Somehow my name still appears as co-director of the Ride the Bull race, despite the repeated cease-and-desist letters sent to actual sole-director Tim Dwyer. I could no longer afford the astronomical insurance premiums associated with sending paddlers careening back-and-forth amidst some of the most notoriously confused waters in New England. If just one competitor splattered against the rocky coast, my priceless Hummel collection would be in real jeopardy. Fortunately, conditions for this year were mostly benign.
Although a couple of intimidating registrants had bowed out - probably due to cowardice and/or an aversion to driving 3+ hours for a 75 minute race - the field was still rife with dangerous competition. Since he clearly established himself as the regional Alpha at the Sakonnet last weekend, I now have to carry all of Matt Drayer's equipment, and I'm no longer allowed to meet his gaze. However, even my Beta status was clearly on the line, with Tim Dwyer fresh off a Gamma finish, and perennial challengers John Hair and Jan Lupinski making for a veritable Greek salad of contenders. There was also a wild card. Although a Massachusetts native, youngster Rob Foley has been refining his abilities in Hawaii. Like a migratory great white, he'll be prowling New England waters for the summer. This would be our first chance to see how much carnage he'd be leaving in his wake. In the doubles category, the formidable team of Mary Beth & Kirk Olsen would be giving the singles a run for their money.
Eager to avoid direct confrontation, I always taunt remotely.
I have to hand it to John. A full hour before the race, he's priming us for a subsequent cramping excuse, wailing "My hammy!" and writhing theatrically.
I'd review the byzantine course with you, but as was the case when Tim attempted the same at the captains meeting, it would just end with tears of frustration, bitter recriminations, and a lot of indecipherable scribbles on scrap paper. Suffice it to say that we'd be covering 8.8 miles over 2.2 laps of a roughly triangular course defined by an island in Mackerel Cove and bell cans G7 and G11. I always tell fellow competitors that it's a foolish waste of a short life to get wound up in navigational details when you're paddling in such a spectacular setting. And, you know what? It's even more spectacular over there, which is not technically on the course, but you won't want to miss the view.
A fleet of 15 boats lined up in West Cove. I was pleased to see several were toting their easels and oil paints, while others had opted for tripods and telephoto cameras. With a light wind from the north and sunny skies, they'd have perfect conditions to capture the majesty of Narragansett Bay. Tim soon counted us down. I decided my best chance at a good start would be to expend at least 80% of my entire race energy quota in the first quarter mile. That didn't put me out front or anything, but it at least kept me relevant. Naively assuming that we wouldn't let him stray too far from the course, newcomer Rob wasn't afraid to take point from the get-go. Jerry Madore, Tim, Matt, John, and I pursued.
What golden-tongued orator could command such rapt attention?
Tim. Huh. Maybe his co-director warmed up the crowd.
Two minutes into the race, a pecking order had already emerged. Rob and Matt were clearly the cocks-of-the-walk, strutting away from the field. With our dull plumage and bedraggled wattles (that's right, someone let turkeys into this mixed metaphor), the sorrier specimens started stringing out behind - me, John, Jan Lupinski, Tim, and Jerry.
By the time we had reached the first turn within Mackerel Cove, the lead had stretched to the better part of 10 lengths. My vision of making up time in the beamy conditions to the G7 turn was not prophetic, nor was the "good feeling" I had after turning upwind for the subsequent leg. I'd not be threatening to push Rob or Matt from the top of the podium, but at least I was a virtual lock for bronze. That thought persisted for a solid 20 seconds after the G7 turn, at which point I noticed John's red-nosed Epic perhaps 20 seconds back on an inside line.
At the G11 turn, I verified that the Epic was now only a half-dozen lengths astern, with a dusky boat that could have only been Jan's about twice that distance again behind. I made may way back towards the start, completing the first lap with the assistance of some small runners. My unerring sense of hysteria should have been sufficient to verify that John was gaining steadily on me, but I nevertheless felt the need to goose my panic level by throwing quick half-glances behind. With each hurried turn of my head, I confirmed that another half-length of my advantage had evaporated. As I started the turn into Mackerel Cove, I glimpsed the bow of my tormentor pulling even with my bucket. I could put it off no longer. I turned my head completely to confront my demon face-to-face. Hmm. Odd. Seemed like more face-to-face-face. Where I expected to see the beastly visage of John (no offense, buddy), I instead saw the beatific countenance of my life partner. And also Kirk - who himself has his own kind of non-John charm. As you've probably surmised, my cursory scans had only registered the Epic-ness of my pursuer, while missing certain other superficial details. In any event, I can truthfully say that I'd never before been so happy to see Mary Beth.
Energized by my reprieve (because... out-of-class, out-of-mind), I matched the pace of the double for a while before they began to inexorably leave me behind. At the Cove turn-around, I got a better view of my actual pursuers - Jan back the better part of a minute, with John several lengths behind him. Over the next few miles, I concentrated on minimizing the disadvantage Mary Beth & Kirk were inflicting on me - a motivational gimmick that was largely responsible for keeping me ahead of my own pursuers. I kept tabs on the latter at the turns, noting at some point that Jan had fallen behind John - weeds being one factor in this positional swap (if the be-weeded party is to be believed).
I'm told that "aloha" can be used as greeting or farewell - a duality that Rob exploited with clinical efficiency in his first area competition. (Photo courtesy of Andy Knight)
I often hold court after the race, regaling my loyal subjects with tales of derring-do. Because these adventures often involve paddling in strong winds, many affectionately call me "Lord Blowhard". (Photo courtesy of Andy Knight)
As we had feared, Rob made short work of the mild New England conditions to claim the crown at an even 1:15:00, although Matt kept him honest (and on course) by finishing less than 90 seconds behind. Having little incentive (or ability) to push Matt, I cruised in another 275 seconds back. If you do the math and round aggressively, that's only like 3 minutes behind the winner, so I'm pretty happy with my race. Let's say that Mary Beth & Kirk finished "comfortably ahead" of me to take the doubles crown.
Thanks to Tim and, I suppose, to myself, for throwing a fine race with zero fatalities. Next up is the Jamestown Double Beaver on June 29, run by Tim and only Tim. Register at PaddleGuru (for free). In an effort to promote tandems in this race, anyone paddling a double in the Double Beaver will be rewarded with 36% more fun for 23% less effort! Your mileage may vary.
The Ride the Bull race in Jamestown, Rhode Island is the high point of the season for many paddlers. And not just because it's the only course in New England in which misjudging the confused surf might leave you stranded 10 feet up a cliff face. It's a beautiful course with conditions that is never anything less than exciting. As co-director of the race with Tim Dwyer, I feel compelled to say that Tim is almost entirely responsible for anything that goes right, wrong, or sideways at the RTB. I mostly just lend my gravitas.
In the week leading up to the race, the forecasts for Narragansett Bay had been all over the map. We had already lost a couple of races this season to inclement weather, so nobody wanted to see yet another scrapped. One site said clear skies with a light breeze, another predicted thunderstorms with bluster-class winds, and a third calmly advised readers to give away all their worldly possessions, strip naked, and await the Rapture. Even the day before the race, meteorologists couldn't seem to decide between utopia and cataclysm, although as with life in general, the balance was tipped in favor of the latter. The morning of the race, however, there was a general consensus. We might get wet, but we'd neither be blown out to sea nor blasted to kingdom come. With the final verdict in, I borrowed a boat, fashioned a towel into a make-shift loin cloth, and headed to Jamestown.
What started out as the world's saddest tailgate party turned into a fine race.
