Essex River Race: Climate Change

 

After taking off a couple of years to "find itself", the Essex River Race ultimately returned to the North Shore of Massachusetts with a renewed sense of purpose.  Locals would be forgiven for believing that this purpose was to snarl Saturday morning traffic, but the true purpose is to bring together competitors in an orgy of paddling and rowing enthusiasm.  Which, now that I see it in writing, might be the actual reason that the upstanding citizens of Essex are so disgusted with us.

The 5.8 mile course entails a tour of the inner zone of the Essex River estuary.  From the start in town, competitors follow the winding tidal river until it widens into an open expanse (of either water or marsh, depending on the tide), then circumnavigate Cross Island and return back up the river.  The surfski wave would start shortly after high tide, meaning that we'd have unfettered access to many questionably effective shortcuts usually safely above sea level.  Temperatures were in the high 70s, with a light to moderate breeze from the south.

In 2021 a group of paddlers held the unsanctioned Essex River (Replacement) Race on the standard course, which Rob Jehn won despite paddling a circuitous route perhaps best described as a "search grid".  Needless to say, he was embarrassed to finally discover that he himself was the lost paddler.  Rob made the trip from New Jersey to maintain his cock-of-the-walk status.  As the last winner of the real Essex River Race in 2019, however, I strutted and preened before the match (resplendent in fluorescent plumage) to let Rob know that he was there as the imminent usurper, not the inevitable defender.  We'd be competing in a field comprised of 15 single skis.  Although several of those paddlers could also contend for the gold, I was most worried about Ben Randall.  We don't see this talented downriver paddler from Maine in our parts very often - what with the hassle of the tourist visa and all the inoculations - but he always puts up a good fight after clearing quarantine.

I thought at first maybe the guys had sighted a green-winged teal, but it turns out they had actually just spotted a much rarer red-decked nelo.

Probably the best feature of a surfski is that it seldom requires 13 people to launch.

I had more than my usual motivation to do well.  Prior to the race, but after an unfortunate incident which involved accidentally leaving the toaster timer set to "bagel", Mary Beth had told me not to bother coming home after the race if I didn't win.  Actually, she didn't include the conditional part of that statement, but I think it was implied.

The Essex River Race is open to virtually any human-powered watercraft.  For nearly an hour before the surfski start, wave after wave of more expendable boat classes (if you take offense at that characterization, cannon fodder, get your own blog) were sent out to soften up the course for us.  By the time it was our turn, the tide had literally turned.  Fourteen skis jockeyed for starting position, while I absent-mindedly let myself drift into whatever hemmed-in trash compactor site the currents took me - the doofus kid in left field picking wildflowers.  The start siren sounded.  Fortunately, by mugging Andrew Metz in the first few seconds, I was able to swipe a path to open water.  He's probably fine.

Jerry Madore, paddling a snazzy Nelo 550 so new that the gelcoat wasn't fully set (not that I tested it by drawing obscene figures with my finger), shot into the lead like an excited toddler capitalizing on his burgeoning coordination.  An opening gambit like this usually ends with either hospitalization or maritime rescue, but Jerry managed to hold form for a solid top-five finish.  Hank Thorburn and Tim Dwyer chased him along the bank of the opening left-hand bend, while Rob and Ben swung wide.  I squeezed Tim a little too tightly from the right around that first curve, which elicited a gentle reminder that although we're pals in real life, he would not hesitate to "end you right now" if I didn't give him some breathing room.  You don't want to mess with a guy who paddles with Woody and Buzz figurines lashed in his cockpit, so I gave him more leeway as I moved by.

By the time I maneuvered fully past my murderous chum, Rob had pulled slightly ahead of me, with Ben in tow on his right draft.  Jerry had initially opened up a two boat length gap on the field, but had burned through a couple of quarts of high-octane adrenaline and was now in desperate need of some apple sauce and Cheerios.  Rob started to pass Jerry on the right, but after my recent upbraiding I was skittish about trying to shoehorn between the two on Rob's left draft. I instead passed wide to port, which I can retroactively pretend was actually a smart tactical decision since it theoretically gave me an advantage approaching the next bend in the river.

I hadn't seen this many people in one place since my late cousin Victor's super-spreader themed barbecue.

After converging, I found myself back on Rob's left draft, with Ben latched on my stern.  We continued in this fashion, dodging the oncoming rowers who - having started so long before our wave - were laboring through the final leg of their races and therefore well past giving a damn about maritime regulations.  Ben dropped off the draft at some point, although by doing so silently he selfishly neglected to provide any ego-boosting sustenance for the remaining miles.  In the future, Ben, I suggest shouting (in a strangled manner befitting your exhausted condition, naturally) something along the lines of "Alas!  I founder!  I must capitulate to your Herculean might and fortitude!"  Feel free to tweak the verbiage.  Hearing this would have been a real shot in the arm.  I would, of course, have conveniently ignored the fact that Rob had done the lion's share of the work.

I was paddling in my native waters (which should give you some idea of just how hard I was working).  Ostensibly, this would provide me with a navigational advantage.  I'd thoughtfully remind Rob of this periodically by suggesting minor course corrections.  I've found that steering from a draft position is seldom appreciated, but it's just not my nature to keep unsolicited, unreliable advice to myself.  To the extent that he heeded my guidance, I didn't lead/follow him into any trouble.  Which perhaps gave him a false sense of confidence (in me, that is) when I veered behind him to cut right towards Conomo Point as the Essex River widened.  After following my lead (but, paradoxically, through absolutely no fault of my own), we both suddenly found ourselves in what a duck might consider navigable waters, but a goose definitely would not.  Shallow water alerts rang in our ears, although I quickly silenced them by closing my mouth.

Rob managed to avoid disturbing the delicate intertidal seabed by artfully heeling his boat to one side to lift his rudder clear.  While I admired his ecological sensitivity, I opted for a bull-in-a-china-shop strategy - leaving a sad trail of uprooted eelgrass and disoriented clams in my wake.  We both came to a virtual stop, but only one of us also managed to make a bold metaphorical statement about mankind's callous indifference to nature.  The point having been made, I plowed my way back to deeper water.  Rob soon rejoined me.  With an inexplicable holier-than-thou attitude, if I'm not mistaken.

We resumed our customary drafting arrangement, but I could tell that Rob's commitment to this relationship was flagging.  Shortly thereafter he started straying off my preferred line, despite continued exhortations from behind.  Hoping that perhaps he just needed some time to come to his senses, I gave Rob some lateral space.  He apparently misinterpreted the directional bounds of his newfound freedom, instead insisting on also adding longitudinal distance between us.  By the time we passed Conomo Point and rounded the bottom of Cross Island, he was two lengths ahead.  When we cleared the top of the island several minutes later, Rob had extended his lead to a half-dozen lengths.

Heading back towards the river mouth along the shore of the island, we were now crossing a broad expanse of sandy-bottomed water only a few feet deep.  Recalling from the Narrow River Race that my V14 was better in shallows than Rob's 560 (or, to be more precise, "sucked less"), I redoubled my efforts to close the gap in this stretch.  It was calm enough that the progressively smaller transverse waves trailing obediently behind Rob were clearly visible.  Starting from the 6th wake back, I managed to climb forward to the 2nd wake before my progress stalled back in deeper water.  In an attempt to make further gains I tried varying my technique.  Faster cadence.  Exaggerated hip rotation.  Samba syncopation.  Having sowed my wild oats exploring these deviant paddling techniques, I discovered I was back home on good ole wake #6.

Sam's a solid paddler and a good guy and all, but mostly we want him around for PR purposes.  He's 30 years younger and 75 points cooler than the average New England surfskier, but nobody else needs to know that.

