US Surfski Championships: Westward Whoa!

Each time I told land-based friends or family members that I was heading out to the US Surfski Championships, I allowed myself several seconds to enjoy the grudging admiration they expressed at finding that I was competing at the national level (while ignoring the raised eyebrows of obvious surprise).  I then felt guiltily compelled, however, to point out that the qualifying criteria were limited to ponying up a registration fee and making your way to San Francisco.  I took no offense at the inevitable replies of "No wonder!" and "Now it makes sense...", but was a little hurt that my dad was doubtful that I could even get to California on my own.

I'd be participating in two races in the Bay Area, both organized by WaveChasers - a local paddling group.  On Wednesday evening there'd be a warm-up competition in the waters south of San Francisco.  Then on Saturday morning the championship race would have us starting in the Pacific, going under the Golden Gate Bridge, and crossing the Bay to end at in Berkeley.  Mary Beth wouldn't be racing, but she'd accompany me on my mission as a one-person support team.  A Robin to my Batman, you might say.  Assuming that Robin's duties consisted primarily of apologizing for Batman's social blunders, assuring him that the Joker was laughing with him, and occasionally cutting his steak.

Better get a beverage and some Twinkies.  This is a long one.  You're going to wonder if it's supposed to be a real-time account.

Our trip out West didn't start auspiciously.  Discovering that paddles could not be taken as carry-on luggage, I had obsessed for weeks over how best to safely transport them, eventually settling on checking them within a hard-sided gun case.  Not wanting to attract the wrong kind of attention, I had plastered the case with stickers that said "Paddle Inside" and "Kayak Equipment".  This had roughly the same impact as dressing a rabid pit bull in one of those plaid poodle vests.  Responses at the airport ran the gamut from people casting nervous glances over their shoulders to diving for cover.  In retrospect, perhaps I shouldn't have worn my novelty bandolier.

After assuring most of the United employees in Boston that I was not, in fact, checking a firearm, I checked my paddle, caught up with Mary Beth (who took a heck of a long time tying her shoe out at the curb, now that I think of it), and proceeded to airport security.  Upon advice of counsel, I won't go into the details of a subsequent incident involving an allegedly oversize carry-on bag.  Oh - not legal counsel.  Mary Beth's counsel.  She feels that I'm likely to embarrass myself enough elsewhere in this report without revealing how exactly I managed to get blood on half the clothes in my bag.

Borys and Beata prepping their skis

Arriving in San Francisco on Wednesday morning, we made our way to the start of that day's race - just south of the airport near Coyote Point.  I met up with Kenny Powell of California Canoe & Kayak, who was providing me with the V10 Sport I'd be using for both races.  Nice guy, Kenny, but something of an enabler for wide-eyed out-of-towners in over their heads.  The rest of the Northeast gang filtered in - Tim Dwyer, Jim Hoffman, Borys & Beata (last names withheld to protect their privacy), and Craig Impens.  In the opposite of a surprising twist, Jan Lupinski showed up 10 minutes before race time in street clothes and without a boat, and yet somehow ended up beating me by 20 minutes.  Although not as packed with superstars as Saturday's race would be, we'd be paddling against such notables as Oscar Chalupsky, Greg Barton, and Sean & Kenny Rice.

We would be racing on a shortened version of last year's Championship course - one of the most reliable downwind paddles in the country.  After rounding Coyote Point, we'd head south under the highest span of the San Mateo bridge, continue another 4 miles deeper into the bay, then angle right into Redwood Creek (which sounds a lot more appealing than it actually is), finishing at the Bair Island Aquatic Center (affectionately known as BIAC by locals, and as "Oh sweet Jesus, the end" by me).  While the Championship race would include the glamor of the Golden Gate Bridge and spectacular views of San Francisco, Alcatraz, and the Berkeley hills, Wednesday's course was decidedly less scenic.  Nobody ever asks a passerby to take their photo in front of a slough.

Greg Barton getting some last minute pointers from Tim

I usually use a paddle leash.  I wasn't about to take any chances in California though, so I instead broke out my leg leash and had it surgically attached to my tibia.  Then I got nervous, thinking that in the inevitable high-speed capsize, I might inadvertently rely on a non-existent paddle leash while shielding my head from the impact (figured I'd tuck and roll).  You can never have too many loose lines, I thought, as I rigged up the second leash.

Shortly after 5, a crowd of 40-some skis hit the water as SFO-bound jets streamed low overhead.  Two chase boats maneuvered into position to define the starting line, and we were off.  Although we all presumably were headed for the same initial waypoint - the center span of the San Mateo bridge - a spectator couldn't be blamed for assuming our mission was to fan out and reconnoiter the lower reaches of San Francisco Bay.  No two boats seemed to be on the same line, so I followed their lead and claimed a bearing for myself (114 degrees, if my compass was true).

Evidently my line wasn't as unique as I had thought.  I found myself close to Beata a few minutes after the start.  I've managed to stay in front of her this season in the placid waters back east, but she's clearly the better rough water paddler.  If I could keep her in sight, I'd be doing well.  Turns out I couldn't, and I wasn't, but I did manage to stay with her for the first couple of miles.

As the locals had promised (or warned, depending on your perspective), once we got out into the main channel approaching the San Mateo Bridge, the conditions intensified.  A wind-versus-tide conflict magnified and steepened the waves, such that I found myself in seas twice as large (and, say, eight times as terrifying - it's an exponential relation) as anything I had ever previously encountered.  We'll occasionally have conditions like this back home, but we're generally too busy boarding up our windows to get out on the water.

Through a combination of blind luck, the stability of the V10 Sport, and a few well-placed prayers, I managed to string together several spectacular runs (while simultaneously losing ground to the paddlers ahead of me, granted, but they still felt spectacular).  Lacking the sense or skill to cut diagonally down the waves, I seemed in constant danger of burying my bow.  While crawling out on the back deck to avoid this, I had visions of being pitch-poled high over the next wave, my boat pausing momentarily behind me until the leash bungees pulled taut and hurled a carbon-kevlar javelin in my direction.

That Wile E. Coyote scenario didn't quite come to pass, but as I pushed too hard to hop on a particularly vengeful wave, I flipped in a convincing fashion.  I was safely tethered to the boat (and paddle!), wearing a PFD, dressed appropriately for the water temperature, and have never lost a single crew member in dozens of prior boating mishaps.  In short, I was in no actual danger.  Despite all of this, a casual observer to the scene would have assumed that an epileptic non-swimmer had been tipped into arctic seas wearing only a speedo.  Overwhelmed by senseless panic, I swallowed a good mouthful of seawater (calms the nerves) and scrambled crazily to get out of the water.  Not only did I forget everything I ever learned about getting back on a ski, my initial wild-eyed attempt at remounting demonstrated a twitchy lack of coordination more typically associated with marionettes than 38 year old athletes (or 47 year old wannabes, for that matter).  At one point I believe I had both feet in the bucket and one arm passed through the foot strap (try that, Howdy Doody).