In last year's race, Sean Brennan had schooled the field - winning the race by a margin that makes one wonder if anyone else was actually using a paddle. Apparently some of us didn't learn our lesson, however, because we returned to the scene of our humiliation. Fortunately, the Headmaster couldn't bear the prospect of teaching the identical course to the same bunch of dunderheads and instead chose early retirement. Without Sean, I wagered that Rob Jehn (NJ) and Ed Joy (NY) would vie for the title. Other noteworthy competitors from afar included Manhattan paddler Ronald Rivera, the New Jersey "Pair Extraordinaire" Erin and Alan Lamb (with special appearance by bonus mini-Lamb), and John Hair, who insists on making the trip out from Rochester, NY every goddamned year. New Englanders Mary Beth Gangloff and Kirk Olsen would try their luck in the double's draw.
After an injunction from the FDA against "egregious experimentation on unwitting human subjects", the ever-changing Ride the Bull course was locked into its current state in 2018. Participants are now forced, Clockwork Orange-style, to watch a sobering race video beforehand so that they can officially be qualified as "well-informed victims". Roughly 90% of this film consists of Chris Chappell complaining about how much he hates the course. Chris was not present this year. The 8.8 mile course starts in West Cove, proceeds for two laps around a flattened triangle defined by a rocky island in Mackerel Cove, buoy G7, and buoy G11. There's then an additional loop back out to G7, ending near our launch point. Conditions this year were mild, with a light northerly breeze, but you never want to turn your back on the Bull.
We stood in silence for 10 full minutes before Tim remembered that he was supposed to be leading the captain's meeting.
If I had known beforehand that it was Charles Schulz Appreciation Day, I would have worn my Woodstock costume.
Tim did an effective job of corralling a field of paddlers so exuberant to finally be racing on the ocean that they could hardly be contained in West Cove. After getting us arranged in a buzzing line, he counted us down to the start. Ed, Rob, Ronald, and the Lambs jumped into the lead. The charge out of the cove was led by this team of powerful boats, hitched side-by-side, behind which the rest of us were pulled along. Inevitably, as paddlers were jostled by an unexpected bump or misjudged a stroke, they were thrown from this gravy train and left to continue under their own power. Just before I was to be ejected myself, the lead team started to break-up, with Ed and Rob separating from the others. I managed to harness myself to Ronald, who himself clung briefly to Erin & Alan before falling off.
Knowing Ronald came from a sprint background, I kept waiting for him to ease back on the throttle. I tried to get around him a couple of times, but could make no progress. Approaching the mouth of Mackerel Cove, however, I saw an opening as both Ronald and the Lambs gave a wide berth to the rocky headlands. I cut inside and took the tightest line I dared. Or, more accurately, I accidentally took a line a half-dozen feet tighter than I dared. Fortunately, I'm so cowardly that I left myself an ample enough peril cushion. The gambit paid off and I pulled ahead of both boats.
By the turn at the rock island in Mackerel Cove, it was clear that Rob and Ed would be standing on the top two podium steps, or perhaps sharing the summit in a show of solidarity. Having hit it off in last year's race as silver-n-bronze paddle buddies, I wasn't surprised that they were attempting to rekindle the magic. Nevertheless, I was surprised to see the pair heading out of the Cove together, plotting a course 45 degrees off course in a direction that would send them out of Narragansett Bay into the open Atlantic. Were they planning to Thelma and Louise themselves over the horizon? Or was this just a navigational error? As I was taught in childhood, I counted slowly to 250 before saying anything rash, then yelled out a suggestion that the leaders might want to try aiming for the next turn buoy rather than the endless abyss of the ocean. Since they'd each paddled this course multiple times before, I seasoned the recommendation with the appropriate amount of sarcasm.
Despite their roundabout detour, Ed and Rob reached G7 about 10 lengths ahead of me. The Lambs and Ronald were several lengths back, but I managed to open this gap to perhaps a dozen during the subsequent stretch to G11. Unfortunately, the leaders had added as least as much distance to their own safety margin. Completing the first lap some short time later, we benefited from a decent swell angling towards shore. Up front, it seemed that Ed had either (a) leveraged his vast experience of reading waves to get slightly better rides or (b) whacked Rob over the head and broke free while he was disoriented. It was tough to tell from such a distance in back. In any event, Ed was alone in the lead and separating quickly from a semi-conscious Rob.
I was also having a good leg, catching some nice runners and occasionally even entering that magical zone where you feel like maybe you're not the uncoordinated dweeb everyone who signed your high-school yearbook insisted you were (and whose mother signs their yearbook?). There could be no doubt that I was gaining on Rob. By the time we re-entered Mackerel Cove, I was actually close enough to make out his species.
I'm unsure whether to say that through superhuman effort I clawed back most of Rob's advantage, or that through a lack of vigor Rob ceded most of his lead. When given a choice between aggrandizing myself and belittling another, however, I've found the best policy is to just do both. When considering both my potency and Rob's feebleness, then, I'm quite frankly surprised that I didn't shoot right by him.
Coming out of Mackerel Cove, I was 10 lengths behind. At the second G7 turn, I slipped the buoy attendant a sawbuck to set the bell a-ringing. "Hear that, Jehn?" I shouted (with just the right tinge of deranged hysteria), "It's tolling for thee!" It was tough to tell from behind, but I'm pretty sure he blanched. On the subsequent downwind leg, I proceeded to methodically hunt Rob down. Smidge by smidge. Within 5 minutes I had shaved an entire dollop off his lead. Some quick calculations in my head indicated that I'd have to stalk a little faster if I wanted to catch my prey before Tuesday. I did manage some incremental acceleration, but by the G11 turn Rob was still 5 lengths ahead.
There are many theories about how Rob then managed to reverse the trend and start reopening his lead: He's a better paddler. He's fitter. He wanted it more. Karma. That last one hurts a bit, I'll admit, but all these "reasons" are poppycock. His shocking turn-around was due entirely to my inability to improvise another demoralizingly villainous quip at this buoy. Why, oh why, had I not composed a few dastardly catchphrases before the race?!? His spirit unburdened by what he perceived to be my silent concession, Rob soared away on this penultimate leg of the race.
I rounded the final buoy and turned for home with Rob now 10 lengths ahead. Between my increasing levels of existential discomfort and Ed's gradual recession into the distance, I had pretty much forgotten that Joy existed in the world. This made the wave of euphoria all the more intoxicating when I then noticed Ed paddling 50 meters to my left along the coastline. Not content with his modest navigational blunder earlier, he had doubled down with a tremendous directional gaffe in the final leg by heading into the wrong cove. He scrambled to correct his "oopsie" (that's Ed for you), but now the race was on! Oh, not with me, mind you. But by sacrificing a good portion of his minute lead, Ed had given Rob a new impetus. Despite Rob's best efforts, however, Ed was able to salvage the win by a couple of boat lengths. I galumphed in 30 seconds or so later to take bronze. Although Erin & Alan established a convincing lead early in the double's race, Mary Beth & Kirk refused to concede. They worked their way back into contention by the half-way mark, only to be led by Lambs to a finish line slaughter - a full 2 seconds behind the ovine winners.
What the...? In a few more years I'll fit in the palm of your hand.
Ed just can't.
The days festivities ended with a drawing for a paddle donated by race sponsor Epic. It was coincidentally won for the 6th time by Mary Beth, who I'm pretty sure "sold" it back to Tim for $25 so that it could be raffled off again in a future race. And yet she didn't even treat me to the after-race lunch held down the road in Jamestown.