Clearly I also didn't have the might or fortitude to beat Rob.  I'd have to rely upon my wits and wiles.  That's admittedly a shallow well to draw from, but at least a mental battle was apt to hurt less than a physical one.  Exiting the broader estuary for the river proper, I therefore decided my only hope was to out-navigate Rob.  Perhaps I could escape the outgoing tide by paddling ridiculously close to the riverbank in search of eddies.  You probably have serious doubts about this strategy given that I'd already run aground once.  And your instincts wouldn't be wrong.  Nobody had to pour water over my gills or pull me by the tail back into deeper water, but I can provide you with a detailed report on sediment strata based on empirical paddle sampling.  These close encounters with the bottom had no impact on the outcome, but I document them to suggest otherwise to gullible readers.

While I was shaving the shores, Rob took a more sensible line back up the winding river - avoiding the brunt of the tidal current while still maintaining a safe operating depth.  He finished in 47:24, a half-dozen boat lengths ahead of me.  Ben, who had been forced into soloing the course after dropping off our draft, pulled in some moments later to claim the third spot.  Leslie Chappell had little trouble in seizing her fourth consecutive crown on the Essex.  The best race of the day, in the sense of being both the closest and the most, uh, let's say "strategic", was between the three doubles of Robin Francis & Phil Warner, Mary Beth & Phil Sachs, and Patty White & Chris Sherwood.  Each boat held the lead at some point in the race, but they finished in the order listed above, all within 7 seconds of one another. 

Would it have killed the photographer to use a wide angle lens here?  Oh.  He did?  Well, maybe try a fisheye the next time. (Photo courtesy of Granite State Race Services).

Thanks to the stalwart volunteers of the Cape Ann Rowing Club for making a return to Essex possible.  The scene cuts back to Rhode Island for our next race this coming Saturday - Tim Dwyer's Battle of the Bay.  Register (for free) at PaddleGuru.  Tim asked me to remind everyone that the change of venue (from his home on Goat Island to Fort Adams State Park) was definitely not because his neighbors threatened legal action if he didn't "keep your degenerate friends out of our gazebos".

Essex River (Replacement) Race: Meandering

The Essex River Race was an early casualty of pandemic restrictions in 2020, and was originally rescheduled this year from its traditional spring date to early October.  When the Cape Ann Rowing Club subsequently decided to cancel the race, I had no choice but to step up and volunteer Bill Kuklinski to step up and ask his friend Tom Lawler to propose a surfski-only replacement race to the Town of Essex.  The town approved, although they stipulated that both shenanigans and tom-foolery be kept to a bare minimum.  I congratulated myself for a job well done, only to discover that due to some woeful misunderstanding, I was now "in charge" of the event.  Fortunately, by constantly referring to it as an informal race, I was able to get by with slipshod preparations.

On paper, the 5.8 mile course is straightforward - you travel out the Essex River to where it widens into a broad estuary, proceed around Cross Island, and return back up the river.  Between sand bars, clam-rich mud flats, and homogenous expanses of marsh grass, however, most paddlers will spend the race second-guessing their navigational decisions - more often than not with good reason.  Living 5 minutes from Essex, I'm pretty familiar with the river.  And with finding myself suddenly run aground, inexplicably a hundred meters in all directions from navigable water.  In preparation for this year's race, I performed a comprehensive survey of the estuary.  We're talking reconnaissance paddles, drone overflights, side-scan sonar mappings, sedimentation modeling, etc.  I was going into the race armed with the two most powerful weapons of all: knowledge and the delusional belief that this knowledge could somehow compensate for my other deficiencies.

While Chris got the memo with the event details, Hank came prepared for an après-ski party while John was just hoping to find something to burgle.

Having suffered many such indignities in the past, Tim is giddy at the turnabout potential of a traditional caption mocking the race coordinator at the captains' meeting.  I'm pretty sure he doesn't understand how this works.

There was a disquieting buzz in air that I eventually tracked down to the growing excitement over the first ever matchup between Rob Jehn and Mike Florio.  When we last saw Mike he was peeling out of the parking lot of the Narrow River Race while the rest of us were still reacting to the start gun.  Rob, of course, has amassed a gaudy collection of victories this season in his relentless quest to drain the joy out of my life.  We had expected that local Janda Ricci-Munn, fresh off his record-setting solo performance at the Josh Billings run-paddle-bike triathlon, would also contend for the crown.  Unfortunately, he was unable to make the race due to a freak calendar malfunction.  Standouts on the women's side were Leslie Chappell and first-time New England racer Frances Hiscox.  Frances specializes in endurance paddling, having completed the California 100 and Missouri River 340 (and soon the Suwannee River 230), so the ER6 would be the equivalent of a marathoner walking from her car to the start line.

In keeping with my slapdash approach to organization, I held a cursory captains' meeting which consisted mostly of mumbling the names of past UN Secretaries General as filler.  With the 10am start approaching, we launched our boats and lined up for the starter's call.  Chris Chappell positioned himself appropriately for the initial left turn and got out to the early lead, with Rob just off his starboard side.  Mike and Jerry Madore followed in a second mini-wave, with me, Tim, and Hank Thorburn as forward-thinking third-wave excursionists.  I had sworn to go all-in at the start in an effort to get on the draft of Rob or Mike, but apparently nowadays even the most heart-felt pledges aren't worth the notarized, legally binding forms they're printed on.  Rather than kill myself catching the leaders, I limited myself to some superficial maiming and adopted a wait-and-see attitude.  Perhaps sometime within the next few years there wouldn't be such fierce competition.

I figured a few love taps might fix the GoPro glitch that's been causing it to record such awful technique.  No dice.

Happens every time.  You're just chillin' on the water with your buds...

...and all of a sudden a race breaks out.

Rob slipped by Chris on the first straightaway, while Mike and I also freed ourselves from our wave-mates to move into the 2nd and 3rd positions at the next bend.  I lunged for Mike's draft, but due to a gross miscalculation in how far he was already ahead, ended up grasping at open water 3 lengths behind him.  Rob enjoyed a similar lead over Mike at the time.  My only hope was to play to my home field advantage.  My mind racing through bathymetric charts, tidal flow diagrams, and old Family Circus comics, I plotted the optimal route to within 4 lateral inches.  While the leaders took a conservative central line, I cut inside berm-like islands, wove crazily (in the fox sense, mind you) from shore to shore, and laughed uncontrollably at Billy's hilarious malapropisms.  It perhaps goes without saying that Rob and Mike continued to separate.

Even the sure-fire ace that I had up my sleeve - staying well to the right while approaching Conomo Point to avoid the speed-killing sand bar of the more direct route - failed to have much impact.  Leaving the narrow strait between the point and Cross Island, Rob was was about 15 lengths ahead of me, with Mike a length or two behind him.  It would take a staggering navigational faux pas up ahead for me to have any hope.

What I've been referring to as Cross Island is cartographically 3 tree-covered islands (Cross, Corn, and Dilly) connected by low-lying wetlands.  To get a tide high enough to actually make the inter-island area navigable, however, the moon would have to be knocked into a perilously tight orbit.  Perhaps the map makers were just future-proofing against melting ice caps.  Lacking the patience to wait for either cataclysm, Rob and Mike decided to attempt what might be deemed a "liquid portage" between the islands.  Before reaching the end of the super-island, they cut left into a meandering channel.  I could barely contain my glee at the thought of them wandering aimlessly in the marshland while I claimed the race title and then rooted through their cars for loose change and candy.  Rob and Mike?  No, haven't seen them.  Tootsie roll?  All I had to do was keep my trap shut and let nature take its course.

Unfortunately, I wasn't confident that the paddlers behind me wouldn't witness such silent treachery.  I reluctantly called out to alert them to their mistake.  Rob and Mike quickly corrected course, having sacrificed perhaps 10 lengths to me.  I thereafter adopted the roll of the elderly nanny trying to corral a pair of rambunctious toddlers.  Since I couldn't keep up with them, the best I could manage was shouting directions and telling them to stop putting every little bit of flotsam in their mouths.

