our hind quarter (very refreshing), 23 skis (including 5 women), a dozen outriggers, and a handful of SUPs would take this year's Challenge. To supplement the local paddlers, a healthy contingent from the DC area was rounded up and shipped to Maine. A more nefarious crew of foreigners from the north also made an appearance.
A couple of years ago, while dabbling in black sorcery, Chris Sherwood inadvertently opened a portal to Halifax (which is about what you deserve when you substitute beaver for newt). Through this abominable Hal Gate climbed Tim Milligan. After this first sweet taste of freedom from the eternal torments of universal healthcare, civility in public discourse, and dangerously high syrup consumption quotas, Tim returned with his compatriot Dave Murray in 2014. And this year he's also unleashed the fearsome Lang Twins on a slumbering country. Inexplicably separated by 30 years, Lang the Elder (henceforth Robert) is one of Canada's premier marathon and wildwater kayakers, while the younger Lang (Neil, although his robust beard made it difficult to tell) is on the national sprint team. With Mario Blackburn slipping down from Quebec when nobody was looking, this qualified as an invasion. I called Homeland Security to warn them, but they told me that Maine wasn't technically under their jurisdiction.
Before the race, Pam tries unsuccessfully to synchronize her internal compass with Robert's.
A half hour after sending the SUPs off to almost certain exhaustion, Eric shepherded the remaining boats onto the water. Although few suspected it at the time, we were lining up for one of the most intriguing races in recent memory - chock full of back-and-forth tactical maneuvers (mostly back in my case) that would repeatedly scramble the order of the top seven finishers. A quick airhorn blast later, we were off. Jan Lupinski, who has more humorous kidney stone anecdotes than almost anyone I know, took the early lead. To my mind, he was the man to beat today, although with such a strong field there were certainly other contenders. By a couple of miles into the race I had worked my way into what was probably second place - it was difficult to tell because there was some action way off to my right.
Behind me Jim Mallory had locked onto my wash and swallowed the key. Although we've never raced directly against one another, Jim and I do have a rivalry of sorts. For 4 of the past 5 years, we've competed in the same run-bike-paddle team triathlon - finishing as the fastest two kayakers each time. I would just leave it at that. A more conscientious writer might also mention that Jim beat me in those 4 races, but I'll be damned if I contract scruples at this age.
After several unsuccessful attempts to shake Jim by working small runners, I eventually adopted a grind-him-down strategy, the primary component of which involved pretending that I was more fit than he. Through a concentrated application of willful ignorance, I had assumed that Jim and I were alone in pursuit of Jan. Five miles into the race, the sudden appearance of Neil passing close by at a phenomenal rate made me question that assumption. Post-race video analysis reveals that he had been lurking behind us for some time. Jim deftly hopped over to Neil's draft and also slid by me. With an effort that left only a slight taste of blood in my mouth, I was able to clip onto the back of our reordered train.
Sure, it was a lot of work pulling Jim, Neil, and half of Robert. But I think they'll agree it was worth the effort. (photo courtesy of Kealani Kimball)
For some time, I had been monitoring Eric's progress well off to our right. It soon became evident that he was going to pass us. I made the difficult decision to abandon my new-found foster home on Jim's draft to see if Eric would take me in. Although Jim and Neil soon hopped back on my wash to provide moral support, I couldn't seem to close the half-dozen boat lengths that separated me from Eric. To muddle matters further, Matt Drayer used an island skimming trajectory to drop in unannounced. Neil cut over to Matt, and together the youngsters pursued Eric while Jim and I dropped further behind.
Unable to narrow the gap myself, I appealed to Jim for help. Without hesitation, he leapt into action and surged forward. Sadly, I had neglected to take into account Jim's power as a sprinter. Already bruised and battered from my tumble from 2nd to 5th position, I was too woozy to match his awesome acceleration. My only hope of catching the leaders evaporated as I lost my grip on Jim's wash. He cast a rueful look back, but there was nothing he could do to arrest my fall. With a respectful tip of his cap (phenomenal ear control, that guy), Jim carried on to join Matt and Neil.