If executed correctly, a panicked frenzy is self-limiting - you'll quickly find yourself too exhausted to keep up the manic outbursts.  Calming myself in this fashion, my third remount attempt was successful.  As I sat astride my ski, catching my breath and getting my bearings, a fellow racer cruising by asked if I was OK.  I shouted out a resolute "I think so?" and watched him speed downwind.  It was at about this point that I realized that I was essentially lashed to the boat.  My leg leash was wrapped around the hull, my paddle leash was wrapped around the leg leash, and both were coiled around various appendages.  Those marionette cracks were coming back to haunt me.  I had chewed halfway through my leg before, to my chagrin, I realized I could just undo one end of the leash to untangle the cords.  I slipped my surly bonds and was free.

My GPS indicates that from the time I went over until I started paddling again was only about two minutes, but that malicious little flapcrapper lies all the time about my speed, so I'm not sure why I should believe it in this instance.  Despite being a little shaken by my quarter hour adventure, I screwed up what little courage I had left and threw myself back downwind.  I passed under the San Mateo Bridge without incident, and my race went reasonably well for the next couple of miles. 

Several other paddlers later corroborated a phenomenon that I thought I might have been imagining.  The alignment of the wind, course direction, and sun meant that you would be alerted to a particularly large wave approaching not by your stern lifting suddenly, but by an ominous shadow that stole over you as the wave blotted out the low-lying sun.  More than once I took advantage of this advance warning system to power up in preparation for the wave itself.  I was catching a reasonable number of runs - at least enough to help minimize the amount of time I was losing to the rest of the field.

With 3 miles of downwind left, however, I started to lose the rhythm.  Or perhaps I had grown so fatigued from chasing down uncatchable waves that every wave now fell in that category.  There was a lot of wallowing, supplemented by a healthy dose of swamping and peppered with salty language.  I went over once more, and spent so much time sloshing around in a bucket full of water that I had to periodically stop to scrape the barnacles off my thighs.  Talk about chafing...

Craig didn't need a single stroke to complete the downwind course

Although most of the racers were dressed in fluorescent hues of eye-searing brightness, and thus were visible for quite some distance, these guiding lights had gradually been blinking out ahead of me over the course of the race.  Increasingly enveloped in metaphorical darkness (with literal darkness not that far behind, if my understanding of celestial mechanics wasn't off base), it was getting downright lonely in the rushing sea.  Ultimately, I was left with a single lodestar - a snake-striped Huki two dozen lengths ahead of me.  Fearful of being unable to find the turn into Redwood Creek on my own, I flogged the water mercilessly in an attempt to maintain contact.  Although our long-distance relationship was tested over the next couple of miles, we ultimately made it through the trying times.

Before the race, I had heard some jaded locals grumbling about the 3 miles of flat water that marred the finish of their otherwise unblemished downwind course.  They failed to note that today we'd have the added indignity of paddling these flats against both the tide and wind.  By the time I got to Redwood Creek (a delightful name that I have to assume was given ironically), however, I was so grateful to be free from the uncooperative waves that even the subsequent sub-6 mph slog couldn't dampen my spirits.  I even managed to pass a few boats.

As I approached the finish at BIAC, two mystery boats emerged from the twilight gloom to knock me back to my rightful place in the results (32nd!  But also last in my age group!).  It was Borys Markin and Greg Barton - an unlikely pair to join me in finishing nearly 45 minutes after the winner (Australia's Greg Tobin).  Greg and Borys had gotten lost in the tangled estuaries, and would perhaps still be haunting the sloughs now but for a few strategic portages through sucking mud.  With any luck, the fog of time will erase this truth - leaving my 1.8 second loss to a double gold medalist unsullied by nuance.

Nosed out yet again by Greg Barton...

Fortunately, the rest of the East Coast gang picked up my slack.  Jan finished an impressive 14th (at 1:57:39), with Craig (15th, 1:57:53) and Jim (17th, 1:58:54) close on his heels.  Beata took 1st among the women and 20th overall (2:06:03).  Despite stopping midway to touch up his hair and make-up for the photo shoot, Tim smiled his way to 28th place (2:14:48).  I was an exhausted 32nd (2:18:49).  It wasn't quite the indoctrination to West Coast paddling that I had hoped for (I figured there'd be more wine and avocados involved), but at least now I had an all-consuming dread of Saturday's race.

You can view the excellent WaveChaser photos of the event here (including many good shots of Jim, Tim, and me - I'm in the last few of the set, while Jim and Tim are about halfway through).

We're twenty paragraphs in and it's still only Wednesday.  You have to pace yourself.  Take a short break.  I'll wait.

The Northeast gang.  Jan, ever the shy one, wouldn't look up for the photo.

Let's see if I can squeeze the two off-days into a single paragraph.  On Thursday Mary Beth and I drove up to Muir Woods, only to discover that it's bad policy to place a awe-inspiring national monument a half-hour drive from a major metropolitan area.  We settled for scoping out the Muir Beach start, driving up Route 1 along the coast, and grabbing some beer at Russian River Brewing (the US Champion of breweries, with all due respect to Craig Impens and the estimable Stone Brewing) in Santa Rosa.  On Friday - demo day at Shorebird Park - I got an early jump on my Christmas list.  Can't wait to see what's sticking out of my chimney come December.  Tim and I shared some quality time with defending champion Sean Rice.  Sure, it was in the context of a paid clinic, but I'm pretty sure he would've wanted to hang out with us regardless.  Sean's a really nice guy and a skilled instructor.  He may also be the youngest person I've ever met.  The day concluded with a race meeting at which Carter Johnson (a legendary local paddler who apparently lives out of his surfski across the Bay in Sausalito) told us horror stories about the unspeakable fates that await those that try to cut either Point Bonita (death, maiming, etc.) or the Angel Island nun (disqualification, shaming, etc.) in a manner that suggested that he thought the latter had more serious repercussions.

Chumming with the Champ

Congratulations.  You've made it to race day.  After catching shuttles to an overcast Muir Beach, we lined up our skis and engaged in our individual pre-race rituals.  Lacking any goats to sacrifice (see above comment about over-sized carry-on incident at airport), I offered up 83 cents and half a Snickers to a shabby bearded guy with a trident tattoo sleeping on the beach - presumably a human manifestation of Neptune.  I had managed to keep my nerves at bay until this point, but now felt an unbearable pressure in the chest and shooting pains in my left arm.  That's normal, right?