The visibility of your mistakes is one of the perils of bursting triumphant onto the scene, resplendent in full glory.  The more sensible approach is to build up a solid foundation layer of bloopers and gaffes while paddling in mid-pack obscurity.  When the better paddlers inevitably age out, get injured, adopt a new hobby, or move to Hawaii - you then use your journeyman status to back into a few victories before the next wave of athletes reminds you of your true station in life.  It's true, however, that when you have a considerable advantage in fitness and skill, you can afford a blunder or two without suffering serious consequences to your final race position.

To wit.  Rounding the northeast point of Cross Island [sic], Rob gave more than ample berth to the rocks I had warned about at the captains' meeting (somewhere between U Thant and Boutros Boutros-Ghali), then did the same for the northwest point.  However, he then continued out away from the island rather than keeping to the shore.  Mike took the more traditional line.  Thinking that perhaps Rob was heading out to deeper water to avoid the sandy shallows I had mentioned to him before the race, I held off on yelling out a corrective warning.  By the time it became clear he was freestyling an entirely different course, he was either out of earshot or self-destructively bullheaded.  Apparently he had fixated his tracking mechanism on a different cluster of houses than the one I had described as a landmark during the meeting.

I assumed that once Rob saw Mike and I paddling a couple hundred meters to his port, he would surely adjust his course.  And yet he continued to veer further to the right.  When I asked him about this after the race, Rob said that he figured Mike was only marginally more familiar with the course than he himself, and thus paid him little heed.  "But what about me?"  I asked.  Time slowed to a viscous crawl as I realized the humiliating enormity of my mistake.  I had lobbed Rob a softball which he could hardly fail to hammer into the bleachers.  And yet... he merely poked a blooper just over the shortstop's reach.  "I couldn't see you."  That was all!  Was it Rob's generosity of spirit or his lack of killer instinct that kept him from adding the coup de grâce?  "I didn't have my binoculars handy" or "Ever since the exorcism I can't spin my head around that far" or "[long pause] Who are you, again?"  In any event, I appreciate Rob letting me slink away with my dignity tattered, but at least intact enough to still cover my shriveled ego.

Despite enjoying only a 14 second lead over Mike at the finish, diva Rob absolutely refused to share the frame.

So let's also give the Rhode Island Ripsaw a shot of his own.

Bruce got such a good deal on fluorescent decals that he's actually affixed them inside the hull as well.

When Rob did eventually come to the conclusion that he was on the wrong path, I could hear him ratchet up his determination - even from my distant listening post.  His deviant behavior had temporarily cost him the lead, but he was resolved to integrate himself back into respectable society.  Rob sliced a diagonal line to Mike, chewing away the gap at a thrilling rate.  Within a few moments of the course adjustment, the two were paddling side-by-side at the lead.  Seeing this gripping battle unfolding ahead of me, I made an adjustment of my own - abandoning my futile goal of catching these guys in favor of keeping close enough to them to see who would emerge victorious.  Just as futile an ambition, as it turns out, but at least it kept me paddling.

That was useful, because a group of competitors had formed a raiding party behind my back.  Unwilling to sacrifice the esprit de corps they'd fostered as part of the Stone Dam Six at the previous race, Tim and Kirk Olsen recruited a new band of brothers for the Essex River.  Chris, John Mathieu, and Jerry joined the ensemble.  These 5 paddlers would finish within a minute of each other, with numerous lead changes along the way.  As at the Great Stone Dam Classic, Tim succeeded in breaking free in the final stretch, putting 30 seconds on Chris.  Kirk, John, and Jerry finished next in short order.  This cooperative-competitive grouping has proved so popular that in the face of record demand, Tim and Kirk have announced an invitation-only policy for subsequent races.  Kickbacks aren't strictly required, but it never hurts to grease the Keels of Progress (as the guys now call themselves).

From my vantage point, it was becoming increasingly difficult to tell whether Rob or Mike was in the lead.  This was mostly because there was usually at least one curve of the river blocking my view, but even when I caught the rare glimpse of the pair slipping around the next far-off corner, they were too speck-like to disambiguate.  But it was Rob who pulled ahead as the finish neared, ultimately finishing at 47:00 even to Mike's 47:14.  I came in a couple of minutes later, trying to exude a "Yeah, you guys dropped me about a mile back, so I just dogged it in after that" vibe.  For the third time, Leslie claimed the Essex women's title, with Frances taking second.  There were no doubles in the race, but in recognition of his long-time dedication to the race, let's say Bill Kuklinski would have won.  If only he hadn't have been DQ'ed for lacking a partner!  A rookie error from the least rookie-like guy not out there.

In a tender moment of reconciliation, Tim and I finally let bygone be bygones.

Thanks to Mary Beth for acting as photographer, timekeeper, and health care proxy.

You blinked and summer was over.  You didn't do half the things you planned, and the other half was a sorry mess.  Before you blink again and find the racing season also over, why not make one last effort at finding fulfillment for 2021?  Skip on over to Wesley Echol's Plum Beach Lighthouse Race on October 16.  Register at PaddleGuru.

Essex River Race: Winner to Swimmer

I hold the Essex River Race responsible for getting me in a surfski.  When I first wondered "what is that?" while racing in a sea kayak in the early aughts, who knew that I'd end up spending my final years obsessing over loggerhead shrikes and red-winged scrub jays!  I'm assuming that I'll eventually move on to a new hobby.  For now, however, the ERR holds a place of honor in my heart.  And owes me about $25K in accumulated ski reimbursements.   Wesley, you can probably expect to be named as a co-defendant in the forthcoming lawsuit.

The race is a 5.75 mile out-and-back lollipop course with Cross Island as the delicious candy treat  (not lime, obviously, which would make it neither delicious nor a treat) and the Essex River as the unusually sinuous stick.  This year, there would be 25 skis sharing the winding river with 100 other self-powered watercraft of varying descriptions (with "ponderous" and "unsteerable" being two of the more worrisome).  You gotta be able to bob and weave your way out of trouble, but you better also have a good corner-man ready to clean you up after taking an unseen oar to the noodle.  With perennial thorn-in-my-side Jan Lupinski making his New England season debut and Mike Florio reprising his role as a somber reminder of lost youth (not mine specifically, as he highlighted by paddling shirtless, but someone's), the non-lethal competition was also intimidating.  And there's now also this other guy...

A couple of years ago, I received an email out of the blue from a young kayaker who had seen some of my race reports and was looking for some advice about getting into a surfski.  Obviously he hadn't read my blog too carefully, or he'd have known that my true expertise lies in getting off of a surfski.  Nevertheless, I responded to "Janda Ricci-Munn" (the humorous pseudonym he had chosen for himself ) with a few tips and a liability waiver.  If only I had read the signs and instead answered with a rude dismissal!  Instead, I unknowingly invited into our midst the fiend who may one day destroy us all.

Janda was a national-caliber 70.3 (Half-Iron) triathlete with a PR of 3:57:53.  For context, that's slightly less time than it takes me to get out of bed most mornings.  After retiring from triathlons a few years back, however, Janda let his fitness level slide from inhuman to merely superhuman.  Searching for an outlet that would combine fitness, the outdoors, and friendly competition, his unwavering gaze eventually settled on surfskis.  Think Sauron, but more personable and with an actual body.  He's committed, hyper-fit, knows everything there is to know about training, and won't rest until the Fellowship is broken.

Of course, once I realized my mistake in opening the portal to our doom, I did everything I could to mitigate the damage.  To myself, I mean.  In exchange for periodic demonstrations of paddling mistakes to avoid, Janda has guided me through the physiological underpinnings of effective training techniques.  Despite his hurtful jokes about my "VO2 Min", he's been the best lactate consultant I could ask for.  And, in return, I expect he lays much of the credit for his success in last year's Blackburn (3:00:20 - in a V7, for the love of Pete) on not doing those things that I painstakingly showed him.  He'd be churning through the field on a V10 Sport for his first race of the season.