I was almost grateful for the clean break - there'd be no lingering suffering while I struggled in vain to keep up with those guys. My competitive fire was on the flickering edge of extinguishing itself when Robert Lang showed up with some kerosene and a bag of marshmallows. Engulfed by the newly stoked flames, I resigned myself to another hour of torment. Robert soon passed me, but not without picking up a nasty parasite.
Uh-oh. Things don't look too good for Mary Beth. Stay tuned to this blog to find out if she pulled through. (photo courtesy of Kealani Kimball)
Eric is the butterfly of the surfski world. While he always knows where he's going, his erratic fluttering to and fro makes him damn difficult to net (let alone stick a pin in). Eric's wanderings had those of us behind him weaving drunkenly in an attempt to stay on line. Jan had been leading throughout from a line well to our left, but our meandering string of six skis proved an irresistible lure for him. Everyone loves a parade. He turned sharply to join the festivities, losing enough ground in the process that he lost his solo lead fell in with the head group.
I experimented with a downwind line (peer pressure) in hopes of getting by Robert and making up some ground on those ahead. I managed to pass and gap Robert, but soon enough he caught me and settled on my wash. Despite my incantations (OK, curses), I could not exorcise this Canadian demon. Up ahead, however, his bearded spawn was showing signs of mortality. Paddling alone for the last few miles, Neil appeared to be struggling with cramps. Taking advantage of his periodic stops, I gradually closed the distance between us until, with two miles left, we caught him.
It's pretty obvious what I should have done at this point was to
continue pushing by Neil (or at least try) - if we were even remotely
close to one another near the finish, a 25 year-old national-caliber
sprinter was probably going to win that battle. What I actually did was
settle onto his wash, rationalizing that I'd just recuperate a little
and then - after a half-mile or so - I'd make my move. Or maybe, since
it's pretty comfy back here, I'll just nestle in for another half-mile.
Seems a shame to make a move with a whole mile left, so perhaps... (at
this point my reverie was momentarily disrupted by Robert passing us
both) ... I'll just hang out here a little longer. And so on. Perhaps 200
meters from the finish, I made a token effort to overtake Neil - mostly
because I thought he would appreciate the gesture. Of course, he
brushed my attack aside effortlessly.
The lead pack of Eric, Jim, and Matt were too far ahead for me to pick out individuals but I've reconstructed the events through contemporary newspaper clippings and first-hand accounts from old-timers (I feel a little bad about that low blow, but you bastards should have thought of that before kicking my ass). Matt held a lead of several boat lengths entering Mere Point Cove, but couldn't fend off a last minute attack from Jim. In a bang-bang-bang finish, it was Jim, Matt, and Eric in a 4 second span. 90 seconds later it was a pop-pop finish for Jan and Robert (2 seconds apart) and, in another 30 seconds, a pew-(pause)-pew end for Neil and me (6 seconds apart, but not nearly as close as that might sound). Even though I finished on the periphery of the action, it was perhaps the most exciting race I've been a part of.
In the women's race, Pam Boteler beat Kathleen McNamee by 40 seconds
for the win, with Sara Jordan placing third. Kai Bartlett dominated the
OC-1 field, finishing nearly 20 minutes ahead of the next single-bladed
competitor.
Jan's new happy place.
I was pleased to find that the post-race spread contained nearly every known recovery provision (although if you're taking requests, Eric, I wouldn't mind seeing some ambergris and tiger blood next year). Joe Shaw, fearing that someone in the crowd might have a deadly nut allergy, selflessly threw himself on the jar of peanut butter. Taking inspiration from his altruism, I guzzled the chocolate milk to protect the lactose intolerant hordes from themselves and scarfed bananas like ibuprofen to protect the accident prone (although the fiber blast from the peels made me subsequently regret that philanthropic endeavor).
Even Timmy's high jinks couldn't scour away the bitter taste of defeat (and banana peels). (photo courtesy of Kealani Kimball)
Eric presented the awards for the top paddlers in the various categories
(some type of carved coaster I think - I was too far off the podium to
see very well), then proceeded to draw for door prizes given to every
participant. I won a cool Kai Wa'a sponsor shirt, a bottle of
mouthwash, and a trial subscription to Southern Bride magazine - a
pretty good haul. Thanks to the McNett clan and sponsor Adventurous Joe Coffee
for a memorable time on Casco Bay.