The course was similar to that of 2012.  After leaving Muir Beach, we'd paddle south along the coast to Point Bonita - a dramatic be-lighthoused headland that protects the mouth of the Bay.  Turning eastward, we'd pass under the Golden Gate Bridge and make our way towards Angel Island.  After passing between the island and the green nun, we'd head for the finish at Shorebird Park in Berkeley, picking our way through a gap in the derelict Berkeley Pier on our way.  Several miles into the race, a hotspot awaited one of the superskis.

A good part of my anxiety about competing in the Championships had been focused on the surf launch at the start.  All anyone had to say to me was "Joe Glickman's paddle", and I'd retreat whimpering to the nearest high ground.  Fortunately, that phrase doesn't come up all that often.  For weeks before the race I had woken in a salty sweat from nightmares in which I was frantically trying to reassemble a surf-crushed boat.  Mary Beth's prank of sneaking a busted up ski bow into bed with me one night didn't help matters.  So it was with great relief that I saw that the surf at Muir Beach was minimal.  I launched without any life-threatening issues.

Muir Beach a couple of hours before the start

The strong field of women paddlers were sent off 5 minutes before the men.  Once they were away, I settled into a starting position in the back-most third of the men's flotilla.  Before my mouth even had a chance to fully dry out, the starter set us loose.  My start was typically slow, but unlike most races, I wasn't able to pick off any overly optimistic paddlers during the first mile.  I was in the big leagues now.  Well, maybe not quite in the league - more like attending fantasy camp with the pros.

The field quickly divided into two hordes - one on an inner line aimed at the hot spot and the other apparently heading for Big Sur.  Figuring you only get so many opportunities to be lost at sea, I chose to follow the outer group.  At a safe distance, naturally - no reason to risk a pile-up this early in the race.  As we progressed south toward the mouth of the Bay, conditions grew increasingly beamy.  Nothing too daunting, but sloppy enough to dull my form and keep my speed down to a sluggish (quick glance at GPS, followed by double-take at GPS)... 8.6 mph!?!  Even well outside the mouth, we were being sucked inexorably into the Bay by the flooding tide.

Start of the men's race

For Wednesday's race I could blame poor performance on my country bumpkin ignorance of big city conditions - I was quite literally in over my head.  Now I was in a stable boat in pig slop that was only slightly more distasteful than what I'd often wallowed in back on the farm.  There could be only one explanation as to why I was steadily losing ground to so many faster paddlers.

Even as we passed Point Bonita, the inscrutable (and invisible - at least to me) leaders of the outside pack continued their southerly charge across the mouth of the bay.  I watched longingly as the insiders rounded the point and started eastward on a direct line to the left stanchion of the Golden Gate Bridge.  When I had just about given up hope that I'd ever be flattened by boat traffic in the Bay, I noticed a string of skis in our group finally turning sharply to the left.  As I've never been hesitant to tell people - I eschew right angles (a mantra that explains both why I failed shop class and why I got punched a lot in shop class).   Figuring I'd take advantage of my God-given right as a straggler, I angled diagonally left to cut the corner.  Doing some rough trigonometry in my head, I figured I'd soon be in the lead.

As it turns out, the trailblazers of the outside pack weren't as geometrically challenged as I had suspected.  They had circumnavigated (or, more accurately, rectu... never mind) a minefield of jagged waves arriving from every conceivable direction (and a few I hadn't previously even considered).  I had not.  Struggling to make significant progress beyond what the ever-present tidal boost was providing, and in danger of losing several fillings, I decided that I might perhaps embrace right angles after all.  If they were good enough for Pythagoras, Tron, and Pac-Man, who was I to make waves?  I adjusted my course accordingly, and soon escaped certain jouncing.

In the smaller races that I'm used to, you generally have a good sense of where you stand at any given time.  You keep updating a mental model of your place in the race as it progresses.  In the Championships, however, that mental model was elegantly simple.  At about the 3rd mile I arrived at a unnerving realization:  I'm in last place.  The other 90-some paddlers are now ahead of me.  I am the single worst paddler in this race.  I didn't take this punch to the ego well at first (there were tearful lamentations), but eventually came to peace with it.  Just after settling into my new-found role as a sad-sack loser, I was shocked to see a Fenn trying to slip me to the left.  I'm not in last place!  I can redeem myself!  For the next couple of minutes, I threw everything I had into holding off this challenger, but it was ultimately fruitless - he passed and pulled away.  Alright, now I'm in last place.  And I progressed again through the painful process of coming to grips with my lowly status.  This sequence was to repeat itself probably 25 times during the next dozen miles - the final iteration as I took a swim 200 meters from the finish while desperately trying to stay ahead of yet another threat.

In retrospect, I probably wasn't in last place any of those times.

Rejoining the outer pack (as a fringe member, of course), I eventually found myself nearly in the middle of Golden Gate Strait, pointing directly at the center of the bridge, still more than 2 miles away.  Over the next fifteen minutes, the majestic bridge loomed larger and higher, until finally I passed into the Bay.  No matter how many times I paddle under the Golden Gate Bridge, I still get chills.  And thanks to the glorious leaders of the Outsiders, I didn't have to slink by shamefacedly just meters from the northern shore.  I understand the Insiders don't even get lifetime access to the Gater Club VIP lane.

Since I had made the turn into the Bay, I had been catching odd runners.  The downwind conditions continued to improve as I passed under the bridge, but these were frequently interrupted by capricious patches which had apparently decided to opt out of the prevailing trends.  I found myself
paddling through various fantastical realms: an area the size of a football field with choppy little standing waves, a zone of almost glassy smoothness, an elliptical zone populated by talking seahorses (it's possible that I hadn't been hydrating properly).  During this fevered time, I could see more adventurous paddlers ahead of me, zigzagging crazily in search of the best downwind conditions - sometimes in a direction literally perpendicular to the direct line.  I was content to aim for Angel Island, accepting whatever freaky conditions the Bay deigned to give me.

I had been warned by race officials, area paddlers, and a bizarre anonymous 3am phone call that the Bay would be clogged with boating traffic.  Other than flotsam-to-be surfskis, I mean.  There would be throngs of cargo ships, pleasure boats, tour boats, and sailboats - all of whom would like nothing better than to continue their disbelief in the phenomena (so-called) of self-powered craft.  Although 97% of surfski paddlers insist that they do in fact exist, these kayak denialists would look right through you as they plowed your boat under, perhaps remarking idly that the wind in the rigging can sometimes sound just like human screams.  Despite all this, I had but a single close encounter - a handsome sailing vessel of some size, whose captain had striking hazel eyes (a fleck of blue in the left) and who had recently dined on what I believe may have been garlic scampi.