Ryan's outfit is the primary reason we find it difficult to attract young paddlers to the sport.

At low tide on the estuary, wind speed would be immaterial to stability - waves can only get so big over a fetch of 40 feet.  And most boats would be firmly grounded anyway as they searched fruitlessly for the even narrower channel.  At high tide, however, the river converts into a featureless expanse with enough fetch to make for choppy conditions.  Not exactly rough water, but syncopated enough to throw my carefully calibrated V14 stroke into arrhythmia.  With a forecast for winds out of the northwest at 12 mph with gusts in the 20s, I agonized over which boat to bring, then finally threw my V10 on the car and headed to the start.  At the last moment, I remembered that Mary Beth would probably want a ride too.

I'd spend the next couple of hours second-guessing that boat choice as the forecast mellowed, trying to decide if I should make the 5 minute drive home to swap boats.  Finally, with Bruce Deltorchio assuring me that the estuary would be "smooth as gravy" (weird, but whatever), I dashed back to the house and grabbed the 14.  After launching and warming up, I ran into Bruce on the water.  He was shocked that I had switched boats given that it would probably be "loose and wavy" out there.  Nobody believes me when I tell them how devious Bruce is, but surely this embellished example must finally convince them.  I only had time for four more trips home before ultimately settling back on the V14.

We all mocked Wesley, but ended up feeling pretty foolish about 36 days later.  38 for Chris.

Unbeknownst to me, the minute immediately preceding the start had been shortened to 30 seconds - some type of leap-half-minute clock correction, probably.  As a result, I found myself a few boat lengths behind the line as the starter announced 5 seconds left.  Unsure of the protocol regarding running starts, I took a series of nothing-to-see-here half strokes during the subsequent countdown in an attempt to casually close my pre-start deficit.  I shouldn't have bothered, given that my post-start acceleration was so anemic that I actually experienced a few seconds of zero-g weightlessness.  With an immediate bend in the river compacting the group in front of me, I found myself squeezed between Mike and Janda.  My execution was appalling, but you have to admire the dedication - during the middle of a race providing another instructive example of lousy paddling.  I slipped up a bit though by eventually doing the right thing - easing back and ceding the right-of-way.

In the ensuing straightaway, I managed to swing wide of the pack and start working my way up toward the leaders.  Chris Chappell had vaulted to an early lead, with Jan and Mike in pursuit.  As I eased past Ryan Bardsley, 18 inches to his starboard, we showed off some of the exquisite paddle synchronization that saw us through the first three rounds of America's Got Talent.  I'd had limited rehearsal time with Tim Dwyer, Mike McDonough, Wesley Echols, and Timmy Shields, however, so I gave them a much wider berth.  A half-mile into the race, I was clear of the main pack and in pursuit of the lead trio.  I cued up some motivational music in my head, but the ripples from the boats ahead caused the track to repeatedly skip back to the beginning.  Gotta update that technology so that I can finally find out who's peekin' out from under a stairway and calling a name that's lighter than air.

Just joking.  Everyone knows it's Windy.  On an unrelated note, my advertisers have asked me to target a reader demographic that hasn't yet been involuntarily committed to assisted living facilities.  If anyone has ideas along this front, please shoot me a telegram.  Or whatever it is the younglings are using to communicate these days.  A Grindr poke, maybe?

A couple of minutes later, I passed Mike and latched onto Chris for a breather.  These being my home waters, I had a pretty good idea of the course I wanted to navigate through the river bends.  Apparently, so did Chris.  I base this assumption on his uncanny ability to block me from my preferred heading without ever even looking back to see where I was.  If I wanted to go left, I somehow found myself on his starboard side.  If I wanted to head right, he'd magically appear on that side to corral me like a stray dogie.  And if I wanted to pass him on a straight-away, Chris stubbornly insisted on going faster than me.

Eventually I thought about going one direction and then juked the opposite way.  This mind-feint threw off his ESP long enough for me to pull even with Chris before he could steer me back into the fold.  He appeared surprised when I triumphantly taunted him with "Where's your prescience now?" which just underscores the extent to which his supernatural abilities had been compromised.

We've barely heard a peep about Jan thus far.  This uncharacteristic reserve from one of the biggest personalities on our stage is starting to make me nervous, so let's catch up with his shenanigans.  While I was trying to out-maneuver Chris, Jan was soldiering along to our left, paying absolutely no heed to the thrilling game of cat-and-mouse that I imagined was going on.  The lack of drama coming from his direction was deafening.  After a few moments of this eerie impassivity, I couldn't take it any more.  Swerving to avoid some weedy shallows (Chris' oaths from behind revealing that he'd utterly lost his gift), I threw in an interval to separate myself from Jan and the others.

Like Old Faithful, I can be expected to go off at regular intervals.

The tide-enriched river opened into a marshy lake devoid of navigational landmarks.  Fortunately, the reconnaissance heats we had sent out in advance had heroically sacrificed their times sussing out the shortest navigable path.  By following the string of paddlers ahead, I was able to skirt the shallows.  Despite their critical service spotting obstacles from high altitude (up to 6 feet, in some cases), I couldn't help muttering curses at the SUP corps as they zig-zagged randomly into my path.  I know that they also serve who only stand and wade, but couldn't they do it somewhere else?

Once I had cleared the tide-induced chop near Conomo Point, the remainder of the course was relatively smooth sailing (although, in my defense, I also threw in a few strokes from time to time).  The primary challenge was maneuvering around all the slower craft once I was back in the river proper.  I'm referring, of course, to the motorboats returning to Essex.  Constrained in speed by no-wake rules (with varying degrees of compliance) and in course by the channel, I'm sure they were muttering their own curses as I zig-zagged across their paths.  It all comes full circle.

I made it back to the finish without being shot by an irritated yachtsman with a flare gun, taking my first win of the season.  A few moments later, Jan and Janda arrived just four lengths apart to claim the other podium spots, with Mike only 15 seconds back despite having stability issues behind Cross Island (not a euphemism).  In the women's race, Leslie Chappell pulled ahead at Conomo Point and never looked back.  If she had, she'd have seen Mary Beth shaking her fist in fury and vowing revenge in the next race.  MB then continued paddling to take second prize, with Jean Kostelich in third.  Gary Williams and Robin Francis seized the double's crown, and refuse to give it back until their demands are met.

Ja! Jan, Janda und Greg.

Oui! Leslie, MB et Jean.

Back in 2016, I managed to tumble from the bucket of my V14 just seconds before the start of the Essex.  I'm proud to announce that I've now book-ended that feat by capsizing just minutes after the finish.  While the boat was stable enough for the race, it's apparently not quite a secure enough platform to turn my head to answer a question while stationary.  Assuming there will now be a betting pool on when I'll take a swim during the race itself, put me down for $100 on 2020.

With an assist from the finest weather of the spring, the Cape Ann Rowing Club threw another crackerjack race.  Thanks to all the volunteers for their devotion to providing the rest of us with a memorable day.  And pizza.

If you're going to do just one race on a "river" this year, why not make it at the Sakonnet River Race on June 1?  Wesley has assured me that by the time of the race, the Sakonnet will be piranha free!  He actually said 95% free, but what's a toe or two?  You must preregister at PaddleGuru.  If you live within reach of Beverly, MA, you should also consider joining us on Tuesday nights for the 14th season of the Salem League races.  As the old adage goes... there's no better training for ocean racing than listening to Bill Kuklinski grumble about ocean racing.

We may need to rethink our post-race party.  This photo was taken Tuesday morning.