We now have a long break to the Blackburn on July 25. Great. That'll give Matt some extra time in the Salem League to undermine the crumbling foundation of my confidence.
Don't miss these great photos from the race (courtesy of Kealani Kimball).
As you may recall, last year's inaugural Casco Bay Challenge was more like a chapter from the Odyssey than a ski race. We wandered aimlessly through a boundless oblivion, arriving an eternity later on the other side of the bay, astounded to find that only a few hours had passed in the living world. This year's trip promised to be somewhat less mythic, with clear
conditions and a moderate breeze from the south helping us along. It
turns out that Casco Bay is more than just a featureless gray expanse
(if you at the Maine Tourist Board want to use that, please feel
free). There are islands, lighthouses, lobster pots, and the other
picturesque trappings of our 43rd state (I think there may have been
some kind of filing error). I was disappointed to not see any moose,
but they must have been foraging in the deep.
Matt getting prepped on the beach. PFD? Check. Hydration system? Check. Banana? Che... Hey, which one of you ski monkeys ate my banana?
As we flocked on the beach before the race, our typical ski family was joined by members of a different feather, many of whom migrated up from the DC area. Starting this year, Casco Bay is part of the
ECORA (East Coast Outrigger Association) point series. As a result, we
were joined by seven or eight of these winged monstrosities. Although
we've been raised from childhood to mistrust and fear outrigger paddlers
(Eric and Rod excluded), it turns out they're just like us. Only
asymmetric. And constantly chattering gibberish about amas and iakos. We
forgive them these shortcomings, however, and welcome them with open
arms. Now SUPs... that's another story.
The islands of Casco Bay are mostly aligned along a
southwest-to-northeast axis, arranged in such a way that we would be
gently guided by these isles across the bay from Fisherman's Beach in
South Portland to far-off Mere Point Landing. From Google satellite
photos, the correct path is apparent. From a lower Earth orbit - say 2
feet above the globe's surface - it can be a little trickier. Prior to the race, Eric had provided us with detailed maps and GPS waypoints. He supplemented this info with a captain's meeting in which he blathered on about staying to the left of this and the right of that. Since I had my GPS, I was sure I'd be fine.
This is exactly why I stopped going to the beach.
As those who have raced with Eric know, he doesn't like to be more than a boat's length away from shore. I'm not sure if it's because he fears the inky depths or because he's got irritable bowel syndrome (in which case open seas would be his Waterloo, I suppose). In any event, I expect this aversion to the ocean explains why we started the race only six feet off the beach. This led to the awkward spectacle of surfskis and outriggers attempting to back into the starting line after warming up. I was just able to make out the starting whistle over all the beeping, and we were off.
Francisco rabbited off the line to a quick lead before settling into a more maintainable cadence. Although ostensibly the wind should be helping us, the first half mile was characterized by mildly confused conditions with the occasional random boat wake thrown in. After this, we entered the downwind section of the race, which would last to the finish (albeit against a reluctant tide, especially in the last few miles). After some jockeying, I pulled into a modest lead. Francisco fell back while Eric maintained his distance several lengths behind but well off to my left. With Borys lollygagging somewhere behind me, I was forced to do my own navigation. Not that following Borys is necessarily a good idea.
Our course through the first 3 miles was pretty clear, after which we emerged into an open expanse to the inside of Long and Chebeague Islands. Eric had told us that we were to keep the smokestacks on Cousins Island to our left (note to future world dictator self - avoid building industrial blights in middle of glorious bays). Or perhaps it was to our right. One of those, I was pretty sure. I consulted my GPS, but it displayed a screen that showed only the words "off course". I'd occasionally throw glances back to check on Eric's trajectory, although this strategy was becoming more difficult as I managed to put some distance between us. I was catching some respectable rides. Based on my increasingly infrequent Eric sightings, I correctly reckoned that we were to stay right of Cousins Island.
