Essex River: Last of the Flats

Well before I even dreamed that it was possible, let alone desirable, to spend so much time and money on surfskis, the Essex River Race gave me my first taste of competitive paddling.  That bitter flavor lingered on my palette for the hour and seven minutes it took me to complete the race.  I had thought I was a fast paddler, but it became a little hard to reconcile that belief given the empirical evidence of being passed every few minutes.  It took me a a couple of years of getting beat down (OK, maybe seven) to wise up and start paddling a ski and then a couple more to get wise up further and start training with gusto (or, more often, reluctant tepidity).

The Essex River is practically my back yard (which explains the low-tide stench that occasionally wafts through the house, often right after taco night), so I planned to make the most of my home estuary advantage.  We'd have a modest outgoing tide and light breeze ferrying us along for the first half of the race, but the tide would turn (not literally) on the way back home.  I would dance nimbly from the channels to the shallows via a route that cross-optimized speed versus distance traveled.

The day got off to a rocky start as all six of the prime parking spots right across Route 22 from the boat launch were already taken, despite our pre-dawn arrival.  I'm pretty sure Bob Capellini had been sleeping there in his truck since Thursday.  I tried to put this setback behind me and prepare for the race ahead.  Several long hours later, we were on the water awaiting our turn as the last heat of the day.  As we floated idly about, Borys and Beata were conspicuously absent.  I thought they might be granting us a head start, but it turns out they were just putting some final touches on their victory speeches.

As I twist sideways to take this photo, the field waits hungrily for me to either flip or drop my camera in the drink.  No such luck, fellas.  I'm in an Epic V10 - the fastest and most stable boat on the market!  Nothing?  Cripes.  What's a guy got to do to get a little love from a sponsor?

I managed to get a good position near the left bank of the river, such that when the starting cannon fired from the right, I was barely grazed.  I also was set up well for the initial left turn.  Without having to burst any major organs, I was pulled along with the lead set of eight or so racers.  So this is what it feels like to not be disheartened in the first minute of a race.  It's all right as a lark, but probably not for me.  Makes for boring copy.

After a few moments, I started pulling my way forward, trying to do so with a little more grace than my oafish flailings at the Run of the Charles race.  I eased by Chris Chappell and Bruce Deltorchio (who used this race to announce his engagement to a new V10 Sport, even though he's still paying alimony to a string of ex-es), squeezed between Wesley and Francisco, and set my mark on Chris Laughlin and Andrius Zinkevichus up ahead.  About five minutes into the race, I pulled ahead of these two and set my sights on Borys.  That is, I was looking forward and he was probably one of those specks within my field of view.

Before the race, I had to explain to an embarrassed Wesley that he had been misinterpreting "leg drive" all these years.

In the past, I've always been guided through the winding portion of the race by a pack of faster seeing-eye paddlers.  Even if I had different ideas about the best route, it never seemed worth giving up the advantages of the draft. This year, after the first half mile I found myself with Open Waters well out ahead of me (I'm suggesting that as Borys' new nickname) and Andrius drafting off to my starboard.  Perfect.  I could use my knowledge of the river to plot an optimal course.

What I hadn't considered, however, is that my preferred route would frequently intersect with the seemingly random courses of the first wave of rowing craft, heading back towards the finish.  In other mixed-craft races like the Snow Row or Blackburn Challenge, working your way around the wide oarspans of rowboats can be challenging.  In those races, however, you're generally overtaking a boat at a relative speed of a knot or two, the rowers can see you coming, and you have an ocean to maneuver in.  In the Essex, you're approaching each other at a combined speed of 12+ knots, the rowers are blind to your presence, and you're in a winding river.  Also, because they can't see where they're going, they tend to pursue a course down the middle of the channel while always seeming to be about 8 degrees askew from heading straight downriver.