Essex River Race: Hard Luck

It's not often that you can step out your front door directly into a top-tier ski race, but with an assist from Mary Beth (who needs to work on her fireman's carry, truth be told), that's exactly what I enjoy each year at the Essex River Race.  For the second year, the race was being hosted by the Riversbend Restaurant at the Essex Marina rather than at its ancestral home at the Shipbuilding Museum and public launch.  Fond memories of scrambling for parking, dodging traffic, and replanking my ski persist, but apparently the future is all about convenience and composite fibers.  Can't wait to see what they do with the remake of Pinocchio.

Despite the venue change, we'd still be running the traditional 5.75 mile lollipop course - heading out the Essex River, rounding Cross Island, and returning back up the river.  With high tide occurring just before the start and a light breeze out of the east, times would likely be fast.  I expected Chris Chappell and Jan Lupinski to be near the pointy end of the 23 ski pack from the get-go, but hoped that I might finish at the apex.  Glancing warily at the overcast sky, we wondered if the rain would hold off until we were soggily eating our pizza and burgers at the after-party.

There were significant polarity issues prior to the start.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

At last year's race, I had missed the start while in a deep discussion with Tim Dwyer about the epidemic of tardiness in the younger generation.  The year before that, I fell out of my boat 10 seconds before the gun while trying to turn on my GPS.  While most racers aspire to a fast start on the Essex, my bar is set at "uninteresting".  I'm sure everyone was anxious to see what kind of exuberant pre-race shenanigans I would be up to in 2018.  Not me.  I started my GPS on shore, dropped Tim as a friend (Facebook and otherwise), and double-checked that I wasn't wearing any flammable clothing.  Even with such extraordinary precautions, I wasn't optimistic.

Fortunately, within-tolerance longitudinal alignment was achieved prior to the gun.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

I positioned myself on the right side of the line so that my inevitable fiasco would take out as few other paddlers as possible.  My anxiety grew as the starter counted us down, but at "Go!" I found myself inexplicably upright, holding a paddle, and not choking on a nectarine pit.  Success!  In fairness, I did suddenly realize that the paddle wasn't the one I had actually intended to use, but that seems like quibbling.  I even thought I got off the line relatively quickly.  That is, until after the race when Tim asked me why I missed the start this year.  Ouch.  I knew there was a reason I unfriended that guy.

Chris was off the line with characteristic flair, seizing the early lead but unable to keep a pesky Jan from hanging off his port draft.  Francisco Urena had an excellent start as well, trailing the two leaders by a length or so but easily separating himself from the rest of the pack.  I worked my way by Wesley and a rejuvenated Timmy Shields, catching up to Tim and Hank Thorburn a few moments later.  Francisco, having consumed an hour's worth of calories in the first two minutes of the race, had throttled back to a more reasonable burn rate, but his still-glowing paddle blades were emitting clouds of hissing steam each time they hit the water.  I managed to slide by with only minor scalding.  Three or four lengths ahead, Jan and Chris continued to lead the charge through the winding estuary.

That's me on the far right.  Probably not my best early showing, but like they say: Any start you can walk away from is a good one.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

With Jan pulling Chris around successive bends, I settled into an uncomfortable chase position.  I wasn't losing ground, but neither was I getting any younger.  Mindful of last year's Hudyncia-on rowboat collision, I warily followed the leaders as they negotiated through the field of oncoming behemoths finishing from their earlier heats.  Roughly a mile into the race, I finally managed to snag a seat on Chris' stern wake.  As anyone familiar with his linebacker physique will tell you, that's the First Class of drafting positions.  And I'm talking Emirates, not Delta.  All of your cares evaporate.  I had finished the fois gras and was just about to order my complimentary foot massage, when sudden turbulence forced me to bail out from my cushy post.

At low tide, the Essex River consists of a sinuous navigable channel.  You follow the river, you're necessarily following the channel.  At high tide, the river consists of a sinuous navigable channel cruelly concealed within a featureless expanse of semi-navigable flats and soul-sucking shallows.  Cutting a corner too tightly (spoiler - that's foreshadowing), Jan had led us into one of the latter.  I saw the first thin stems of grass emerging from the water just before my paddle started striking the muddy bottom.  Thanks to Archimedes displacement principle, Chris found himself in an even stickier situation.  I was therefore able to take advantage of the situation to sneak by, carefully matching Chris oath for oath in an attempt to disguise my glee at this unexpected windfall.

With proper cropping, the inescapable loneliness of man becomes apparent.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Jan had managed to break free while this was transpiring.  By the time we were back in deep water, he was three lengths ahead.  Chris had dropped back slightly, but since he was taking a different line towards Conomo Point, it was difficult to tell just how much I had been able to pull away from him.  As we approached the gap separating Cross Island from the point, a modest headwind picked up, which thoughtlessly slid over to our beams once we turned up the east side of the island.  The resulting side chop could be measured in inches, but I feared it would be enough to throw me off what little game I had on my V14.  Doing 95% of your training on a tiny wind-protected lake may not be the smartest surfski practice, but it's the only way I know.  So it came as a pleasant shock that I was able to maintain pace with Jan along this unsteady stretch.

I took stock of the situation as we neared the halfway point of the race.  Once we rounded the northeast corner of Cross, we'd enjoy a brief downwind section before rounding into the lee of the island and heading back up the estuary.  We'd perhaps receive a little boost from the wind along parts of that return trip, but the ebbing tide would be giving some push-back.  Jan would probably open up his lead a bit on the short downwind run, but I figured I'd have a good chance of passing him during the grind to the finish.  In speaking with him afterwards, he sincerely doubted that latter proposition.  Apparently we both could benefit from some humility lessons.

We never got to discover which of us had the goods to back up his bluster.  As I mentioned above, I'm no stranger to race-day mishaps.  Jan, however, is in a league that most of us can only have nightmares about.  Leaking boats, malfunctioning rudders, magnetic anomalies throwing off his internal compass... I'd provide a complete list of misfortunes, but I don't want to incur data overage charges for those of you reading on mobile devices.  Jan is undoubtedly snake-bit, but occasionally you wonder if his spirit animal isn't one of those two-headed vipers you might see at a carnival - there's always the distinct possibility of a self-inflicted fanging.

After repeated harsh empirical lessons, it'll eventually come as no surprise to paddlers that a point of land is often accompanied by a rocky shelf extending outwards some distance underwater.  On the other hand, it is a bit surprising that this would be true of the low-lying muddy northeast point of Cross Island.  Back to the first hand, we've all raced here before and seen the rudder-destroying rocks around this point.  But throwing it over one last time to the second hand, at high tide it wouldn't be unreasonable to expect these obstacles to be several feet under water.  Jan, perhaps juggling these conflicting factors in a reasoned cost-benefit analysis or perhaps just letting race-time adrenaline pull him along, cut within a boat's length of the point.

Probably the only reason Jan wasn't thrown clear of the wreck was that his sacrificial hull gradually scraped off most of his speed before his rudder finally smashed into the rock.  When I close my eyes, I can still hear the crunch of carbon fiber, the piteous wails, and - barely discernible over the other sounds of devastation - the licking of chops.  Blood was in the water.  Although I hadn't planned on cutting the point quite as close as Jan, I was far enough back that I could use his example to adjust my course further out.  Even so, I was forced to hold my breath and grimace while watching various rocks slide just beneath my rudder.

It initially appeared that Jan might have miraculously escaped his grounding with just superficial damage.  He freed himself and continued paddling.  A few moments into the downwind section, however, it became clear that he had serious mechanical issues (coincidentally, the exact thing he says about me when analyzing my stroke).  Steering compromised by a bent rudder shaft, Jan was forced to pull over to the island to attempt field repairs.  During this time, Chris and Tim moved into second and third positions.