Borys, who I soon spotted back several dozen boat lengths far off to my right, inevitably caught and passed me about 8 miles into the race. He then proceeded to turn to the left, crossing my path and heading, with purpose, off what I had taken to be the rails. Shouldn't we be keeping to the right of the upcoming islands? I couldn't manage to spot Eric behind me to confirm my course.
Like a compass over an iron ore deposit, Borys' heading was swinging wildly from thataway to thither. Since I couldn't take my bearings from an unreliable navigator, I decided to bite the bullet and try my GPS again. Sure enough, I was "off course". Helpful. I tried randomly pressing buttons on the Garmin, but that only made it angry. Finally, after consulting the Chilton GPS repair manual, phoning a friend, and renouncing several of my lesser vices (I'm gonna miss those YouTube kitten videos), I was rewarded with a display showing my actual and intended paths.
It turned out that I was only marginally off course. I banked to the right (a close call) then angled over (another close call) to the correct line. Borys, who was periodically checking back to see if I knew anything he didn't, mirrored my corrections (minus the close calls). It was at about this time that I hazarded a glance back myself to see how my lead over Eric was holding up. With my eyes focused on the distant horizon in search of him, it took me several seconds to register that the blurry white blob that frustratingly kept obscuring the horizon was actually Eric's Epic. I blinked him into clarity (you're welcome) and let off an involuntary shriek. The guy I thought I had dropped 5 miles back was only a handful of boat lengths back. In my boat, at least, nobody was happy with the reemergence of Eric.
One eye on my GPS route and the other firmly fixed at its peripheral limit in search of a surging Eric, I pitched myself forward. Well, "pitched" may give the groundless impression that there was great speed involved. Tossed might be a better term. Let's go with lobbed. As a matter of fact, let's drop the throwing analogy completely and leave it with me making a marginal degree of extra forward progress. Ten minutes later, I figured my Nolan Ryan-like efforts had paid off. Eric surely was little more than a fading memory. It was at this point that I spotted him at least 20 boat lengths ahead of me off to the left. I was too dumfounded to even rend my garments in frustration and rage.
Turns out this saved me having to needlessly replace my Mocke vest and favorite paddling T-shirt (True story - only short-sleeve shirt I've worn on a ski since 2011. Scares off the competition.). It wasn't Eric. It wasn't even a surfski. Or a kayak. It was a little Boston Whaler. I'm not sure how exactly I momentarily mistook one for the other, but in my defense, Eric is pretty wily.
Lest my hallucination become premonition, I tried to push hard through the next few miles. I hit the wall hard during this time, but a liberal application of power gel to my face really seemed to help. We had been told that once you enter Mere Point Bay, there was hardly a kilometer left to the finish at the pier of the Mere Point Boat Launch. With the ebbing tide now working against us (with ebbing muscles not helping the matter), I seemed to be catching little runners, but my GPS was stubbornly refusing to show a respectable speed. On the positive side, I was relieved to find that I was finally "on course". I might not finish strong, but at least I would know where to tell the 911 operator I was.
You should see the other guy...
The pier at the finish line was visible from several hundred meters out, which is right where it stayed for, oh, about three lifetimes. Eventually, by closing my eyes for twenty strokes at a time, I was able to sneak up on it and complete the race. Borys was already on shore doing his interviews, of course. Eric pulled in shortly after me for third, followed by Matt Drayer and Peter Kahn. Beata finished sixth overall to top the women's race. Once the remaining paddlers were all accounted for (a much simpler proposition this year), we retired for snacks and awards.
Thanks to Eric and family (with an assist given to the lingering high pressure system, the month of June, and Adventurous Joe Coffee) for a spectacular day in Maine.
If you're looking for the Ride the Bull race report, you can find it here.
The Casco Bay Challenge was designed as a rare New England paddling treat - an extended downwind race across the entire bay, amidst dozens of striking Maine islands. While the forecast initially looked good for such a race, a cursèd fog befell us. An elderly salt on the beach warned us that this was the worst kind of fog - a white fog. Not sure what exactly that means. Isn't that how it always is with ancient mariners? Yapping on about some tragedy in which his entire crew save one was lost (and that one usually him, naturally). He mumbled something about an albatross too. Whatever, old man.