Fearful of missing the Angel Island nun, I had to force myself to constantly correct to the left lest lust for downwind speed lead me too far off course.  As if to underscore a lesson on the direct line not necessarily being the fastest, just before I arrived at the nun a ski sliced ahead of me from the right, made a sharp turn around the buoy, and headed home for Shorebird Park.

Jim finishing strong and scenic

We now had 6 miles of unadulterated downwind ahead.  The waves were bigger than what I was accustomed to by a fair margin, but not nearly as awe-inspiring as Wednesday's behemoths.  They were manageable.  Surely in a stable boat like the Sport I could string together a solid 6 miles of paddling to cap off my trip.  Let's do this!

To be fair to myself, I can't imagine, say, a baboon in a ski handling this stretch as well as I did.  I linked together several reasonable runs.  None of my 3 remounts concluded with me trussed to the boat.  I was mostly continent.  However, I was also passed by a dozen or so paddlers, some of whom appeared to be napping at the time.  If there was any doubt before about the soft underbelly of my surfski skills, this downwind evisceration revealed my, uh, Achilles' heel.  Nevertheless, I was having a blast.

It was difficult to see the rotting husk of the derelict Berkeley Pier (a 3.5 mile long boondoggle that saw just 12 years of service before clogging up the Bay for the subsequent 75 years), but I eventually spotted it and surfed through one of the gaps.  Once on the other side, the finish was a straight shot just a mile ahead.  Just 3 more people overtaking me ahead.  Just one spill ahead.  Just one gut-busting sprint ahead.

I'm almost home

I finished my first Championships at 2:02:33.7 in 76th place - nearly 30 minutes behind winner Sean Rice (call me, buddy!), who repeated as champion by beating Jasper Mocke by 7 seconds.  Despite my downwind troubles, I had averaged 8.2 mph for a 17 mile journey.  You can do the math for Sean.  The after-race consensus was that the outside line into the Bay was superior, despite adding a half-mile to the course.  Those closer to shore had to contend with eddies and a less robust tidal flow.

I again served as sweeper for the East Coast Crew.  Without Greg Barton to lead him astray, Borys finished a solid 24th (1:45:26), and was the 7th US paddler in.  Beata made the podium by finishing 3rd among women (54th overall, 1:55:59).  Jan (53rd, 1:54:58), Jim (54th, 1:55:20), and Beata showed impressive solidarity in finishing within 61 seconds of each other.  Rounding out the crew were Craig (60th, 1:57:18) and Tim (66th, 1:59:17).  Our Blackburn friends Dorian Wolter and Reid Hyle finished 11th and 20th, respectively, with Dorian being the 2nd US finisher.

The big guns - Sean Rice, Jasper Mocke, Clint Robinson, Dawid Mocke, and Austin Kieffer

After landing my boat and chatting for a while with other competitors, there was no sign of Mary Beth.  She had a thankless week (oh hey, thanks, by the way) as my driver, equipment manager, medic, and motivational coach, so I wondered if she had perhaps decided to take off for some much-deserved R&R in Napa.  I finally found her at the finish line, searching the seas in vain for one final paddler - she hadn't seen me finish.  To her credit, she did a good job of at least appearing relieved to find me whole.

I had a great time in California.  Of the 100 best runs I've had in my life, 97 of them came in this trip.  I can't say that I wasn't disappointed in my performance, but that's just one facet of the experience.  I got to hang out with my paddling buddies, met a lot of great people (including a college friend's wife's sister's husband's brother - small world), learned a little something about paddling (left-right-left-right - who knew?), and had the opportunity to see San Francisco Bay from a perspective that not many people can boast of.   Thanks to all hard-working WaveChaser crew for making such a fantastic event possible.

You can view many more photos of the trip here.

Jamestown Double Beaver: Nope

I can't with good conscience write another race report for an event in which I didn't really compete.  So let's get started.  The Jamestown Double Beaver has reduced better men than I to tearful bargaining with their deities.  I'd be perfectly willing to name names, but I've really backed myself in a corner with that "better" qualifier.  This year, however, the primary threat the course offered was probably that of drowning in your bucket.  Heavy rains were the order of the day, reducing visibility and carrying the possibility of thunderstorms.  A series of hushed and hesitant whispers were heard in the hour before the race, slowly gaining traction until a resounding chorus echoed through the land...  The race must be shortened!

Betsy and Alyce, shown here chuckling at us poor saps about to get soaked out on the course, ultimately got their soggy comeuppance on the chase boat and finish dock.

As per standard Rhode Island racing rules, a Petition of Course Adjustment was proffered, seconded, signed by a super majority, notarized by a Taco Bell employee (some kind of promotional arrangement, I figure), and accepted by the race commissioner.  Rather than not going around Whale Rock accidentally, this year we would not be going around Whale Rock purposefully.  To balance things out, Mary Beth would be given the option of rounding Whale Rock, provided, of course, that she did so by mistake.  Since Whale Rock wasn't in play, we'd turn around Beavertail can instead.  The course change would shorten the race from 12 miles (give or take 0.5 miles) to 10 miles.

Under Mike's patient guidance, Tim finally masters paddle assembly.  Next up - shepherding young Dwyer past the training wheel stage.

With a steady rain falling, we huddled under the small pavilion at the Conanicut Yacht Club as Tim handed out our survival kits and explained the contingencies he'd prepared for dampness-related emergencies.  I couldn't hear his explanations over the ruckus of the Double Beaver commemorative towel snap-fight that inevitably erupted amongst the Ocean Paddlesports East hooligans.  As a result, I spent a baffling ten minutes trying unsuccessfully to mix up a sports drink from what turned out to be desiccant packets.  In my defense, they only said "Do not eat" [emphasis added, but implied].

Rather than fight the elements, Tim chose to welcome them with open arms.  In gracious return, they clobbered him.

There's not much I can say about the actual race.  In deference to my supposed injury, I had decided (a) to use Mary Beth's V10 Sport (at an exorbitant rental rate, naturally) so as to have a stable platform, (b) limit my heart rate to fixed value X as a method to avoid over-exertion that might exacerbate any alleged strain, and (c) adopt a healthy attitude of "participation" rather than of "competition".  Alyce called out the start from the dock and next thing you know I'm 3 miles into the race in last place, with the leaders (and most of the followers) well out of sight.  I discovered that (a) while the V10 Sport is more stable than theV10, it isn't quite as stable as lying at home on the couch, (b) for a fixed value, X sure found a way to keep increasing, and (c) while participation may be fine for Hands Across America and the Census, my wiring is tuned more to competition when it comes to pretty much anything else (and scratch the Census from that list - when the 2010 results are made public in 2082, you'll all see that I crushed it).