The stage has been set for bad navigation decisions, and I was just the person to make them.  In trying to stay in the channel to reap the benefits of the tidal current, I found I was erring on the side of "holy geez, that was close" as I misjudged the course and oarspan of the oncoming blurs.  A six man behemoth roared by inches off my port side.  Fortunately my heart got stuck in my throat, or it would have been whisked right along downstream with the rowboat.  I left ample room for the next several rowboats to pass on my the port side (you might reasonably assume that I had learned my lesson from the close call, but don't jump the gun...), after which I was confronted with a disaster-in-waiting.  Ahead, a two person shell and a six person rowboat were bearing down on me.  They appeared at first to be abreast of one another, but it turned out that the shell was actually a length or two in front.

I could either yield the direct route and go to the right of both boats or stay true to the channel current and split their difference.  In my split-second appraisal (a wildly inaccurate use of that term) of the situation, I judged there to be enough of a gap for the latter course.  I angled to port to clear the shell, then straightened out to keep from straying further left into the path of the workboat.  I shot through the gap with several feet to spare on either side.  Whew.  Except...

A pained grunt from my right attested that I had neglected one critical element in planning my trajectory.  The astute reader may recall that I wasn't alone at this point, but was pulling Andrius on a starboard draft.  I hadn't pulled far enough left, leaving insufficient room between my boat and the two person shell.  Andrius took an oar to the chest but managed to stay upright and in contact.  For the next few moments, that contact consisted mostly of us debating (in what might be described as "flowery terms") the finer points of sportsmanship.

In retrospect, I have to concede that if I were Andrius, I'd have been plenty unhappy too.  It was a stupid decision to pass between the two craft in the first place, but once I had committed to that course I should have ensured that we both had ample room.  All I can offer in my defense is that it was a reckless and poorly executed move (for which I have apologized) rather than a malicious tactic.

Now that I've brought the race report to a screeching halt with this mea culpa, let's see if I can lighten things up by returning once more to a deep and generous well - having some good-natured fun at the expense of our friend Bill Kuklinski.  Ostensibly because Bill would be entertaining us immediately after the race, the organizers asked that he start in one of the early heats.  This was just as well, since the squirrel bladders in his Victorian-era life vest tend to lose buoyancy as the temperature rises.  Bill has paddled the Essex course many times (occasionally multiple times during the same race, if I'm not mistaken) and knows the perils of Devastation Reef as well as anyone.  Since you could literally hop to shore on Cross Island from this hazard, I'm not sure that it technically qualifies as a reef, but nevertheless many a craft has been dashed (or, at least, gently grounded) on its jagged maw.  Alas, that list now includes Bill's Epic.  Fortunately, as master glasser Chris Chappell diagnosed after inspecting the damage, it's nothing that a little Wite-Out and baling wire can't fix.  Although he did look a little dehydrated after the race, Bill seems to have weathered his shipwreck with only financial scars.

For the second race in a row, my GoPro failed me.  What gives?  It's got like two buttons.  I did get a pretty good still shot of my foot plate, though.

Back in real time, I managed to tear free from Andrius a quarter mile or so later.  Borys, of course, had pulled his typical disappearing act, so I was on my own.  Fortunately, the Essex race includes a string of mobile motivational waypoints (MMWs) in the form of kayaks in slower classes from earlier starting heats.  Overtaking one of these obliging targets every couple of minutes helps to keep the spirits up in the struggle against fatigue.  Of course, the MMWs are by definition in boats that are inherently much slower than mine, but (a) I find it pretty easy to selectively ignore that fact and (b) it's not my fault if you race in a 12 foot rotomolded kayak.

Remembering my time as a hapless waypoint for the skis, I made sure that I paid it forward.  Approaching each new boat, I did everything I could to put on a good show.  That is, I temporarily stopped moaning and gasping for air, straightened up my fatigue-induced slouch, did my best imitation of a graceful stroke, and tossed off a carefree "Cheerio!" as I passed.  With any luck, my charade would allow them to share in that same desperate inadequacy I felt back in 2004.  I do have the concept of paying it forward right, yeah?

Somebody at headquarters miscalibrated a couple of the MMWs.  Although I had spotted Dana Gaines and Bob Capellini (the leaders of the SS20+ class) with a couple of miles left in the race, I didn't actually seem to be closing on them.  The entire point of the MMW program is to provide an invigorating burst of confidence as you cruise by these paddlers (again, overlooking that they are in much slower boats).  Dana and Bob were pushing their burly skis way too fast, which I found more frustrating than motivating.  Come on, guys.  Get with the program.  Finally, with less than a half mile to go, I managed to pass Dana and then Bob.  I finished with an anemic sprint that left one smart-ass spectator wondering aloud if I was also in the race.