With the Blackburn Challenge only a few weeks away, there's not much time left to build up your pain tolerance. If you're tired of thumb-screws and can't quite get the hang of self-flagellation (it's all in the wrist), the Jamestown Double Beaver may be just the shock to your system that you need to push you over the edge. Register for this free 10 mile suffer-fest at PaddleGuru and join your fellow masochists on July 1.
While the rest of us have been comfortably lounging in our homes with nary a care, Wesley and Tim have been busy worrying about how to salvage the lucrative Rhode Island racing circuit without killing off their best customers. A plan to quarantine all paddlers at Wesley's house for the entire season was scrapped when we realized that youngster Sam Duffield would probably make us all listen to music made sometime after 1987. After some tense negotiations with the paddlers' union, an agreement was reached on an abbreviated five-race season with some minor schedule adjustments. Of course, appropriate social distancing protocols would also be in place, including a temporary ban on snuff and chaw. Looking on the bright side... we'll save a small fortune on spittoon rentals.
Usually by the time the Ride the Bull race rolls around, we've had a chance to gradually build up a tolerance for open-water ocean conditions. Starting with true flatwater venues (Narrow River and Run of the Charles), we progress through a slightly more temperamental estuary course (Essex River), and complete the acclimation process on a protected saltwater inlet (Sakonnet "River" - damn the name). All of these preliminary races were cancelled. Without our standard regimen of rough-water inoculations, we'd be thrown directly into the deep end without a net. Uh-oh. Similarly, without my warm-up race reports, there was no opportunity to work out the kinks in my metaphors.
The forecast was for excellent swimming weather. At race time, the wind would be around 15 mph from the SSW. Every motorized watercraft within a hundred mile radius had been requisitioned and duly scheduled for wake generation duty. The settings on the rocky shoreline were dialed up for maximum wave reflectivity. In 2019, Governor Raimondo mercifully stepped in to move the race further into Narragansett Bay, citing the cruel and unusual punishment that would be inflicted upon the field should the race be held in its normal region (the so-called "Carnage Zone"). Given my limited rough-water experience this season, I prayed in vain for a comparable last-minute pardon.
John came prepared for almost any eventuality. It's just a shame he didn't have a chance to break out his beekeeping suit.
Anxiety levels were a little lower than I anticipated. We ultimately had to poke several people awake with extended paddle jabs.
Given the dearth of racing opportunities, RTB lured in an impressive set of paddlers from well outside New England. Ed Joy and John Hair drove in from Central New York, Eric Costanzo and Rob Jehn narrowly escaped from New Jersey, and Rick Carter pulled a trailer of boats up from South Carolina. This group was supplemented by a scruffy crew of suspicious locals, warily eyeing the exotic headdresses and gaudy pantaloons of the interlopers. Doubtless we were all thinking of the enigmatic prophecy that I had intoned a few minutes earlier while in a trance-like state: "Those bastards are going to take all our hardware."
As the paddlers trickled into the parking lot (understandably, we all wanted to avoid the virus-laden surfaces of the port-a-johns), some semblance of normalcy was restored to our quarantined lives. Our unpracticed social-distanced greetings were occasionally stilted and embarrassing (apparently wrapping your head and torso in a space blanket, dousing yourself with bleach, and chest bumping your buddies hasn't yet caught on), but everyone was excited to reconnect after the unnaturally extended off-season. Dr. Costanzo, straight from the front-lines of intensive COVID care was positively giddy at the prospect of socializing in a wholesome outdoors setting. Perhaps less so about being chased around the parking lot by a blind, silver-shrouded idiot.
Once the congregants had all arrived, Wesley convoked the captain's meeting and led us in a solemn prayer. Actually, he mainly just droned on about the race while I got in touch with my spiritual side - making binding contracts with various deities, saints, djinns, fiends, and saboteurs. Every one of them a charlatan, as it turns out. Just as well. I already had six or seven reverse mortgages out on my soul. The current RTB course has been tweaked to perfection over the past several years through a sadistic process of trial-and-terror. Starting from West Cove, we make our way upwind to Mackerel Cove, round a mooring buoy several hundred meters into that bay, and head out to channel buoy G7. From there we head less-than-more downwind past the House on the Rock to buoy G11, then back past West Cove for a second lap of the same course. As a final slap in the face, we then slog through a bonus leg directly back to G7, rounding that to finish back in our launch bay.
The course map does a pretty good job of weeding out color-blind paddlers.
Even after Wesley's detailed instructions, there was a fair amount of confusion about where exactly to go.
While awaiting the start, I weighed my chances against the competition. Ed would undoubtedly thrive in the breezy conditions, having cut his teeth paddling in Hawaii. He didn't actually move to the Aloha State until middle age, by which time he already had realized considerable success in New England (as attested to by his 4 Blackburn titles). So I supposed it was more of a sharpening than a cutting. Rob and I had traded head-to-head wins in the Blackburn and L2L last year, but an unusual reverse anonymous tip from Craig Impens on Facebook alerted me that somebody was putting up gaudy training stats. Under intense grilling, Rob cracked and revealed that he could have been somebody. John has been participating in the same virtual race series as I have, putting up comparable times but in a slower boat. Jim Hoffman was always a threat in rough water, although social distancing had eliminated one of his key assets - the spine-cracking bear hug that he greets his rivals with. Chris Quinn wasn't actually present, but his last-minute appearance was as inevitable as his shirtlessness.
Anticipation grew to a frenzied peak as Wesley counted us down to the first start of the season. And then it waned as he was forced to scrub the launch at T-minus 15 seconds to accommodate Quinn and a couple of other stragglers. I took the opportunity to redistribute some combustible gases prior to the clock reset. Shortly thereafter we were streaking out of West Cove. I started to the left to avoid being squeezed against the rocky island at the entrance to the cove, which gave me an excellent view of the two-thirds of the field ahead of me at that turn. Smelling the podium from the get-go, Ed, Rob, and John seized immediate control of the race. Within the first quarter-mile, the radiant elites had already separated themselves from the squalid underclass (their term for us, I'm betting). Eric led that chase group, with Chris Q, Tim, Wesley, Jim, and me in active pursuit. By the time we had reached the entrance to Mackerel Cove, I had dropped the others and pulled within a couple lengths of Eric and Chris. Based on the gap the leaders had on us in the first ten minutes, it seemed like we were already racing for 4th.
I made the right turn into Mackerel Cove a little more exciting than was strictly necessary by cutting inside of Eric and Chris. With quartering port waves pushing me towards the rocks and reflected slop compromising my ability to navigate a straight line, I meandered drunkenly in the confused waters, narrowly skirting several outcroppings. As we subsequently headed towards the turn buoy in calmer conditions, a surprise appearance by Tim's bow alerted me that he hadn't been quite as dropped as the previous paragraph indicated. The four of us made the turn within a couple of lengths of one another and headed out towards G7 on a beam run.
Within the first few minutes of the race, I had assumed a paddling posture best described as a "defensive crouch". Back hunched. Head down. Shoulders forward. Hands never more than a foot from the torso. I recently watched Ivan Lawler's excellent six-part YouTube series on paddling techniques and off-water exercises. Ivan conveyed an overwhelming amount of information. But if you remember just one thing from those two hours of instruction... well, that's one more that I can now recall. Maybe something about dots lining up on your shirt? Oh, yeah! Also, don't wear socks. So the take-home message was mostly sartorial advice. Despite some fogginess on the content, I'm positive that Ivan said nothing about the critical role of the defensive crouch. I'm assuming this is because he's concentrating on flat-water paddling, where the danger level rarely exceeds "aggressive otter". In big conditions, however, the crouch puts you that much closer to your safe space - the fetal position. If things get too hairy, you just armadillo up and wait for the coyote to tire itself out. In this metaphor, the coyote is the entire atmospheric-oceanic system, so be sure to bring plenty of snacks.