I had no idea how long Jan would be side-lined, so I maintained an appropriately high-level of anxiety that he'd be appearing again any moment.  I tapped into this fear, along with bursts of short-term incentive provided by picking off boats from slower classes, to push through for the win.  In an impressive recovery, Jan straightened his rudder shaft enough to restore steering and chased down first Tim, and then Chris to take silver.  Chris finished third less than 10 seconds later, with Tim an equal distance behind him. Wesley took the fifth spot.  In the SS20+ class, Bill Kuklinski was the repeat winner, with Ken Cooper and Dave Grody sharing the podium.  Paddling what I believe to be the first double ski ever raced at the Essex, Gary Williams and Robin Francis established impressive precedence.

This poor sap has no idea he's about to be swept off his board as Leslie and Mary Beth fly by in their battle for glory.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Despite the isolated drama in the men's race, the real excitement of the day was in the women's ski competition.  After having to be physically separated several times in the parking lot before the race, noted hot-heads Mary Beth and Leslie Chappell were hungry to get back in the buckets after their knock-down, drag-out fight on the Charles River a few weeks previous.  Leslie had emerged victorious in that bout, so Mary Beth was anxious for on-the-water payback (once I had talked her out of a shiv-related payback, of course).  They exchanged leads several times during the race, but Leslie nosed out MB by inches at the line.  First-time ski racer Jean Kostelich took third.  As Chris joked afterwards, "If Leslie had been in a 540 rather than a 550, it would have been a tie!"  And as Mary Beth similarly, er, joked, "If you had just let me stab her in the eye, things would have been different!"  It'll certainly be fun to see how this rivalry evolves over the season.

Scientists are still baffled by the "rafting" behavior of paddlers, but pray to God that it doesn't have anything to do with reproduction.

Everyone seemed in high spirits as we recapped our races (with appropriate sound effects and embellishments) while overlooking the estuary.  Despite the fact that Bill and his band weren't providing post-race entertainment this year, I shouted requests at him every few minutes, and slipped a fiver in his g-string at the end of the festivities.  Some traditions will never die.  After the awards (and do we really need separate classes for each individual feather angle/paddle length combination?) a select crew - consisting mostly of those who, as children, frequently found themselves eagerly climbing into unmarked vans - helped Mary Beth carry me back to our place for additional race analysis and supplemental alcohol.  As always, thanks to Chris Sherwood for serving as the beer sommelier for the occasion.

For those of you tired of short races in protected water, have I got a deal for you!  We'll be reconvening on June 2nd at Sakonnet River Race down in Rhode Island.  It's 12.5 miles in some of New England's most inscrutable conditions (could be calm, could be not).  You must preregister at PaddleGuru.  And for those interested in joining the most prestigious Tuesday night racing forum in the greater Beverly area of Massachusetts, the 14th season of the Salem League is starting up on May 22.  For 15 consecutive weeks, you'll be developing your skill set under Bill K's curmudgeonly tutelage.  Don't forget tip money!

Essex River Race: Timing Glitch

Although it's theoretically possible that a team of mathematicians, horologists, and astronomers could work through the byzantine calculations necessary to predict the exact date of the Essex River Race, I prefer to rely on the time-tested folk adage:  If Bob Capellini is standing on your porch holding a half-dozen home-made pizzas, it's the eve of the race.  I'd spent the last few weeks running to the front door every twenty minutes before, finally, the dinner-toting harbinger arrived.  I'm not sure exactly what Roger Gocking's subsequent appearance that evening presaged, but I wouldn't be surprised if we had an excellent tomato harvest.  Or a plague of starlings.  That's the fundamental problem with portents.

I've heard people say that the key to a successful Essex River Race is training.  Others maintain that navigation skills are more critical, given the estuary's shifting web of shallows.  Poppycock!  The next thing you know, somebody will be touting the advantages of proper stroke technique.  Or of not falling out of your boat seconds before the start.  No, the decisive factor to Essex performance has always been...  getting a good parking spot.  Having recently mastered the delicate art of securing the single best parking spot for the race (I don't want to get into details, but let's just say that town alderman Lionel Johnson has finally solved his "rabid possum in the mailbox" problem), I figured victory was all but assured.  While everyone else was trudging back and forth to their vehicles, I'd have my feet on the dash, eating cotton candy and listening to the inspirational comedy of the immortal Nipsey Russell.

So you can imagine my horror when I learned that the race venue had shifted to the Riversbend Restaurant ("Clams so fresh, you'll think you just harvested them yourself!  Because you did.  Here's a shovel.") at the Essex Marina.  My competitive advantage wiped out!  Not knowing the parking situation at the new location, our only hope was to get there Wednesday at around lunch-time and hope for the best.  Maybe bring along a couple o' possums as bargaining chips.

At first it's kind of cool to have curious paddlers hanging around where you can get a close look, but eventually you get tired of them crapping all over everything.  Hold on.  I may be thinking of geese.

The narrow residential road leading to the marina is festooned with colorful signs warning drivers that excessive speed will not be tolerated.  After nervously passing the fourth or fifth notice hinting at the kind of neighborhood vigilantism that might end up with me a foot shorter, my speedometer needle was somehow resting on empty.  Just to be safe, however, I put the car in neutral, pulled back just a smidge on the emergency brake, and had Mary Beth push the last half mile.

Despite the nostalgic skepticism of traditionalists who remember when the Essex race entailed building your boat on-site and then rushing to claim the prime clamming flats, the new venue turned out to be an improvement.  There was ample parking, sweeping views of the river, and better areas for milling about.  Additionally, the isolated location prevented restless competitors from drifting into Essex's many antique shops, where they'd inevitably miss the race while trying to find just the right weathervanes.  Of course, progress always leaves some behind.  I watched sadly as Bill Kuklinski aimlessly wandered in search of the tarring area, caulking mallet and oakum in hand.

Some people prefer to race against the best possible field, even if it means being soundly beaten by superior paddlers.  That's what motivates us to improve, they say.  Those people are fools.  Improving hurts.  Since losing also hurts, however, we're in a conundrum.  A logical solution to this dilemma is to just avoid competing against faster paddlers.  Do that and further improvement... well, that's just showing off.  So it was fortunate that Ben Piggot and Mike Dostal somehow got the impression that the race had been cancelled due to recent piranha activity on the river.  And that Jan Lupinski spent the weekend quarantined due to a bubonic plague scare.  And that Jesse Lishchuk was busy earning a spot on the national sprint team at the trials in Georgia (and also now appears on the no-fly list). Regrettably, Mike Florio never got the message that he needed to pick up his lottery winnings in Providence that morning.  And Hugh Pritchard?  Apparently he casually disregards dire fortune cookie warnings that mention him by name.

The backup at the ramp wasn't all bad.  It least it gave us extra time to work on our acts for the talent portion of the competition.

I don't know Hugh well, but he seems a decent chap.  He is soft-spoken, but an engaging conversationalist.  He dresses smartly.  If I were to ask you which paddler would be most likely to show up to race in a bow-tie and use the word "whomsoever", you'd invariably guess Hugh.  Then you and I would do a few minutes of cheesy "Hugh's on first" patter and maybe ridicule his accent, because that's the kind of shallow people we are.  I like Hugh.  I'm beginning to suspect, however, that Hugh may be evil. I can't put my finger exactly on why I feel this way, but it probably has something to do with his pre-race trash-talking.  Trash-talking is usually loud and coarse - the comic exaggeration is what makes it fun.  But as executed by Hugh, the disparagement is so subtle and so deftly administered that you don't even realize you've been mortally wounded until you look down and see the hilt of the dagger protruding from your ribs.  And there he stands, an amiable smile making you wonder if you've imagined the whole thing.  Also, I'm pretty sure I saw him strangling puppies in the parking lot.