Tim's unexpected rendition of "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!" was a little off key, but still oddly moving. (Photo courtesy of Wesley Echols)

Despite having my own personal best time on the Essex course by 1.5 minutes, Borys had finished nearly 4 minutes in front of me, breaking his 2012 paddling record with a time of 42:17.  While Borys and I had spent most of the race in isolation, most of the other paddlers were engaged in pitched combat within various pods, complete with parries, feints, and, at least in my envious imagination, witty repartee.  After battling for much of the last two-thirds of the race, Andrius edged out Chris (Laughlin) for 3rd.  Wesley bested hard-charging Mike for 5th, with Beata and Bruce Deltorchio hard on their sterns.  Chris Chappell managed to hold off a late surge by Tim Dwyer, who slipped by Kirk Olsen and Tim Hudyncia in his push to fill out the top 10.

Top 3 guys, top 2 gals.  (Photo courtesy of Wesley Echols)

With little wind and mild tidal currents, it was a fast day on the Essex.  Most paddlers who stayed in comparable boats beat their 2013 times by 1 to 2 minutes.  A few cheaters upboated from the SS20+ class to improve their times by 5 minutes or more.  Tim Hudyncia and Mary Beth, however, really outdid themselves, each shaving nearly 9 minutes off of last year's times without radically changing boats.  Mary Beth is so attached to her (fine, you all win) new boat that she has started bringing it to bed, which has made spooning a little awkward.

Last report's call-to-arms for New England paddlers was answered in no uncertain terms.   In this race, eight of the top ten spots went to native paddlers.  Granted, the metropaddlers were pretty thinly represented this time, with regulars Jan Lupinski and Eric Costanzo apparently too frightened and/or busy with other commitments to make the trip to Essex.  Still, this race proves conclusively that in the absence of competition, we will fill in the open places in the results.

For those of us in the North Shore of Massachusetts, our next race is the opening salvo in the summer-long barrage of pain called the Salem League.  For everyone else, the Sakonnet calls in early June.  In any event, we're abandoning calm river waters and casting off into rougher seas.  And yes, I have started practicing my remounts.  Thanks for asking.

Essex River: Terror on the Low Seas

The Essex River Race holds a special place in my heart.  At the 2004 race, I stood on the shores and watched the most fascinating collection of watercraft I had ever seen.  A month later, we bought a house 5 minutes down the road (perhaps correlation doesn't imply causation, but it seemed at least kismet in this case) and I started training for that summer's Blackburn.  Flash forward 23 years and there I am hoisting the Essex River trophy with my remaining arm.  But I'm getting ahead of myself...

As always, the race would be a 5.7 mile voyage down the winding Essex River, around Cross Island, across a wide estuary, and back up the river.  Between tidal currents and sandy shallows, choosing the right line can tax even the most seasoned navigator.  Which is why most people just blindly follow whoever happens to be in front of them at the moment.  The entire field of 1997 was found having lunch at an Ipswich clam house after the lead rower got hungry midway through the race.

With 33 surfskis participating, this was the best attended ski race ever in New England that doesn't include 20 miles of pain. This is, of course, largely due to the explosion of super-stable boats (the Epic V8 and Stellar S18S), which accounted for 12 of the skis this year.  For the first time, these boats were pulled out of FSK and given their own SS20Plus class.  Given that seven SS20Plus boats beat the top FSK, the governing board of the Cape Ann Rowing Club deserves kudos for this move.

The forecast for the morning wasn't exactly dire, but neither was it all smoothies and kittens.  With a 15 to 25 mph wind from the south and a strong chance of showers, it seemed we might be in for a rain- and spray-scoured race, but at least it would be in the 60s.  Some of the old-timers were inspired to share memories of the tempest of 2010, where for weeks afterwards the authorities were rescuing boats thrown by the raging seas into the treetops of Cross Island.