Although I was ready to spring out of action at the first sign of danger, I still managed to maintain a reasonable pace during this leg. I reached the G7 turn ahead of our gang of four. I was looking forward to the run to the final turn of the first lap, but knew that I'd have to work hard to stay ahead of the skilled downwind paddlers just a couple of lengths back. Sure enough, it wasn't long before I watched Eric pull even (OK, maybe slightly ahead) on an inside line. Just a moment later, however, I watched him tumble into the sea - an uncharacteristic gaffe for such an accomplished rough-water paddler. Given that Eric hasn't had much opportunity to train - what with literally putting his own life at risk to help hundreds of seriously ill COVID patients - maybe I'll give him a pass on being a bit rusty. It's a shame, because I was lining up a pretty good joke at Medicine Boy's expense.
That's right, Doc - smirk it up while you can. You got your one free pass. Next race there's gonna be a punchline with your name attached.
I quickly calculated the absolute minimum amount of concern I needed to demonstrate for Eric's safety. He hadn't immediately sunk out of view, was clearly conscious, and both Tim and Chris had slowed up right behind him. Right. So... two concerned looks over the shoulder, five missed strokes, and a slightly guilty expression - that oughta cover it! I was back on my way, no worse for Eric's wear. Incidentally, he ultimately finished the race, so apparently his remount was a success.
The area adjacent to the House on the Rock is renowned for its wacky tidal currents, imposing standing waves, and boat-swallowing vortexes. I entered this area with some degree of trepidation and involuntary clenching, but was surprised to find the conditions quite manageable. Pleasant, even. I was able to get a good read on the leaders starting back upwind, still holding together and now perhaps 90 seconds ahead. Finishing my own turn on G11, I estimated that my lead over Chris and Tim was now halfway between marginal and tenuous.
I struggled during the long trip back to Mackerel Cove. I didn't feel so much "unstable" in the conditions as I did "uncoordinated". Given the peerless grace I generally evince these days, it's probably difficult for recent acquaintances to believe that I went through an awkward phase in my youth. I was gawky and bumbling, with a real knack for accidental pratfalls (that is, falls) and spontaneous injuries. For a brief span - not much more than a half-century, tops - I was a master of self-imposed physical humiliation. Ever since whacking myself in the head with a strap buckle the morning of the race, I had figured those days of gangly ineptitude were long behind me. But here I was struggling to put together three recognizable strokes in a row. The worst part is that it wasn't that rough - several other RTB and Double Beaver races had more challenging conditions.
Despite my bungling, I reached the entrance to Mackerel Cove ahead of Chris and Tim. Having learned my lesson during the first lap (that lesson being: "It's possible, by sheer happenstance, that you will survive taking hare-brained risks"), I proceeded to again cut the corner amidst jacked-up waves and find myself dangerously close to the rocks. I made it through. Now that I'm 2-for-2, I can safely substitute "probable" for "possible" in my lesson plan. I made the buoy turn and headed back out to G7. Conditions seemed to have worsened since my last visit to this leg. Near the mouth of the cove, I swamped my boat and narrowly avoided inversion.
I found myself in similar situations a few too many times for comfort.
At this point, you're doubtless wondering how Hall of Fame pitcher Satchel Paige might be relevant to my race. Thanks for asking. If Paige hadn't been denied access to the Majors until 1948 (when he was 42), we wouldn't have to spend half of each captain's meeting arguing about whether the best league pitcher of the 1930s was Mel Harder, Red Ruffing, or Lon Warneke. Paige knew a thing or two about aging gracefully - pitching into his fifties - and blessed us with six keys to keeping young in his autobiography. The most famous of these is "Don't look back. Something might be gaining on you." This is particularly pertinent to surfski racing in sloppy conditions, where a glance over my shoulder inevitably results in competitors gaining on a now-swimming me. Another apt rule is "Avoid fried meats, which angry up the blood." It was only after I got off the schnitzel that I started to see podium finishes. For this race, however, I concentrated on Satchel's third key to longevity - "Keep the juices flowing by jangling around gently as you move." I don't know what went wrong. I was jangling all over the place, but watching the leaders pull further ahead, I couldn't shake the feeling of being over the hill. A close review of my GoPro video afterwards revealed the problem. I don't know if you'd categorize it as floundering or flailing, but my crazy marionette moves sure as heck weren't jangling.
The half-mile (with liberal rounding) trip to G7 took a couple of hours. My reward for this toil was a whack-a-mole downwind leg in which I managed to miss 95% of the available rides. Ahead, the leaders had achieved moteness. At the G11 turn, Chris was perhaps a dozen lengths back, with Tim about the same behind him. I felt fairly confident about being able to hold them off, but I wasn't looking forward to it.
On the upwind leg of the first couple of laps, there were some clandestine waves travelling against the prevailing runners. They were lightly encrypted, but the system administrator neglected to change the default password so it was easy enough to break the code and find some modest reprieves during the headwind slog. Unfortunately, there must have been a North Korean hacker scare prior to the final leg back to G7, because any countervailing waves were now protected with some kind of flux-inverted quantum encryption. On the off-chance that the admin had left some kind of back door password, I tried every expletive permutation I could think of. No dice. Fatigued and dispirited by the relentless grind through lumpy seas, my ragged stroke degraded further. At random intervals I would tentatively pluck the water with a paddle blade, like a kitten lazily batting at a ball of yarn (but with considerably less power). My Garmin was technically still indicating a positive velocity, but "zero" also fell within the GPS margin of error.
Despite my worst efforts, I managed to reach G7. My attempt to round the buoy was flattened out considerably as I misjudged the approach and was nearly side-swiped into the can by a broaching wave. I briefly considered vaulting out of the cockpit, clambering up onto the green platform, and there napping away the rest of the afternoon. Catching a glimpse of Chris and Tim just a few lengths back, however, I abandoned my dream and recommitted myself to limping home ahead of those heel nippers. It's a bell buoy anyway. I'd have never gotten any decent shut-eye.
The waves on the final leg lined up pretty cleanly with our destination, so I actually experienced a few instances of joy in my final moments. I had held onto 4th place. Ed convincingly took the crown, finishing two-and-a-half minutes ahead of Rob, with John less than thirty seconds further back. I was [redacted] minutes behind John. It was a tough race. I clocked at least six capsizes (including a rare triple by one paddler), but nobody got in any real trouble. There were three DNFs, although all of them seemed to be of the "screw this noise" variety, rather than an inability to complete the course. All in all, a bracing day on the Bull.
There were more racers, but we were careful to comply with Rhode Island's strict 12 person per photo coronavirus restriction.
Thanks to Wesley and Tim for getting us out of our houses and back onto (or into) the water. Next up is Eric McNett's Casco Bay Challenge on July 4th. There's no pre-registration this year - just find a shady looking shirtless guy on Willard Beach, slip him a wad of bills, and he'll set you up. A week later (July 11th), why not return to Rhode Island for Wesley's Sakonnet River Race? Register at PaddleGuru. Note that the race will start at Island Park Beach rather than at McCorrie Point.