In a rare show of common sense (albeit primarily driven by frustration and peevishness - as are most of my decisions), I turned around and sulked my way back to the Yacht Club.  Despite the fact that I only did about 7 miles of the course, it was only a matter of minutes before Borys materialized at the finish.  In due time, he was followed by Eric (McNett), Andrius, Beata, Jim, and the 15 other paddlers.  Amazingly, everyone had continued racing despite my devastating withdrawal.  They're troupers, I'll give 'em that.

While a bungee cord around the hull is sufficient for most of us, Borys' resistance training requires a little more planning.

There's apparently been some misunderstanding about the pool of miles that Joe Glickman has accumulated via the successful OMMFG campaign.  I was under the impression that it was like one of those "leave-a-penny, take-a-penny" dishes at the Sunoco station.  With the recent change in exchange rates, my 7 miles put me just 3 miles shy of a full double beaver.  So I figured I'd just take a few miles from the Glicker pool and, voila... everybody's happy and I win the race.  Unfortunately, there was universal push-back on this self-serving interpretation.  It was to be a DDNF (the extra D for "Dishonorable").  As a consolation, however, I was given a handsome participant ribbon.

Extra thanks this year to those who sacrificed their Saturday to support the race, only to get water-logged by the Double Beaver - Finn, Alyce, and Betsy.

Blackburn Challenge: Reporting from the Sidelines

I wasn't sure about the protocol for writing a race summary when you technically didn't paddle in the race.  So I consulted the handbook.  And as stated clearly in the Surfski Blogger Union (Local 214) Bylaws, Section 5, Subsection B, Paragraph 6: "Members may only write about races in which they officially competed."  I remember all too well what befell Jimmy "Paddle Prattle" Flaherty when he suggested that closed cockpit kayaks had their advantages (a blatant violation of union rules), and I didn't want to end up sleeping with the fishes.  It took Jimmy a month to get the mackerel scent out of his linens.  I consulted my rep and he assured me that because a household member did actually compete, that the board would probably look the other way.

I had suspected for some time that my body was out to get me.  You can only wake up gasping so many times with your own hands around your throat before putting two and two together.  A week prior to the Blackburn I was minding my own business paddling on Chebacco Lake when my mutinous body (torso division) jammed a monkey wrench into my race plans.  Strained oblique.  And this after all I had done for myself.

Once I established that I wasn't going to race, I directed my usual anticipatory energy to more useful tasks.  Namely, working tirelessly on my finish order predictions.  For those competitors I wasn't personally familiar with, I consulted a splendid new site, Surfski America, to compare their performances.  I figured Borys - snakebit the last couple of years - would probably get his first Blackburn win, with Brian Kummer from Southern California a strong candidate for 2nd place.  Third place looked wide open.  Seemed like Eric McNett (two-time top 5 finisher), Jack Van Dorp (5th last year), Brian Heath (ten top 5s), and Craig Impens (2010 champion), and Jim Mallory (first ocean race of any kind, but deadly fast on flats) all had legitimate podium chances.  Oscar Chalupsky and Joe Glickman were a virtual lock to take the doubles title.

Speaking of Joe... It's no secret that beating Joe has been a particular focus of mine.  And by "focus" I mean "pathological obsession".  I thought I had beat his personal best in the CRASH-B indoor rowing competition this year, only to be crushed to find afterwards that he had a much better time that I hadn't been aware of (an unassailable 6:20.3 - come on).  This was going to be my year on the water though.  I was trained up and had already brainstormed some humiliating quips to shout over my shoulder as I pulled away from Joe in the Blackburn.  I must have had him running scared since he (needlessly, as it turns out!) jumped over to doubles.  All inappropriate joking aside (OMJFG!), I'm going to need you to race a single next year, Joe.

Mary Beth, flaunting her healthiness.

Without the gnawing anxiety that usually casts a pall over my Blackburn race morning, I was finally able to actually enjoy the gnawing anxiety of everyone else at Gloucester High School.  As word of my imminent DNS got around (that is, as I cornered paddler after paddler and forced upon them my tale of woe), I was touched at people's genuine displays of disappointment for me.  Except Bill Kuklinski, who couldn't stop laughing - apparently a little bitter about all those PFD jokes.

Before the race, I met Brian Kummer.  I was disappointed to find that he wasn't a strapping lad whose speed I could attribute to the vigor of youth, but a mustachioed gentleman perhaps a few years older than me (and I don't care what Local 214 has to say about the use of the term "mustachioed").  Still strapping, to be sure.  If I was a captain in a game of Shirts versus Skins versus Zombie Hordes, Brian would be my first pick.  Then maybe Joe Shaw - that guy is indestructible.  I'd probably go for some land speed next.  Let's say Matt Drayer.  Then hand weapon proficiency.  Gotta be Ken Cooper - I'm pretty sure he's CIA.  Mary Beth would probably be pretty unhappy with me if she ended up undead, so guess I better grab her next.  So after her... hold on, feel like I might be going a little off-topic here.  Right.  Brian.  We had a nice chat before the race during which I extracted a promise from him to help me with the surf launch at the US Championships in a few weeks.

After seeing Mary Beth off from the High School (they grow up so fast), I drove up to the starting line.  I got there just in time to see the doubles' start.  Oscar and Joe accelerated off the line so fast that I instinctively grabbed a piling to brace myself for the resulting shock wave.  After the SK and FSK classes got underway, 51 skis (and the lone racing kayak of Brian H. - I feel like maybe we should take up a collection for him) jockeyed for starting positions.  A single tear of disappointment rolled down my cheek.  And then they were off.  I was surprised by how peaceful the start was from the dock.  Sure, there was the exciting visual of blades whirring and water flying, but from afar the scene didn't betray the visceral mayhem I knew the paddlers were enveloped in - boats rubbing, paddles scraping, oaths exchanged (and not the good kind, like pledges of eternal friendship).

Let's see.  Ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, Brian Heath, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski, ski.

Once the skis had cleared the first bend, I raced up the long dock and back to my car, hoping to catch the leaders in Annisquam as they left the river for the open sea.  There's no public access to the shore in Annisquam (a neighborhood so protective of its privacy that Tim Dwyer has to be blind-folded to visit his in-laws there - and not just when arriving or leaving), but I managed to find a stretch of road from which I could see a narrow wedge of ocean.  Sitting in my car with a pair of binoculars, I suspected I might be drawing some suspicion, but I had to stay true to my mission.

Within seconds of my arrival, a black and yellow blur swept across my binocular lenses.  NASA may have some optical tracking equipment capable of keeping a with-the-tide Borys in frame, but it was pointless for me to try.  Several moments later (solid moments - like enough time to really feel the burrowing stares of the locals), a glorious squadron of skis appeared, skimming by in precision formation.  The draft was so tight that I had trouble identifying the individual pilots, but I think it was Brian K, Jack (whom you may remember better as Floppy Hat), Craig, Jim, and Eric.  Brian H and Kurt Kuehnel might also have been in the mix - or at least very close behind.