The racers say their goodbyes, figuring this might be the last they see of their fellow paddlers.
Despite the conditions, a healthy crew of 15 single skis, 1 double ski (Bill Kuklinski and Timmy Shields), 3 single outriggers, and 2 double outriggers braved the beach. The course couldn't be simpler. We'd start at Fisherman's Beach in South Portland, paddle through a boundless and timeless white limbo, and perhaps turn up at Merepoint boat launch on the north side of Casco Bay, 16.5 miles away. Racers were encouraged to pay no heed to indistinct but beckoning voices. Also to watch out for ferries.
Complicating matters somewhat, one of our two scheduled safety boats ran aground en route and was undergoing emergency propeller replacement. Damn the portents, full speed ahead! After a revision or two, the plan was to sprint to the $150 hotspot (somewhere between 1.5 miles and 4 miles into the course - I never quite caught that), then join up and follow the chase boat as a united group. After some delays to ensure our tethers were secure, we set off shortly after noon for what would be an event somewhere between a race, a passive-aggressive group paddle, and an abject lesson.
Eric quizzes us on state capitols and dead reckoning navigation strategies.
With the marine forecast calling for 3 to 5 foot seas, I had brought my Huki. Not the right decision, as it turned out, but you dance with the one that you strapped to your car. I started out at a reasonable pace, not wanting to kill myself in the opening sprint of a 16.5 mile race. There wasn't much suspense over who would win the $150 hotspot. Unless Borys Markin snapped a paddle or burned up on reentry, he was going to have some gas money for the trip back home. I decided to let Eric keep him honest while I settled snugly into third place.
I was quickly unsettled by a horde of challengers, however. Although I felt like I was at a respectable level of effort, a steady stream of paddlers pulled by me. Francisco Urena, Beata Cseke, Chris Laughlin, Matt Drayer, Joe Shaw, and both OC-2s slipped past over the course of the next couple of miles. What was going on? There were some extended patches of floating weeds around. Could that explain it? I reversed to deweed, with inconclusive results. I was able to make a move on Joe when we encountered a brief patch of unsettled water, but was in danger of losing touch with the next group.
Fortunately, Eric called for a huddle at this point. We'd stop and wait for the rest of the paddlers to join us. Once all the paddlers (well, most of them) had convened in the hazy half-light, we called on
the spirits of paddlers past to guide us. Silence. Typical bastard
ghost paddler behavior. Instead, Eric, weaving amongst us like an
aquatic drill instructor, outlined the attack plan. We'd stay together
as a group at a casual pace until the second chase boat arrived, then split into "fast"
and "slightly less fast" platoons. My argument for instead having
"green deck" and "guided by chase boat in widening circles" platoons fell
on deaf ears. Typical bastard live paddler behavior.
The start was the least amount of fog we'd have.
At the restart, I found the shared pace to be something well to the north of casual. I'd been thinking T-shirts and jeans, but everyone had shown up in bow ties and cummerbunds. I struggled to find the right cadence as half the field started gradually pulling away. With considerably more effort than I thought wise to expend, I managed to keep the leaders from fading into utter obscurity. Eventually, I began to crawl closer to the front - in part because the leaders kept executing right angle course corrections, allowing me to hypotenuse my way to success. It eventually became clear that Ken Cooper was acting as our GPS-guided bellwether.
At one point, I noticed Borys and Beata over 20 meters to the right,
apparently making a move to join the head pack. I scooted over and attached myself to their beeline to the front, but found that I could only hold on for
a few minutes before exhausting my energy account. That's right. I had overdrafted. Nevertheless, their help was enough to get me back in the general vicinity of the leaders.
We now enter the dream phase of the Casco Bay Challenge,
wherein everything blurs together in a surreal fogscape of indistinct
memories. We paddle in a purgatory of muted shades and muffled sounds.
Brief glimpses of island shores provide no grounding context, but
merely reinforce the sensation of endless wandering. We will never
again feel the warm light of day.