Just moments after we pulled into our driveway after returning from the Sakonnet River Race, it was time to turn around and head back to the state affectionately known as "Massachusetts's Dewlap" for Wesley and Tim's Ride the Bull race. After underbidding all other syndicates, we had been awarded the lucrative contract to transport Ryan Bardsley (with "associated racing paraphernalia transportee deems necessary") to Jamestown. This necessitated installing an additional rack on our car. Through a series of miscalculations and engineering blunders, this process involved stripping our Subaru down to a bare chassis before reassembling it to a rough approximation of its original state. But with a third V rack. As long as Mary Beth kept her seat belt on and I wasn't too aggressive on left-hand turns, I figured there'd be at least an 80% chance of her remaining in the passenger seat the whole trip.
With race-time winds of 15+ knots from the SSE, the normal Ride the Bull course was likely to be a mix of significant beam waves and frothing clapotis (second in severity only to dysentery among incontinence-related afflictions). Although the race was expressly designed to test our resilience against scrapes, fractures, and contusions while being pounded against the picturesque rocky shore, Wesley and Tim decided that the lamentations of the guilt-ridden survivors might draw unwanted attention from the authorities. Tim claims to have some powerful local connections, but even James Taylor would have trouble making multiple manslaughter charges go away.
Despite strict warnings against conviviality, pockets of amicable conversation kept flaring up. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
We forgot to tell our car-pool passenger about the carbon monoxide leak in the back seat, but Ryan eventually recovered enough of his cognitive abilities to solve this conundrum. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
Putting their heads together (in a Laurel and Hardy fashion, while simultaneously leaning forward to study a chart of Narragansett Bay - at least in my imagination), a slightly concussed Wesley and Tim devised an alternative loop course in the bay to the east of Jamestown. We'd first slog upwind 1.5 miles past the House on the Rock to round Bull Point Rock, then head on a glorious 4.5 mile downwind to the north end of Gould Island, then claw our way the 3 miles back to the start, realizing that we had flagrantly misused the term "slog" on that initial leg. The new course would virtually eliminate any chance of being dashed against rocks, while ensuring that we'd instead be run down by the hundreds of predatory sailing vessels on the bay. Of course, this shifts the liability for any "accidents" from the race coordinators to the offending boat captains. Don't feel too bad for the yachtsmen, however - they doubtless can afford lawyers good enough to get any charges reduced to "depraved indifference" with a slap-on-the-wrist $50,000 fine.
A good portion of the usual gang showed up - Timmy, Jacko, Rotgut, Li'l Slipper, The Fez... hold on, that can't be right. Probably shouldn't be half-watching the Jimmy Cagney marathon on TNT while I'm writing this. Sixteen paddlers would be racing. We would have had one more, but Chris Chappell showed up, took one look at the swarms of sailboats on the bay, and rushed over to Newport to get in on the betting for who'd rack up the highest tally. Since the 2nd through 4th finishers from the Sakonnet River Race couldn't suit up for this race, three equally robust threats were subbed in as replacements - Jan Lupinski, Chris Quinn, and Chris Laughlin. Given the conditions, I was particularly worried about the renowned skills of these gentlemen in rough-water handling, downwind paddling, and collision-avoidance.
Melissa and Jim wisely chose the "toe-to-head" carry to prevent any cross-brand funny stuff. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
We milled about for a 1 p.m. start, paddling slowly upwind amidst the moored boats while awaiting the start signal. On another day, I might have joined Kirk Olsen in his playful pre-race antics - leaning forward to fiddle with your foot-strap until you topple off your ski is right up my alley - but figured I should save my energy for less frivolous remounts. Soon after Kirk regained his bucket, Wesley counted us down to the gun.
Split up by obstacles in the mooring field, Jan led one small group to the left while Chris L spear-headed the main push closer to land. Pushing through the chop, I soon found my way abreast the latter, casting wary glances to my port to assess the relative progress of Jan. As our lines inevitably merged, Lupinski assumed a half length lead while Laughlin dropped slightly back. To maintain the proper Chris equilibrium, Quinn moved in to take his place.
Five minutes into the race we encountered our first significant hurdle, our path taking us right through the gyrating core of a fleet of 35' sailboats jockeying for position prior to their own regatta. Like the puffer fish inflates itself to fool its predators into thinking it's larger and fiercer than it actually is, I huddled close to Jan in an attempt to deceive the fast-moving craft. I fear this may have back-fired, as several boats veered our way to attempt a two-fer kill. Fortunately, our pack made it through unscathed. Physically, at least. As for the rest of our field, I just hoped our crazed dash through the gauntlet had distracted the sailors long enough to allow their safe passage.
Let the culling begin! (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
The remaining upwind trip was uneventful for me, largely because Jan acted as my coal mine canary, plotting a path through the shoals near the House on the Rock and helpfully identifying some tidal eddies by spinning out in front of me (with a little help from me pushing his stern, natch). As we transitioned to the downwind portion of the race at the back of Bull Point Rock, Chris Q and I pulled even with Jan. That arrangement lasted all of 45 seconds, at which point Jan's superior downwind skills asserted themselves and began to pry him inexorably from our grasp. I never saw Chris L on the downwind leg, but based on the results, he couldn't have been too far behind.
I began calculating how much of a lead I might be able to overcome going into the upwind return leg, but my math (and grammar) must be rusty because I kept coming up with the same disheartening answer: none lead. Jan had paced me (some might say pulled me, but that's just quibbling) on the opening upwind leg, so what made me think I could beat him in similar conditions over the final few miles? Hubris, sure, but I couldn't figure out how to shoehorn that factor into the computation. Looked like I'd just have to get out front by the end of Gould Island.
Never a team player, Jan didn't appear down with the plan. For the next few moments he continued to pull away from Chris and I. His lead grew to about 10 lengths, but at that point the gap stabilized. We'd accordion back and forth as we caught different waves, but the net effect was a wash. This delicate equilibrium reigned for a couple of minutes, but then I started to pull Jan back. A key component of this transition was recognizing that we weren't "surfing" so much as "paddling in the direction of the waves". I'm clumsy and inefficient at the former, but... marginally less so at the latter. Once I stopped consciously trying to read the marginally surf-able waves and just started putting one blade in front of the other (on alternating sides, I eventually figured), that's when I started to make progress and identify bumps to boost me along.
The waves were offset by a few degrees to the east of our straight-line direction to Gould, so the three of us swung wide into the center of the bay. Maddeningly, this is where some pasty-faced bureaucrat (who wouldn't know a fo'c'sle from a bosun) chose to randomly place the shipping channel. Race officials must have radioed in our course, though, because commercial traffic gave us a wide berth. I lost track of Chris as I closed the gap on Jan, but felt reasonably confident that he hadn't passed me. About a half-mile before reaching the Newport Bridge, I moved into the lead.
Taking a cue from the "invasion stripes" painted onto Allied planes for D-Day, Tim decorated his boat with a predetermined pattern to eliminate friendly fire incidents from his sailboat skipper cronies. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
I understand that every Zen boat comes with a personalized mantra to repeat while paddling. Based on what I heard from Wesley at the end of his race, he got "Uuuurgh". (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
The remaining downwind portion went by too quickly. With a mile left, I had started preparing myself mentally for the grind lurking at the north end of the island. So when the GPS gleefully started blurting out speeds 2.5 mph slower (I knew putting AI in those things was a bad idea), my bow began slapping over the waves, and my paddle fluttered in the wind, I was only 90% demoralized. I had gotten a vague glimpse of a group of 2 or 3 paddlers perhaps a minute behind at the turn, but that'd be the last chance I'd have to check on the competition - an over-the-shoulder glance might well transform into an over-the-gunwale tumble.