A short while after that, other knots and clusters of skis sailed through my viewport - Peter Kahn, Joe Shaw, Tom Buzzell, Chris Laughlin, Wesley Echols, Todd Furstoss, Beata Cseke, and Tim Dwyer (although not necessarily in that order).  I couldn't afford to wait for the rest of the field.  I needed the time to transfer over to Halibut Point, where I'd be able to see the racers up close as they turned to head down the south side of Cape Ann.  Plus the Annisquam natives were arming themselves with torches and garden tools while throwing me increasingly hostile looks (as well as what I think was an over-ripe kumquat).

I arrived at the Halibut Point overlook just in time to see Borys flash by, 48 minutes and 7 miles from the start.  That's an average speed of, let me see... freakishly fast.  Or 8.75 mph if you're the quantitative type.  I hustled down from the overlook to the actual point, where I discovered an uncomfortable Chris Chappell videotaping the passing paddlers.  Perhaps, like me, your senses have recently been overloaded by the resulting 53 autoplaying video snippets in your Facebook feed.  You can disable that feature, by the way.

Jack Van Dorp, Craig Impens, Jim Mallory, and some poor, discouraged soul in a workboat.

With several miles elapsed since my last snapshot of the race, I figured the field would be a little more strung out.  Sure enough, Brian K had opened up a 30 second lead on his former squad mates.  Craig and Jim were drafting off of Jack, with Eric rejoining them after taking a tight turn around Halibut Point.  Brian H pulled by less than a minute later, with Kurt not far behind.  Peter & Joe, Tom, Chris & Wesley, Todd & Tim & Beata, and Matt Drayer followed to flesh out the all-important top 17.  In the SS20+ category, Ken Cooper had a dozen boat length lead on a chasing pack of Dana Gaines, Jay Appleton, and Bill Kuklinski.

Chris and I cheered on the remaining ski paddlers, singing a particular rousing fight song to spur on Mary Beth on her quest to beat Timmy Shields ("On to victory Mary Beth! Timmy's run clean out of breath." and so on).  I'm not saying Chris was flat, but that's the only reason I can think of to explain MB's ultimate defeat in the home stretch.  Once the last ski had passed, I hightailed it for Loblolly Point - 11.5 miles into the course, opposite the twin lights of Thatcher Island.  The authorities neglected to clear the roads as I had (wink, wink) requested (two dollar bills don't grow on trees, you know), meaning I spent most of the trip stuck behind tourists looking for non-existent parking in Rockport.  By the time I arrived at Loblolly, the top 20 skis had already gone by.  Rather than panic, I did a little vexation jig, and then reassessed my viewing plan.

Bruce Deltorchio, Richard Germain, Tom Kerr, and Bob Capellini.  A few minutes later, these guys were the straws that finally broke the spirit of the poor soul from the previous photo.

It was off to the Back Shore along Atlantic Road - about 15.5 miles into the race.  As I arrived I caught the barest hint of Borys in the distance - a mythical paddling beast you only ever see out of the corner of your eye.  I joined a crowd of anxious spectators scanning the heartless sea for loved ones, as generations have done before on these storied shores.  Maybe with slightly less at stake now, sure, but racers have been known to cramp up something fierce.  I spoke briefly with the crowd, who was searching for her husband in the SK division.

I ticked off the rest of the leaders as they went by.  Brian K.  I definitely picked the right guy for my zombie-fighting team.  Craig.  Apparently his bionic spine is now fully operational.  Jack.  Even without his floppy hat, he's a Canadian to be reckoned with.  Brian H.  Even in a skirt, he's a Canadian to be reckoned with.  Given their spacing, it seemed pretty likely that these guys would remain in the same order at the Greasy Pole (the structure at the finish, not the notorious Gloucester bar of the 70's).  The next 8 places... not so clear.  The order from my vantage point looked like Eric, Peter, Tim, Wesley, Kurt, Chris, Matt, and Beata.  Chris and Matt, working together on an inside line, seemed to be gaining quickly on the group in front of them.

I waited for a few more paddlers before hopping back in the car to head to the finish line.  Cue the montage of me yelling at morons, double parkers, stray dogs, and nuns ("Hey!  The Good Lord invented crosswalks for a reason, Sisters!") while crawling through Gloucester summer weekend traffic.  I arrived at the finish just in time to wonder how long before I got there Borys had finished.  He's always been fast, but now he's added elusive to his repertoire.  I spotted Brian Kummer well out in Gloucester Harbor, but Borys had already cleared off the water and was well into his second Mai Tai.  As I had expected given my Back Shore sightings, Brian K took a commanding second, followed by Craig, Jack, and Brian H.  It would be more than 3 minutes before the next paddler finished.  Great job, guys.

 My picture: fulfilled 12, 8, 9, 2, 6, 3.  Tim's picture: forlorn DNS.

The group finishing in 6th through 8th were separated by only 32 seconds, with Eric holding off Peter, who in turn beat back a rejuvenated Tim.  Chris and Matt took the last of the top 10 spots,  showing off their power by paddling intermediate skis.  Beata took the women's trophy at 13th overall.  Dana Gaines just missed the 3 hour mark in winning the SS20+ division.  Oscar and Joe scooted around Cape Ann to win the doubles crown in record time, which speaks volumes about the abilities of both paddlers.

This was a particularly fast Blackburn - probably the fastest average times ever, at least for skis.  Twenty-one single skis broke the 3 hour mark.  Borys had the 4th fastest ski time ever (2:25:43), while Beata (2:52:25) broke the old women's record by more than 5 minutes.  Oscar and Joe nabbed the new doubles record (2:29:38), with Jan Lupinski and Alex Ambotas putting up the 3rd fastest doubles time ever (2:32:08).  Compared to last year's race (calm, but hot with unfavorable tides), most paddlers in comparable boats shaved off 11 to 14 minutes.  Particular standouts in this regard were Todd Furstoss (25 minute improvement), Caroline Pierre (26 minutes - yet another Canadian with whom we must reckon), Bill Kuklinski (26 minutes), and our very own Mary Beth Gangloff (28 minutes).

The wrap party was more than usually festive, with the city-mandated beer fences having the welcome side effect of ensuring you were never more than twelve feet from anyone you wanted to talk with (provided that person was drinking a beer - and why would you want to talk to someone who wasn't?).  Before the marathon award ceremony got started, Mr. Joe Glickman was inducted into the Blackburn Hall of Fame - the first surfski paddler to join the ranks.  His acceptance speech was no less than I expected from him, which is to say amazing - sincere and funny and moving.  We all admire Joe and wish him the best.  That being said, next year I'm going to beat the bum.