After resolving a brief (and ironic, as it turns out) scare in which it seemed that the HPK division would be split into two heats, we were ready to race.  The marina has a single boat ramp, however, necessitating a regimented launch schedule.  When we finally got on the water, warm-up time was limited to a couple of brief runs under Route 133 and through the upriver marsh.  With most of the field heading to the start, Tim Dwyer and I decided to do one more pass under the bridge before turning to join everyone else.  Oops.

As Tim and I chatted leisurely rounding the final bend leading to the staging area, we were alarmed to see all of the other skis already arranged in starting positions up ahead.  Resisting the instinct to immediately tumble out of my boat, I checked my watch.  With six minutes to go until our scheduled 10:05 launch, I had plenty of time for my traditional ablution.  Tim yelled out "Hey guys, wait for us!" (which, for the purposes of this report only, you should imagine as being intoned in a little brother nasal whine) and then the field was off.

Tim and I paid a little extra for the platinum-level personalized start, but it was worth it to avoid the crowds.

We pursued.  Passing the starting line around 20 seconds later, the starter yelled out that we would be awarded our own personal times.  While I'll admit that did make me feel kind of special (I was hoping for 1:32am, but I'd be happy with almost anything), I didn't relish having to work my way through the pack in the winding, tide-narrowed river.  As it turned out, however, the skis spread out fairly quickly, and holes opened up where I needed them.  A few minutes into the race, I had pulled even with Kirk Olsen and Bruce Deltorchio, with a disheartening span of open water in front of us.  Finally getting a chance to look more than a boat or two ahead, I could see that Hugh and Mike had a significant lead on a chase troop consisting of Chris Quinn, Matt Drayer, John Hair, and Ben Randall.

Concentrating on scoping out the front runners in the distance, it took me a few seconds to register that the red blob in the foreground was the first of the massive six man rowing boats heading back towards the finish.  I angled right while Kirk and Bruce veered left, allowing the red juggernaut to continue plowing inexorably down the center of the channel.  Seconds later, I heard a lot of yelling.  A half-dozen boat lengths behind me, Tim Hudyncia had looked up to find himself about to be furrowed.  In the resulting mayhem, he capsized, had his paddle knocked from his grasp, and weathered the salty rebukes of the rowing crew.  With an assist from Chris Sherwood, Tim was able to recover his wits (and paddle) and continue racing.

Over the next five minutes I managed to reel in the chase pack.  And five minutes after that I exploited a slight navigational blunder by Mike to slip into the lead.   I had hoped by the time he and Hugh saw me sneak by an inside line that I'd be far enough ahead to prevent them from jumping on the draft, but that's not how things played out.  For the next mile, I had uninvited company on my stern.

Rounding the far point of Cross Island, Hugh made a bold move by cutting through rock-infested waters while Mike and I were forced to swing ridiculously wide after being caught on the wrong side of a conservative boat from an earlier heat.  Continuing to hug the shore, Hugh doubled down on his boat shredding gamble, parlaying it into four length lead.  A minute later, Mike tried to ride Hugh's winning streak, cutting inside a boulder to get on his inside line, only to grind to a momentary halt on an underwater ledge.  The house always wins.

A mile later, I had again caught Hugh.  As we paddled side by side, he launched into what I believe may have been a rehearsed monologue.  It was tough to make out over the pounding of my heart and my frequent cries of "Why, God?  Why?", so you'll (and Hugh'll) have to forgive me if the interpretation isn't spot-on accurate (or even all that close).  He seemed to be narrating an account of the competition in third person, with the announcer amazed that Pritchard - despite virtually no training and paddling at only 70% effort - was leading this far into the race.  The color commentator then jumped in to add that flawless technique and genetic superiority doubtless were contributing factors, especially in comparison to his troglodytic "rival" (setting down his paddle to actually gesture the air quotes).  Like I said, probably evil.

Hugh seemed entertained by our Verdi medley, but secretly he couldn't wait to get back to his lair.

Midway through his human interest background segment (I knew about the Olympics, but single-handedly eradicating hookworms in Ghana?), I finally managed to pull safely out of earshot.  I'd occasionally catch fragments of his elaborate taunt as we snaked through the Essex, but I made it to the finish before being overcome by demoralization.  Hugh and Mike came through in 15 second intervals to take the other podium spots.  In the women's race, Jen Kreamer edged Mary Beth for her inaugural win of the season, with first-time racer Olga Sydorenko taking third.  Bill, who has taken to retirement like a duck to a roasting pan, posted a convincing win in the SS20+ category over Ken Cooper and Bob. Another racing debutante, Karen Pischke, claimed the corresponding women's title.

We wrapped up the day with pizza, clams, and bacon-infused corn bread provided by Riversbend.  Apparently the bowls of melted butter were meant for the clams, but I found that by soaking the corn bread for a few minutes, I could cram a year's worth of cholesterol into just a couple of bites.  After a refreshingly brisk awards ceremony, a select crew of paddlers retired to an after-party at our nearby home, where we tricked them into painting our dining room.

With all the fresh blood at the Essex this year - Olga, Mike, Chris Q, John, Max, and others - the piranhas were in a real lather.

With ocean temperatures now warm enough to afford you up to 90 seconds of shivering lucidity after immersion, we've officially completed the river racing season.  So it's on to the Sakonnet River Race!  June 3.  You must pre-register at PaddleGuru.  Also.... If you find yourself on a Tuesday afternoon wondering how long you'd be willing to sit in rush hour traffic just to get in some gut-busting time on the ocean, why not find out?  Join us at Lynch Park in Beverly for the 12th season of the confusingly named Salem League.  Even if you're not planning on being a regular, it's a great chance to hone your racing skills and see Bill at peak grumpiness (don't worry, we confiscated his mallet).

Special thanks to Tim H, who, for the second year in a row, perceived that I was ill-prepared to start on the Essex, and pleaded fruitlessly for a delay.  That's the kind of gesture that makes me wish I could stop making fun of his culinary choices.

Essex River Race: Swimmer to Winner

The Essex River introduced me to kayak racing in 2004, guided me through some tough times when Mary Beth and I were having trouble (deciding on cat names, mostly), and will serve as the executor of my estate once I meet my inevitable doom chainsawing an ice sculpture. After so many years standing beside me (well, a 5 minute drive down the road), it was time to finally make the river proud.  Having taken fourth, second, and third places in the HPK division of the Essex river Race over the last three years, I was itching to capture the win in 2016, thereby paddling for the cycle.  Eric McNett had technically already accomplished this feat, but with some slipshod craftsmanship - he didn't do it in four consecutive years, he clumsily added an extra second place finish in the mix, and (most damningly) he neglected to boast shamelessly about his triumph.

The 5.7 mile race has paddlers wending out the Essex River, rounding Cross Island, traversing a broad estuary, and returning back up the river.  We'd be working against a mild incoming tide on the opening leg, then gently caressed by a light headwind on the way back.  The area is notoriously difficult to navigate, with frequent shallows and a confusing maze of low-lying islands and river inlets.  I had meticulously reconnoitered the course earlier in the week, so I knew exactly where to find red-breasted merganser nests and the best route to avoid game wardens once stocked with eggs for the black market.  The race purse isn't what it once was, and these boats don't pay for themselves.

Rod seemed oddly insistent that everyone "taste this chowder".

A few weeks ago, after falling asleep in front of the TV during a Chico and the Man marathon, Mary Beth and I awoke to a late-night infomercial pleading with viewers to intervene in the plight of the most miserable examples of humanity one could imagine.  The images were heart-breaking.  Skin burnished to a sickly sun-kissed bronze, hair tousled into disarray by refreshing trade winds, bodies ravaged by an constant diet of omega-3 rich seafood and fresh produce.  Watching the flickering images of these unfortunates navigating their primitive carbon fiber boats downwind (doubtless fleeing some unspeakable horror just off-screen), we wept for the wretched lives of the South Seas surfskiers.  But how could we help?  Conveniently, an 800 number was provided.  We wasted no time calling to pledge our support.  Just a few short days later, a confused Hawaiian paddler arrived shivering at our door.