You don't realize just how big the Newport Bridge really is until you watch it not get any bigger while paddling interminably towards it. Eventually, however, the bridge started to loom. I took this as a strong indication that I might actually reach it. My hopes were not unfounded. After passing under the bridge and then cursing through a long half-mile into some particularly obnoxious gusts, I finished the race. Providing empirical evidence that my calculations regarding our relative upwind performance were spot on, Jan pulled in 70 seconds later. Chris Q nipped Chris L a half-minute later to nab the final podium spot. On the women's side, Melissa Meyer took the win. Although Mary Beth had arrived at the finish almost an hour earlier, under cross-examination she cracked and revealed that she had skipped half the course because "riding back home with Greg will be enough drudgery". I'm going to interpret that as an implicit aspersion on our passenger, Ryan. Burned, buddy!
Paddlers anxiously await their relay partners. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
Max Yasochka generously handed out alfajores - a traditional treat from his an ancestral homeland, Argentina. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
Thanks, Wesley and Tim, for your work as co-directors. Most paddlers figured the downwind leg of the race was ample compensation for the bookend slogs, although I'd have felt a little better about it had the guys slipped us each a crisp $20 bill to cover pain and suffering. Something to think about for next year...
For those rattled by the boat traffic in Narragansett Bay, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. With zero verifiable strikes logged this past weekend, the yachtsmen "kill pot" carries over to the Jamestown Double Beaver on June 29. Register at PaddleGuru for your chance to lose! Like war-time medics steel-wooling the red crosses off their helmets, you might want to consider toning down those fluorescent PFDs.
Like many New England paddlers, I awoke this past Saturday with an inexorable compulsion. A mysterious beckoning against which there could be no resistance. In a trance-like state of compliance, Mary Beth and I loaded a couple of skis on the car and started our migration south. Navigating by the invisible lines of the Earth's magnetic field, with the occasional assist (seems there's a anomalous vortex just outside of Providence) from Google Maps and an indignant gas station attendant ("Does this look like 2004 to you, sir?"), we finally emerged from our stupor to find ourselves at Fort Wetherill Park for the 6th episode of Ride the Bull.
John and Wesley marvel at the future magnificence of this picture. (Photo courtesy of Max Yasochka)
In addition to the regular cast of susceptible locals, the call of Rhode Island was strong enough to summon Guy Gilliland clear from Hawaii. Last seen wandering around Essex in 2016 looking fruitlessly for a true ocean race, Guy was anxious to immerse himself in the healing waters of the Atlantic. Figuratively, one assumes - the thermal shock might well kill him.
Guy wasn't the only notable exotic paddler. John Hair was bitten by the RTB bug back in 2016. He pulled through, but has since had to make the yearly drive from Rochester (NY) for his booster shot. The last time we met, John and I had duked it out for silver in the fog of Nahant Bay, so I knew I'd have to keep a close eye on him. New recruit Kurt Hatem joined us for his first surfski race, liberating himself from the FSK class to impress in a V10. We may need to send him back in undercover to extract Roger Gocking.
As has become his pre-race tradition, Ed breaks a paddle over his head to psyche himself up. Needless to say, this practice has taken its toll. (Photo courtesy of Max Yasochka)
I had concerns about Andrius Zinkevichus, racing for the first time this season. Based on recent Facebook posts from his Brača-sponsored tour of Europe, he was obviously getting in some quality flatwater training. However, it was the outlandish green Team Lithuania unitard that he wore to the race that really had me worried. You don't risk merciless Kermit-on-steroid taunts unless you're pretty confident you can hop on your boat and paddle your opponents into submission. The bulging muscles - they probably also help limit the ridicule (at least until some anonymous coward gets back to the safety of his or her computer). I just hoped that rough water would keep the Grinch from stealing the win.
The nine mile course would essentially be the same as last year's, with some minor simplifications to accommodate the fact that, collectively, we're not all that bright. From the start in West Cove, we'd proceed to Mackerel Cove, rounding a mooring buoy just beyond the rock we usually turn on (tough luck, rookies). After heading out of the cove to the next turn at buoy G7, we'd skim downwind (ish) past the House on the Rock to buoy G11 before returning to the mouth of West Cove. This we would then repeat. As a final kicker leg, we'd head from West Cove directly to G7, returning to finish in our launch bay. If Tim and Wesley can just manage to hold a steady course for a couple dozen more years, we may just get it memorized.
Given the virtual certainty of uncomfortable conditions somewhere along the route - they don't call it Lounge on the Sofa (although I would absolutely attend that race) - I opted for the V10 Sport instead of the V10. I made this decision back at home, but John had to make a game-time call between the same choices, having brought a brace of Epics. He went with the V10. Fortune favors the bold. From personal experience, I'd say it's also a favorite of Calamity, Comedy, and Comeuppance.
"Safety first, guys! Then hygiene. Let's run a clean race. [chuckles] And finally, if you have time, spiritual enlightenment." (Photo courtesy of Max Yasochka)
After a refreshingly brief captain's meeting which mostly consisted of Wesley repeating the mandatory PFD rule while looking pointedly at Chris Quinn (who was doubtless wondering where the hell Lupinski was when you needed him), we launched our fleet of 19 boats. With theatrical cries of "Hold the line! Hold the line!" (worked for me - I was getting goosebumps), Wesley counted us down to a slow rolling start. Rounding the rock at the mouth of West Cove, the early lead was captured by John, Andrius, and Wesley. Guy, Chris, Tim and I formed the next echelon, after shaking free of a hard-charging Timmy Shields. After a few minutes, Wesley fell off the pace and I managed to catch the lead drafting pair. John and I wrestled for the lead for a moment before I pulled a couple of boat lengths clear.
I often have hubristic visions of greatness early in the race. By the time we reached the first turn in Mackerel Cove, I figured that most of the field would have dropped out and headed back to their cars - too demoralized by my dominance to carry on. Rounding the turn, I scanned the cove anxiously to confirm my suspicions. Not sure if I overestimated my ability or underestimated everyone else's demoralization threshold, but it turns out that being back a half-dozen boat lengths doesn't really send anyone home crying. In addition to John (still only a few seconds back), Andrius, Chris, Wesley, Tim, Guy, and Kurt were hot on the chase. The wily fellows had turned the tables on me, as I now fought off my own wave of disheartenment. This was going to hurt.
Heading out past Kettle Bottom Rock on the way to the turn on G7, conditions got a little beamy. For the first time, I was happy to be in my Sport. And John wasn't happy to not be in his Sport. Or, perhaps, he wasn't not sad to be in his non-Sport. In any event, he first thoughtfully dropped back several lengths so I wouldn't be alarmed by his wailing, then dropped himself into the drink. Chris, probably thinking this was some kind of drill, followed suit. Having only a second-generation V12 to choose from, however, he had to content himself with not being non-unhappy, period. Both guys were quickly back on board and in pursuit, but I had a little more cushion to work with.
Is it just me, or has Timmy been about 30% more chipper than usual? (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
The run back past Fort Wetherill towards the House on the Rock was enjoyable, with some usable waves heading in the right general direction. When I got past the rock off of Bull Point, however, the conditions took an unfriendly turn. A tidal race had pitched itself in the stretch from the point to G11, converting this area into a broken seascape of standing waves, rife with unpredictable currents and swirling eddies. Superimposed on this was the added texture of wakes from a healthy stream of motorboats cutting unnecessarily close to the channel marker.