Arriving at 5am to snag a prime parking spot has its disadvantages...

As it turned out, the wind stayed on the lower end of the forecast and the rain materialized only in a few brief, unenthusiastic showers during the awards.  As everyone maneuvered into place for the start, the wind and lively flooding tide made for an awkward demonstration of half-forgotten sea kayak maneuvering skills.  I nearly got a chance to show off my rolling abilities after a particularly erratic attempt at sculling.  As the rest of us struggled to maintain our positions with mounting pre-race anxiety, Borys Markin carved lazy circles around us - a shark savoring the moment before the kill.

And then we were off, blades and fins and teeth everywhere, glistening forms darting madly through the churning water, the tortured screeches of gulls and paddlers blending into a symphony of unrestrained mayhem.  So the start was unremarkable.  When the frenzy subsided, I was sitting in 12th place.  After my previous lackluster starts this season, I had sworn a sacred pre-race oath to jump out strong with the leaders.  I now mirrored this with a profane in-race oath directed at myself.  It was difficult to tell from my distant vantage point, but on the horizon I could vaguely make out Borys, Eric McNett, Jan Lupinski, Andrius Zinkevichus, and Francisco Urena heading the pack.

Still upset with my lack of off-the-line acceleration, I slowly hauled myself past Mike McDonough, Tim Dwyer, and Flavio Costa (who has beautiful paddling form, but still managed to redirect several gallons of the river into my face with every stroke) before getting briefly caught behind Wesley Echols, Beata Cseke, and Eric Costanzo - a triad so committed to unity that they'd spend the entire race within a bowling ball toss of each other.  Exploiting a temporary schism between Wesley and Beata (presumably some disagreement about the trinity's bylaws), I pushed forward between them.  They evidently reconciled afterwards, since they'd eventually finish side by side, singing kumbaya.

After a strong interval, I caught Francisco.  According to the Garmin track he posted, his heart rate at this point in the race was only at 220.  I don't know if he had some kind of problem with his nectar supply or if he was just meditating, but I took advantage of his hibernation-like metabolic state to pass him.  Francisco is now off in Hawaii for next weekend's Molokai race, where I expect he'll represent New England paddlers in a manner better than most of us deserve.

There were now four paddlers ahead of me.  Borys, racing for the first time in his new Stellar SES, was nearly out of sight.  Paddling an Epic V14, Eric was a dozen boat lengths ahead.  He was hugging the shoreline like Ferdinand Magellan searching for a hidden passage to the Pacific - apparently trying to avoid the incoming tidal current.  Jan, with Andrius drafting off his left stern quarter, was taking a more direct line as the river widened.  This pairing of red skis remained tantalizing close 4 or 5 boat lengths ahead, but I couldn't seem to close that gap as we headed straight downwind (but uptide). 

Finally, a quarter mile before the narrow strait between Conomo Point and Cross Island, I caught the elusive devils.  I drafted comfortably for a few moments before pulling even with Jan as we passed through the narrows.  We remained in this formation until rounding to the back of Cross Island, at which point I inched ahead.

Eric's littoral strategy back in the river had apparently paid off, since his lead had increased substantially by the time our paths converged.  Since then, he had opened up an even larger lead
on Jan and I.  As we cleared Cross Island and faced into a 15 mph headwind, Eric looked to be at least a quarter mile ahead.  With the wind and chop directly on our bows, the conditions weren't technically challenging, but required more vigor than you'd perhaps prefer after 25 minutes of all-out paddling.

Five minutes into the upwind crossing, I had dropped Jan.  I was locked onto Eric's bright orange Mocke vest up ahead.  Could it be possible that I was gaining on him?  I concentrated on maintaining strong, measured strokes, trying not to get too discouraged by my GPS, which was showing hateful numbers.  Despite its best efforts, though, I made it across the broad estuary and entered the river proper.  I was getting closer to Eric, although there was still probably 50 boat lengths separating us.  It didn't seem at all likely that I'd catch him in the remaining couple of miles, but I was feeling content to have 3rd place locked up.