My reverie was broken by harsh words shared between a V8 and
an outrigger. Apparently the latter had tried the ever-so-casual "slip my ama around your stern" trick while the ski wasn't paying attention. The unwanted advance was met with a paddle rebuke, which I'm afraid the outrigger just misinterpreted as friskiness. Long story short, these folks probably won't be exchanging Christmas cards anymore. I hate being pulled from a good reverie, so once the ruckus subsided I quickly slipped back into a semi-catatonic state. We continued meandering through Casco Bay.
I don't recall much about the next hour. I was at the front of the pack. I was at the back of the pack. There were two packs, inexplicably heading in two different directions, with navigator Ken heading off in a third. At one point I looked over and a phantasmal paddler gave a wink and disappeared entirely. Logic and proportion had indeed fallen - probably more sloppy drunk than dead, though.
At some point (not necessarily in time or space), my GPS beeped to indicate the passing of mile 14. The end was nigh. Nigh-ish, let's say. Slowly, the lifeless paddlers quickened. Francisco, who was just visible off to the far right, had taken a good line. The rest of us were forced to angle in his direction. It seemed that Eric, now on his home turf, had finally gotten his bearings and was homing in on Merepoint. It was Borys, Eric, the mixed OC-2, Beata, me, Francisco, and Matt as everyone shed their torpor for the final push. I managed to pass Beata and the OC-2. I figured third place (such as it was) would come down to a prolonged sprint between Francisco and me - a circumstance that the Salem League has seared into our DNA. However, when stealing a glance back, I couldn't spot him. Afterwards, I found that he had cut behind the leaders and ended up on the wrong side of the point. A mere oversight, one could say.
Emerging from the physical fog. The mental fog still lingers.
Borys pealed off the lead and headed in the opposite direction - I assumed to chat with Beata before effortlessly rocketing back to win the race. At Ride the Bull, when Borys cruised by me (twice), I wasn't able to latch onto his wash. This time would be different. As I saw him approaching, I went into full-out sprint mode and angled to intersect his path. I executed this maneuver perfectly. Just as he passed, my nose tucked behind his stern. I had done it! So if you ever want to know what it's like to be directly behind Borys as he pulls away from you at 2+ miles per hour, I'm your man. Within a single stroke, it was clear that the only draft I was getting was the cold wind of defeat.
As I entered Merepoint Bay, the scales fell from my befogged eyes. There were docks, houses, moored boats... And best of all, there was the finishing pier, filled with all those I had ever loved, waiting for me with arms outstretched. What had started in gray confusion would end in glory. Wait, wait. Strike that. That ain't Uncle Silas or great grand pappy. Apparently what had started in gray confusion would end also in gray confusion. There you have it. The Casco Bay Challenge as a metaphor for life.
Punch drunk doubles champions Bill and Timmy.
Borys had won the race, with Eric not far behind. Behind me the ski order was Beata, Matt, Bill & Timmy, Francisco, Barry Fifeld, Joe Shaw, Chris Laughlin, Ken, Bob Capellini, Chris Sherwood, Rick Stoehrer, and Ciro de la Vega. After a reasonable amount of time had elapsed, three paddlers remained unaccounted for. The safety boat was able to locate Bruce Deltorchio, who had dropped off the back of the front pack but was missed by the trailing pack. Lost and desperate, Bruce was found gnawing on his paddle for sustenance. A hopelessly off-track Murray Lord sighted a populated island and, upon asking some people onshore for directions, found that he was actually in the Harraseeket River. Murray called it a day and telephoned for an overland rescue. Roger Crossland, in an OC-1, found himself similarly off-track, but after fortifying himself with a beer supplied by a helpful spectator, soldiered on to the finish.
Many thanks to Eric and Cindy for throwing a fun (and unexpectedly eerie) inaugural Casco Bay Challenge, to Mary Beth for again helping out with timing, and to the race sponsors - Adventurous Joe Coffee, McNett, Ocean Paddlesports, and Epic Kayaks. Special thanks to the Maine Island Trail Association chase boats for shepherding us across the bay safely.