At first I tried to read the water, attempting to catch some rides, or at least to avoid the most turbulent sections. But it was an indecipherable babble. From the tone, however, I could tell it was hostile. I quickly abandoned technique and activated survival mode. You'd get a small head of steam going, only to find yourself stalled on a standing wave, abruptly turned in an unhelpful direction (with upside down being a distinct directional possibility), or translated laterally by an invisible hand. Doubtless it would be excellent practice to put in an hour or two paddling in such mayhem, but I was hoping to spend somewhat less time there during the race. Eventually I made it to the buoy, only to have to repeat the dangerous traverse going the other way. Comparing notes after the race, it seems that nobody was able to find a peaceful path through the turmoil.
Did anyone else notice a rainbow-colored splotch in the sky during the second lap? At the time, I figured that I was probably just suffering a wee bout of stroke. In Google-aided retrospect, however, it may have been cloud iridescence. Brain malfunction or atmospheric phenomenon - regardless, it was kinda cool.
I spent most of the loop back to Mackerel Cove and G7 devising a better strategy for negotiating the tidal race on my second visit. At the turns I could see that the Green Monster had separated himself from the rest of the pursuit team and was less than a minute back. Apparently the Nelo 550 was the right boat for him. All too soon I found myself once again in the bewildering waters off Bull Point.
The last 20 minutes of scheming had failed to produce an attack plan more sophisticated than "stay upright and continent". As luck would have it, though, enough water was sloshing through my bucket that I could concentrate solely on the former. By maintaining a vice-like grip on the paddle and taking the occasional tentative stroke, I slowly dragged myself to G11. Any leg drive or hip rotation was purely the accidental result of spasmodic attempts to maintain my balance. My rounding of the buoy was so sluggish and so tight that, had I the proper tools, I could have scraped off the rust and slapped on a new coat of marine paint. The trip back to Bull Point was slightly less arduous, but for a moment it appeared that my weaving cross-current path was destined to intersect with Guy's similar meanderings from the other direction.
With other concerns occupying me, I hadn't got a good read on how close the competition was at the turn. Heading out to the final run around G7, I passed Mary Beth going the opposite direction on her second lap. She relayed some back-handed good news - "Despite your slouch and that atrocious stroke, you have a 30 length lead." I'm a pretty unreliable narrator, so there was no need to take the criticism to heart. But that also meant I had to question MB's estimate of my lead. I decided that it was prudent to start my final sprint immediately. That lasted a full 15 seconds, after which I transitioned smoothly from "sprint" to "wheeze", where I remained for the last mile of the race.
Strong finishes by Chris and John. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
Shortly after I finished, Andrius coasted in, looking disquietingly jolly after such a tough race. I'm not sure I want to live in a world where this is what he can do after a few weeks of training strictly on flatwater. Yeah... probably I still do. But check back after he beats me in our next race. Chris nabbed the final podium spot, with John in talkative tight pursuit. Tim took fifth. Kurt was awarded the "Uh-oh, this guy is going to be trouble" award after finishing sixth in his first ski race. Watching him pull in, I couldn't help but be struck by the uncanny similarities to my first race. Capsizing an S1-R fifty meters from the L2L finish to derisive gales of laughter from shore... Eerie. Mary Beth took the women's crown.
We had ridden the bucking Bull, but once again failed to break the sucker. Fortunately, nearly all the injuries sustained were superficial - even for those four pour souls unceremoniously ejected from the course. Ever optimistic, we'll be back next year to again make questionable boat decisions.
Andrius is just a purple Cadillac shy of being a late 70's pimp. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
There are two races coming up on June 30. In the Casco Bay Challenge, you'll paddle (endlessly, if you're not careful) among the beautiful isles of Maine as you cross the 17 miles from South Portland to Merepoint. It has the potential to be the longest US downwind race outside of Hawaii, but will the weather cooperate? For those who remain quarantined in Rhode Island with an infectious case of surfski fever, why not check out the Narragansett Bay Regatta? If you're old enough to remember the Jamestown Counter Revolution in those multiple years when it wasn't (in Jamestown... or a revolution), you'll be familiar with the course.
Back in 2013, Wesley and Tim took advantage of Rhode Island's generous tax incentive program to bring the Ride the Bull race to New England's 6th largest state ("Small in Stature. Big in Hea... Hey, give me back my lunch money!"). Situated in the tempestuous waters off the southern coast of Conanicut Island, this race is designed with a single goal in mind - to test our ability to follow complicated navigation directions. No, wait, that can't be right. Where's that brochure? Ah... right. To prove our rough water mettle! It's the Tough Mudder of surfski racing, without quite as many electric shock obstacles.
Despite its reputation as being little more than the wattle of Massachusetts, Rhode Island does have its charms. (Photo courtesy of Pat Sheehan)
Due to a temporary shortage of area paddlers (note to those lily-dippers who skipped the race due to "family obligations" - no kid ever grew up to say "I wish my father would have been there when I woke up from brain surgery"), we were forced to take drastic measures - shipping in replacement racers from central New York. John Hair, Todd Furstoss, and Jim Mallory emerged blinking from their crates, having been carefully packaged the previous day. In an unfortunate delivery blunder, Hawaiian Ed Joy also found himself in the wrong island state.
Twenty years ago, Ed was a regular at the Blackburn Challenge, notching up four wins over a six year period. Before the race, he confided to me that he would trade all those wins for a more prestigious Ride the Bull crown. It turns out that was hollow bluster, however. Efforts to swap my 2016 RTB win for a single Blackburn triumph were rebuffed, even when I sweetened the pot by throwing in a couple of second place finishes at Sakonnet River, a seventh place at Lighthouse-to-Lighthouse, and a hard-earned DNF at the now defunct Kettle Island Run - a real collector's item. Based on his past East Coast performances and more recent finishes in Hawaii (with Borys ahead, but within a half-dozen coconut throws), Ed was the odds-on favorite on Narragansett Bay. However, I also anticipated strong performances by Jim, John, Chris Laughlin, and Mike Florio.
Wesley's off-color jokes at the captains meeting fell just four paddlers short of being an unqualified success.
Conditions on race day were mild for the area, but still more challenging than anything we had raced in yet this season. Last year I had wisely opted for my V10 Sport, and I was seconds away from pulling out of our driveway with the Sport again. But when an urgent text from Tim informed me that in his 73 years (he looks good, I agree, but based on his grandpappy-level of technological ineptitude, you shouldn't be too surprised), he had never seen water so calm. Seeing the text over my shoulder, Mary Beth threw herself on my V14 like a sergeant taking a hand grenade for her squad. I'd have to make her proud in the V10.
In its short four year history, Ride the Bull has included twenty-seven different courses. This, of course, is due to the race organizers' progressive "pick your own route" policy. Paddlers were free to wander where whimsy directed them, provided that no more than 15% of their journey was of the spiritual variety. Times have changed, however. In an authoritarian effort to stifle originality and drain all the joie clean out of our vivres (without anesthetic, I'll add), Wesley and Tim insisted that all paddlers stick to the designated course. To ensure that everyone complied, we'd complete two laps in a constrained area where a surveillance boat could more easily monitor us for creative route adjustments. In an act of futile (but satisfying) rebellion, during the captains meeting we collectively feigned idiocy in failing to comprehend the instructions. An increasingly frustrated Tim only caught on after the fourth question about whether we should keep buoy G7 to our left, our port, or just round it in a counterclockwise direction.