Congratulations to all competitors and thanks to the many people who organized this monster of a race.

Casco Bay Challenge: This Time with Color and Depth

As you may recall, last year's inaugural Casco Bay Challenge was more like a chapter from the Odyssey than a ski race.  We wandered aimlessly through a boundless oblivion, arriving an eternity later on the other side of the bay, astounded to find that only a few hours had passed in the living world.  This year's trip promised to be somewhat less mythic, with clear conditions and a moderate breeze from the south helping us along.  It turns out that Casco Bay is more than just a featureless gray expanse (if you at the Maine Tourist Board want to use that, please feel free).  There are islands, lighthouses, lobster pots, and the other picturesque trappings of our 43rd state (I think there may have been some kind of filing error).  I was disappointed to not see any moose, but they must have been foraging in the deep.

Matt getting prepped on the beach.  PFD?  Check.  Hydration system?  Check.  Banana?  Che... Hey, which one of you ski monkeys ate my banana?

As we flocked on the beach before the race, our typical ski family was joined by members of a different feather, many of whom migrated up from the DC area.  Starting this year, Casco Bay is part of the ECORA (East Coast Outrigger Association) point series.  As a result, we were joined by seven or eight of these winged monstrosities.  Although we've been raised from childhood to mistrust and fear outrigger paddlers (Eric and Rod excluded), it turns out they're just like us.  Only asymmetric.  And constantly chattering gibberish about amas and iakos.  We forgive them these shortcomings, however, and welcome them with open arms.  Now SUPs... that's another story.

The islands of Casco Bay are mostly aligned along a southwest-to-northeast axis, arranged in such a way that we would be gently guided by these isles across the bay from Fisherman's Beach in South Portland to far-off Mere Point Landing.  From Google satellite photos, the correct path is apparent.  From a lower Earth orbit - say 2 feet above the globe's surface - it can be a little trickier.  Prior to the race, Eric had provided us with detailed maps and GPS waypoints.  He supplemented this info with a captain's meeting in which he blathered on about staying to the left of this and the right of that.  Since I had my GPS, I was sure I'd be fine.

This is exactly why I stopped going to the beach.

As those who have raced with Eric know, he doesn't like to be more than a boat's length away from shore.  I'm not sure if it's because he fears the inky depths or because he's got irritable bowel syndrome (in which case open seas would be his Waterloo, I suppose).  In any event, I expect this aversion to the ocean explains why we started the race only six feet off the beach.  This led to the awkward spectacle of surfskis and outriggers attempting to back into the starting line after warming up.  I was just able to make out the starting whistle over all the beeping, and we were off.

Francisco rabbited off the line to a quick lead before settling into a more maintainable cadence.  Although ostensibly the wind should be helping us, the first half mile was characterized by mildly confused conditions with the occasional random boat wake thrown in.  After this, we entered the downwind section of the race, which would last to the finish (albeit against a reluctant tide, especially in the last few miles).  After some jockeying, I pulled into a modest lead.  Francisco fell back while Eric maintained his distance several lengths behind but well off to my left.  With Borys lollygagging somewhere behind me, I was forced to do my own navigation.  Not that following Borys is necessarily a good idea.

Our course through the first 3 miles was pretty clear, after which we emerged into an open expanse to the inside of Long and Chebeague Islands.  Eric had told us that we were to keep the smokestacks on Cousins Island to our left (note to future world dictator self - avoid building industrial blights in middle of glorious bays).  Or perhaps it was to our right.  One of those, I was pretty sure.  I consulted my GPS, but it displayed a screen that showed only the words "off course".  I'd occasionally throw glances back to check on Eric's trajectory, although this strategy was becoming more difficult as I managed to put some distance between us.  I was catching some respectable rides.  Based on my increasingly infrequent Eric sightings, I correctly reckoned that we were to stay right of Cousins Island.

Borys, who I soon spotted back several dozen boat lengths far off to my right, inevitably caught and passed me about 8 miles into the race.  He then proceeded to turn to the left, crossing my path and heading, with purpose, off what I had taken to be the rails.  Shouldn't we be keeping to the right of the upcoming islands?  I couldn't manage to spot Eric behind me to confirm my course.

Like a compass over an iron ore deposit, Borys' heading was swinging wildly from thataway to thither.  Since I couldn't take my bearings from an unreliable navigator, I decided to bite the bullet and try my GPS again.  Sure enough, I was "off course".  Helpful.  I tried randomly pressing buttons on the Garmin, but that only made it angry.  Finally, after consulting the Chilton GPS repair manual, phoning a friend, and renouncing several of my lesser vices (I'm gonna miss those YouTube kitten videos), I was rewarded with a display showing my actual and intended paths.

It turned out that I was only marginally off course.  I banked to the right (a close call) then angled over (another close call) to the correct line.  Borys, who was periodically checking back to see if I knew anything he didn't, mirrored my corrections (minus the close calls).  It was at about this time that I hazarded a glance back myself to see how my lead over Eric was holding up.  With my eyes focused on the distant horizon in search of him, it took me several seconds to register that the blurry white blob that frustratingly kept obscuring the horizon was actually Eric's Epic.  I blinked him into clarity (you're welcome) and let off an involuntary shriek.  The guy I thought I had dropped 5 miles back was only a handful of boat lengths back.  In my boat, at least, nobody was happy with the reemergence of Eric.

One eye on my GPS route and the other firmly fixed at its peripheral limit in search of a surging Eric, I pitched myself forward.  Well, "pitched" may give the groundless impression that there was great speed involved.  Tossed might be a better term.  Let's go with lobbed.  As a matter of fact, let's drop the throwing analogy completely and leave it with me making a marginal degree of extra forward progress.  Ten minutes later, I figured my Nolan Ryan-like efforts had paid off.  Eric surely was little more than a fading memory.  It was at this point that I spotted him at least 20 boat lengths ahead of me off to the left.  I was too dumfounded to even rend my garments in frustration and rage.

Turns out this saved me having to needlessly replace my Mocke vest and favorite paddling T-shirt (True story - only short-sleeve shirt I've worn on a ski since 2011.  Scares off the competition.).  It wasn't Eric.  It wasn't even a surfski.  Or a kayak.  It was a little Boston Whaler.  I'm not sure how exactly I momentarily mistook one for the other, but in my defense, Eric is pretty wily.

Lest my hallucination become premonition, I tried to push hard through the next few miles.  I hit the wall hard during this time, but a liberal application of power gel to my face really seemed to help.  We had been told that once you enter Mere Point Bay, there was hardly a kilometer left to the finish at the pier of the Mere Point Boat Launch.  With the ebbing tide now working against us (with ebbing muscles not helping the matter), I seemed to be catching little runners, but my GPS was stubbornly refusing to show a respectable speed.  On the positive side, I was relieved to find that I was finally "on course".  I might not finish strong, but at least I would know where to tell the 911 operator I was.