Having never before left his Pacific home (in 2016, that is), Guy Gilliland would spend a night with us and compete the next day in the legendary Essex River Race.  Figuring Guy would benefit from the experience of an islander who had fully assimilated to New England paddling, we invited Bob Capellini to stay with us as well.  Together, we introduced our new Hawaiian friend to cold water paddling, Massachusetts driving, and whoopie pies (or was that just me, scarfing down the last one when nobody was looking?).  Of course, we'd have been remiss if we hadn't also subjected him to some local hazing rituals.  After bundling him up in a snowsuit and ski goggles, Bob and I took Guy out in Salem Harbor, giggling like schoolgirls every time Guy startled after we yelled "Look out!  Walrus!!!".

Guy turned out be an excellent guest, eagerly swapping tales from his tropical paradise in exchange for spoonfuls of dinner that night.  After completing our final pre-race rite (ferrying our cars over to Essex to secure the best parking places - perhaps the most important element in psyching out the opponent), we turned in.  Jan Lupinski had expressed some interest in crashing at our swinging ski pad too, but the matter was left a little ambiguous.  I had a fitful night of sleep, worrying that every little sound might be Jan scratching softly at the door.  He wasn't curled up on the front stoop in the morning, so we assumed he'd found a cave or tarp or something.

Buzzing as she was with nervous excitement before the race, it was sheer luck that I even caught Mary Beth in the frame.

By the time MB, Bob, Guy and I arrived in Essex, a crowd of 30 or 40 people had already gathered to gaze in undisguised wonder at our terrific parking spots from the night before.  Surreptitiously, we four squeezed our way through the awestruck throng (amidst shouts of "Hoorah!" and "Bravo!" and "Let's smash the windows!"), then nonchalantly removed our boats as if our prime real estate wasn't in the least noteworthy.  Without the hassle of a time trial or formal seeding process, we had seized the pole position.

Between the HPK and SS20+ classes, 32 skis and 1 racing kayak (Ben Randall, a newcomer who promises he won't repeat his embarrassing faux pas) had shown up to compete.  With a passel of the Northeast's best paddlers unable to make the race, several more not yet trained up for the season, and Bill Kuklinski opting to start early in more unfavorable tidal conditions (due to drawing post-race band duty), the top end of the field was a little thinner than at the recent Run of the Charles.  It looked like Jan would be my primary competition, although I was also worried about surprise entrant Chris Laughlin, whose power forward build and alarming glow of general fitness makes lesser men quail.

We had arrived a full week before our 11am start time, but eventually I found myself on the muddy and reed-strewn waters of the Essex, preparing myself mentally for the upcoming pain.  Knowing that I'm not going to surge to an immediate lead, I usually hang back at the start of a race, finding a cozy nook in the second tier where I can run through my pre-race self-affirmation exercises with some degree of privacy.  Sensing something momentous was going to happen this day, however, I urged my ski forward until it pushed a slight bow into the starting line.

From shore, the starter ran patiently through our numbers.  Once all the boats had been accounted for, she called out a 15 second warning.  I reached as far forward as I could to start my foredeck-mounted GPS, thereby contorting myself into the yoga position known as "Waterward-Facing Dimwit".  Despite having years of practice, I was only able to maintain this precarious pose for a fraction of a second before gravity man-handled me into the river.

Just like when I got pantsed while reading the Gettysburg Address at a school assembly (terrible day to wear my Aquaman underoos - who exactly thought it was a good idea to include "gill slits"?), time ground to a virtual standstill.  I took advantage of this unexpected bonanza to reflect on exactly how utter and complete was my humiliation.  I recalled that Matt Drayer had attempted a similar stunt prior to the Blackburn start, but without the measured discipline required for true mortification.  That was just a youthful indiscretion compared to my all-out cornucopia of shame.

There was some confusion about what exactly constituted a "water start".

Eventually the laughter of my fellow paddlers awoke me from my sad reverie and I sprung into action.  The same cruel god that had painted me the fool (granted, it was a kind of color-by-numbers situation) now took mercy.  My remount was quick and effective.  I opened the bailer, regripped my paddle, and slid my feet under the footstraps just as the starter sent us off.  I emerged from my ignominious start with increased devotion to my cause.  Only a decisive victory would unconditionally erase the memory of my ignominious start from the minds of my fellow paddlers.  Never to be spoken of again.

You know, Aquaman doesn't even have gills.

Every race has a guy that goes a dead sprint, implodes after about a half-mile, and then suffers his way through to the finish.  And - assuming he hasn't dislodged a rudder or left his boat on the side of the Turnpike - that guy is Kirk Olsen.  Kirk outdid himself this day, windmilling out of the gate along the left bank.  Jan, Matt, Chris (Laughlin), and Hawaiian guy (Gilliland) also got off to strong starts, trending more to the right.

My ornithological survey of the race course led me to believe that Kirk was on the superior line (you just look which way the grebes are pointing), so I followed along behind, taking advantage of the cooling breeze provided by his whirring blades.  Unskilled as they were in grebe-craft, Matt, Chris, and Guy fell back as they struggled against the incoming tide.  A few minutes later, I heard the unmistakable grinding sound of a failed bearing, and a cloud of dense smoke enveloped Kirk.  I soon caught and overtook him, leaving only Jan ahead.

The Man from Atlantis.  He has gills.  But even so, they're discretely hidden.

I stuck tight to the left bank while Jan labored in the channel.  Ducking behind a grassy island just off shore, I threw in a short interval to take advantage of the slack water.  By the time I merged back into the main river, I was in the lead.  Jan angled over to rest on my draft, but could never seem to find a comfortable position.  After a few failed attempts to shake him, I finally broke free and enjoyed an uneventful remainder of the race (although I'll note that the gentle returning headwind that I mentioned earlier was playing a little rougher than seemed necessary) to take my first Essex win.

Our new friend Guy insists that he was born and raised in Hawaii, but we have our doubts.  He could barely hold a tune on the ukulele and refused to get riled up when I repeatedly asked him if this was his first time in "The States".

It's long been a goal of mine to write a race report without actually discussing the race itself.  I managed to limit the racing portion here to only three paragraphs, so I've made some real progress.

After finishing, I immediately headed shoreward to lash myself to a piling so that I could watch the remaining paddlers come by without the risk of book-ending my race with swims.  Jan finished a strong second, tenaciously dragging a mass of reeds that Thor Hyerdahl could have woven into an ocean-worthy vessel.  And here I had always assumed that Jan's boasts of weed-snagging proficiency were so much hollow bluster...  Third place was captured by peripatetic paddler Chris Laughlin, who edged out hard-charging Tim Hudyncia.  Mike McDonough brought his Huki in for fifth.  Mary Beth came across as the first women (nipped at the line by Timmy Shields), joined on the podium by Leslie Chappell and Jenifer Kreamer.  In the SS20+ class, Bob finished first, with Ken Cooper right on his tail and Dana Gaines not far behind.

By now you'd think these 3 would be able to coordinate which camera to look at.

For those of you tired of coughing up brackish estuary water, the open ocean beckons as the (ignore the name, I promise you it's not a river) Sakonnet River Race approaches.  Registration is through PaddleGuru, as it is for the entire Rhode Island series (like rabies shots, it's pretty important that you don't skip any).  Wesley guarantees that the first 50 people that sign up will be rewarded with a real sense of accomplishment.  So don't wait and end up being that 51st loser.

For those of you in the Greater Boston area, the venerable (ignore the name, I promise you it's in Beverly) Salem League kicked off  this past Tuesday and will continue through the summer.  Join us for the 11th season of Bill complaining about Le Mans-style starts and double-headers.