Was I the only one who wasn't filled with confidence by this?
The course would take us out of West Cove, around a rock inside Mackerel Cove, outside of buoy G7 (huh - none of those options), around buoy G11, and back inside the rocky island at the mouth of West Cove. We'd then repeat that. The course would take us out of West Cove, around a rock inside Mackerel Cove, outside of buoy G7 (huh - still none of those options), around buoy G11, and back inside the rocky island at the mouth of West Cove. We'd break out of this cycle of despair after the second lap and zoom/limp out around G7 (paddlers choice) before returning to the launch area to finish. Although this path would take us just shy of 9 miles, you'd never be out of narking distance of a fellow paddler should you be tempted to defy authority.
Sixteen paddlers soon assembled in West Cove for a rolling start. There was some polite jostling as we made an immediate right turn around Start Rock (not yet the official name, but Wesley is calling in a few favors), but no permanent damage was done. After the turn, Jim, Chris Laughlin, and Andrius Zinkevichus formed one pack on the right, while Tim led his own squad further from shore. Nobody was quite sure what the hell Ed was doing, but he was doing it alone out front.
Despite the extra miles it entailed, Jim, John, and Chris were pleased that they opted for the "Architecture of Jamestown" tour. (Photo courtesy of Pat Sheehan)
Initially, Ed was on a line that would take him into the shallow bay preceding Mackerel Cove. After a couple of us yelled "Left! Left!", he turned nearly 90 degrees in that direction. As near as I could tell, his new heading would have him exiting Narragansett Bay and making landfall in Cuba by mid-August. Naturally, a couple of us hollered "Right!" Which brought him shooting back diagonally across the front of the pack. Was he pranking us? Incapable of incremental adjustment? Drunk? For the safety of all involved, we stopped shouting instructions.
I managed to pull ahead of Jim, Chris, and Andrius as we approached the turn into Mackerel Cove. I was able to trap Ed between my boat and the shore, which effectively kept him wandering too far off course. We'd spend the next seven miles within a few boat lengths of one another, trading the lead a half-dozen times. Although our conversation was mostly one-sided - me providing information on the next way point during the first lap - I feel like we truly bonded during our time together. Not quite so much that I need to send him a Christmas card, but enough to ensure we have a place to stay the next time we want to spend a couple months in Hawaii.
Ed, me, and the only buoy in Narragansett Bay that we were strictly prohibited from rounding. I'm pretty sure all that background activity was added in post-production. (Photo courtesy of Pat Sheehan)
I'm happy to say that while accompanying Ed around the course, I also cracked the mystery of his seemingly erratic behavior after the start. Lobster in the footwell. We locals are accustomed to dealing with the vexing crustaceans, but Ed has been away a long time. I jest, of course. It's like riding a bike. With claws. It turns out that his right-angle turns were only coincidentally related to our shouted directions. Ed is just 30 degrees more aggressive than most of us when it comes to chasing runners. And better at catching them. Him angling out and shooting ahead was a frequent refrain during our travels.
The remainder of the first lap passed uneventfully. During the stretch from G7 to G11, we got an assist from the incoming tide along with a few pleasant rides. As we neared the House on the Rock, the hard edges on the water got smoothed out in a disconcerting way. Flat and glassy... fine. Lumpy and glassy... unnatural and nausea-inducing. At the G11 turn, I could see that Chris L, John, and Jim were in pursuit. During the second lap, I struggled more to keep up with Ed - particularly in the beamy section between Mackerel Cove and G7 - but managed to pull even again as we returned to the House on the Rock. At the second G11 turn, Jim was now in third, but it seemed like we had widened our lead a bit.
Patches of floating weeds were abundant along the course. Although you could avoid some by planning ahead, others were too extensive to maneuver around without DQing yourself. One particularly large mass near Bull Point supported a significant population who were in the process of applying for statehood. Several paddlers were forced to deweed themselves, none in more dramatic fashion than Mike. Unable to shake a virulent clump via conventional means, he dismounted to manually remove them, only to have the rudder harness slip off while the boat was inverted. Without steering, Mike was forced to withdraw.
Through careful analysis of my video, I finally discovered the reason for the power asymmetry in my stroke. Elbow too low on the right.
My weedless rudder kept its promise, but it provided no protection against a more insidious foe. While passing the pier at Fort Cove on the second lap - about 1.5 miles from the finish - I caught a fluorescent fishing line with my paddle. I quickly untangled myself, but apparently the mono-filament had also caught on my rudder. A dozen stroke later, I had taken up the slack in the line, the fisherman on the other end set the hook, and the fight was on. Although I couldn't see him, I'm guessing this guy was strapped into a fighting chair on the pier, because my attempts to pull him in were futile. I tried back-paddling to free myself, to no avail. Unless I got help fast, I'd soon find myself mounted and hanging in a Jamestown bar. Some of my surfski buddies would show up occasionally to toast my memory ("I'm right here guys! Just help me down! Guys!"), but they'd gradually forget me, I'd grow dusty and maybe lose a couple of fingers, and when the bar gets converted into a yoga studio twenty years down the road, I'd end up in a dumpster fending off raccoons. Fortunately, Ed rescued me from this musty fate, rafting alongside and prying the line free.
With jeers and curses following from the jetty, we eventually moved onward. Although Jim had drawn within a few lengths during the fishing line delay, I assumed that the lively seas would continue to throw him off his game enough that he wouldn't be a threat. With Ed slowly pulling ahead in the final out-and-back leg to G7, my concentration was in keeping him close enough to be able to comfortably use the phrases "nipped at the line" or "nosed out" when writing about my inevitable defeat. Let's say 20 lengths or less. During the upwind run to G7 I got the peripheral impression that Jim might not be complying with my assumptions, but I couldn't afford to divert my attention from Ed ahead.
Having lost their way, Tim and Chris search frantically for the course. (Photo courtesy of Pat Sheehan)
By the time I hove around the buoy, Jim was finally within spitting distance. In retrospect, that effort to demonstrate my scorn at his open-water abilities kind of back-fired. A highly motivated Jim proceeded to school me during the half-mile downwind back to the finish. In our matching V10s, he looked more comfortable than I felt. For a time I worried that by stoking Jim's competitive fire to such a degree I might have actually endangered Ed's lead (which seemed a harsh repayment for his sportsmanship), but the latter held on to snag the victory. Only twenty seconds after I claimed third place, a hard-charging Chris L pulled in, with John less than a minute behind him. Mary Beth easily took the top spot among woman.
Despite the mellower-than-usual conditions, the latest course was a success. Everyone agreed that being able to track the progress of their fellow paddlers along the loop course somehow fostered both competition and esprit de corps (to replace that lost joie). It's a shame that the bylaws require that a novel route be devised for 2018, but what can you do? Get involved. Write your local race organizer. Change begins with you! That's not really relevant here. But stasis also begins with you!
Wesley starts the third lap. (Photo courtesy of Pat Sheehan)
Thanks to Wesley and Tim for launching us into the summer season with pizzazz. And to photographer Pat Sheehan, who captured the beautiful on-the-water shots highlighted above (and many more - check them out).
Next up on is Eric McNett's 17 mile pleasure cruise through the magical islands of Maine's Casco Bay. Remember, if you just keep heading northeast, you'll probably end up back on the mainland. That's June 24. Register for the Casco Bay Challenge at PaddleGuru. We then have a weekend off before Tim's Jamestown Double Beaver on July 8. Guess where to register... That's right, at participating Taco Bells. If you can't find one, try PaddleGuru.