Reality has a vexing way of hammering through even the most concrete of delusions, often accompanied by Carol Houghton's derisive laugh when asking her to junior prom after your best friend assured you she was "into you, big time".  In this particular instance, however, it was the bow of a red Nelo creeping into my peripheral vision that crushed my heart.  Jan "Zombie" Lupinski had arisen from his watery grave.  Actually, reports of his death were greatly exaggerated - he had been lurking out of sight (as the undead do) the whole time I thought that I had dropped him.  Needless to say, I was thoroughly demoralized by this competitive resurrection.  I could only pray that Andrius and Francisco wouldn't also appear from the gloom as part of a resurgent horde.

Over the course of the next few minutes, I watched helplessly as Jan slowly pulled past me with a methodical stroke.  He didn't look over as he passed, but I'm sure that if he had, I'd have seen my own mortality reflected in his cold, lifeless stare.  There was little I could do except fall in behind him again, hoping to regain enough energy to deliver a fatal blow closer to the end of the race.  After a couple minutes of drafting, I attempted to pass on the left as the river widened, but backed off and fell back into line when Jan responded to my modest surge.

At this point, we passed Bill Kuklinski in his V8.  The 80's called, Bill.  They were relaying a telegram from the 30's.  They want their prototype life preserver back.  If I'm not mistaken, Bill's vest was the first ever to use inflated squirrel bladders for flotation.

We were starting to run out of river, so with about a half-mile to go I made another attempt to put a stake through Jan's heart (wait, that can't be right).  I gradually pulled even, where I remained for what seemed ages as we threaded through slower boats.  With two bends of the river left, I called on what little life force I had left and redoubled my efforts.  I finally started to pull ahead.  I'm ethically obligated at this point to note that before the race (and, mind you, this was prior to brain death) Jan had taped his bailer closed in expectation of flat conditions.  Wind chop quickly filled his footwell with water, meaning that, for most of the race, he was lugging around twenty pounds of handicap.

The top 3 men in their stirring tribute to the Romanian flag.

Coming into the finish, I made a terrible navigation choice.  Bob Capellini (in his V8) and a two person rowboat were ahead, starting to round the gentle right curve to the finish.  There seemed plenty of room to slide through, but the rowboat took a wider line than Bob and the gap tightened around me.  I found myself awkwardly wedged between the boats, trying to avoid interfering with the other racers while still escaping Jan.  I spluttered out an embarrassed apology to the rowers for cutting things so close as we crossed the finish line.  Bob appeared too happy at his second place SS20Plus finish (between Ken Cooper and Dana Gaines in first and third, respectively) to care much.

Borys (43:27) had finished first, of course.  Although I had been gaining on Eric (47:30), he was still well over a minute ahead of me (48:48) at the end.  Jan (48:53) finished just behind me, with Andrius (50:06) rounding out the top five.  Other notable finishers were Beata in 7th place overall (1st place woman, naturally), Eric Costanzo in 9th place (after finishing 24th the last time he was at the Essex), Barry Fifield (last seen in a five hour man-vs-rudder battle of wills at the Blackburn, an approach to racing now known as "barrymeandering") finishing 13th in an HPK-registered V8, and Mary Beth Gangloff, completing the race nearly 4 minutes faster than her 2012 time (in conditions that made every other repeat paddler slower).  Congrats to these - and all other - racers.

Beata and Mary Beth display their medals.

After the race, we were treated to fine chili and chowder while enjoying music provided by Bill (who graciously forgives me for poking fun at his vest) and his band.  As the first place paddlers, Borys and Beata walked off with modern PFDs donated by Mocke through New England Surfski, carrying on a long tradition of carting local plunder (so sorely needed by Bill) back to New Jersey.  Thanks to the Cape Ann Rowing Club for another in a long line of smoothly run races.

Wesley's unpredictable Sakonnet River Race beckons us to his backyard playground in three weeks, but before then we'll be competing on Ed Duggan's turf (and surf) as the Salem League starts its 8th season next Tuesday at Lynch Park in Beverly.  Sounds like we'll have some new faces this year joining us.  Sure, it's a brutal and excruciatingly painful series of races.  But, uh, you should all come.