You should see the other guy...

The pier at the finish line was visible from several hundred meters out, which is right where it stayed for, oh, about three lifetimes.  Eventually, by closing my eyes for twenty strokes at a time, I was able to sneak up on it and complete the race.  Borys was already on shore doing his interviews, of course.  Eric pulled in shortly after me for third, followed by Matt Drayer and Peter Kahn.  Beata finished sixth overall to top the women's race.  Once the remaining paddlers were all accounted for (a much simpler proposition this year), we retired for snacks and awards.

Thanks to Eric and family (with an assist given to the lingering high pressure system, the month of June, and Adventurous Joe Coffee) for a spectacular day in Maine.

The Blackburn is upon us.  Tremble.

Ride the Bull: Exciting and New

Last year's inaugural Ride the Bull race was a great success, combining challenging conditions with just the right level of tom foolery (Jan's playful attempts at drowning, Borys' random wanderings, Tim H's exuberant/deranged appearances on every outcropping along the course, etc.).  Leading up to this year's race, it looked like we might catch the Bull napping, or at least heavily sedated.  The forecast for the early afternoon start was for 1 mph winds, gusting to 2.  Seemed a safe enough bet to stick with my V10.  I'd been getting thrashed by a particularly ill-tempered Salem Sound for the last few Tuesdays in the Salem League (only two tilts thus far, but the season is young), so I was looking forward to a leisurely day on the placid waters of Narragansett Bay.

Guru Dwyer shares his wisdom. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

So that's not exactly how it turned out.  As the day progressed, the sea breeze picked up, the boat traffic intensified, and my hopes for a serene paddle evaporated.  We'd have a little bit of everything in the 9 mile course, with the exception of last year's flat water respite-slog within Mackerel Cove.  In the inaugural race, confusion about where exactly to turn inside this cove led to a lot of yelling and frantic gesturing.  Tim and Wesley doubled down this year by adding a couple of extra turns inside the Cove (albeit all around the same small island), while eliminating the protected stretches.  Before the race, competitors pored over the charts with wild-eyed fervor, cramming for the final on-water exam to follow.  The parking lot was full of paddlers visualizing the course, wandering around in circles and, in some cases, tumbling to the pavement in commendable attempts at realism.

I can't say I understand the new pre-soak requirement, but I can brine with the best of 'em.  (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

Having neglected to celebrate Flag Day a week earlier, I was excited to be part of a belated 21-ski salute that would blast out of Fort Wetherill State Park.  We counted down to a start in a protected cove and then flung ourselves oceanward.  Wesley, apparently under the misconception that there was a hotspot at the first turn buoy, bolted out of the gate first in his candy-stripe Huki S1-X.  Having fully embraced a more meditative approach to starts, I centered myself and became one with the pack.  I was on the verge of finally achieving true enlightenment when I snapped to, saw the leaders pulling away, and realized that I should perhaps be a little more focused on worldly desires.  Nirvana wasn't going any place, but Eric Costanzo, Jan Lupinski, and Andrius Zinkevichus sure were.  Back to suffering.

Wesley continued to lead in his pell-mell dash to the hypothetical hotspot until Borys Markin and I caught him a few hundred meters before the buoy.  I use the term "Borys and I" in the same way a child might say "my parents and I" when talking about the decision to ship him off to military school (I think we made the right choice, folks).  In any event, Borys and I ended up splitting the prize.

I'm still waiting for my check.  (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

As we entered Mackerel Cove, I remembered that we were supposed to turn around a small rock island just around the point.  We were warned that attempts to cut too close to said rock would be met with repercussions ranging from a severe I-told-you-so-ing from the race directors to catastrophic hull breach.  I was therefore confused when I saw a jagged outcropping separated from the shore by a befoamed strait that couldn't be more than 5 feet wide.  I had come to grips with having to spend a few thousand dollars to replace the boat I was about to sacrifice to the sacred bull when I noticed that Borys had bypassed this pinch point in favor of turning around the actual designated rock further into the cove.  Having almost been steered astray, I changed my course accordingly.  The bull would have to be satisfied with my blood, sweat, and tears.  And possibly the ill-advised turkey sandwich I scarfed down before the race.

I might not win this race, but - after Wesley's warning - I'd be damned if anyone gives more leeway to the (real) rock.  As I rounded the quarter mile exclusion zone centered on the rock, I saw Andrius, Wesley, Tim Dwyer, Jan, and others pushing hard on my heels.  After the turn, we headed on the first of two loops that would take us upwind across the mouth of Mackerel Cove, around a point into Hull Cove, and then back to the rock.  I managed to stay in touch with Borys for most of the first loop (mostly email, but occasionally I'd send a hand-written letter), although that was in part because I had the hypotenuse advantage (the last Tom Clancy novel, I believe) after he headed too sharply into Hull Cove in search of the turn buoy.

The downwind section back to the general vicinity of the rock went quickly.  I know that the key to effective downwind runs is knowing when to rest and when to push.  I concentrated on the pushing part.  I figured I'd rest when I was dead.  Which was likely to be pretty soon anyway given my level of wasted exertion.  Panting furiously to  remove any residual mouth moisture, I rounded the exclusion zone and headed back upwind.  Borys, who had essentially been idling for the first half of the race, finally decided to drop it into first gear.  Having burned out my clutch in the downwind section, my paddle whirled ineffectually as he pulled smoothly away.

I like to call this picture "The Loneliness of Borys". (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

Paddling about in areas of heavy boat traffic is always good for a few heart-in-the-throat moments.  We're smaller, slower, and - apparently - expendable.  The waters of Narragansett Bay are overflowing with boats of two varieties.  Powerboats are largely oblivious to us.  We're trailer homes and they're tornadoes.  Lots of potential carnage, but no real malice.  Acts of God.  And where there's God, the Devil isn't far behind.  He's at the tiller of a sailboat, and his only goal is to crack open your fragile shell (carbon-kevlar or corporal flesh - whatever) and drag your now-pulpy soul to The Depths.

The hell-spawn were out in legion on Saturday, in all shapes and sizes, slicing hither and yon in search of slow-moving sinners.  That deal I signed back when I needed to pass calculus is still paying dividends.  The lead pack avoided the worst of the fiends - a sailing regatta that set up a fiery shop in the middle of our course, forcing at least one of our paddlers to stop, drop, and roll.  I believe epithets were hurled.  Their sails were pretty, I'll give them that. 

After completing the second loop and heading out of Mackerel Cove, we hit the most trying conditions on the course.  Although the seas weren't big, they were confused enough to take the punch out of my stroke (for the sake of my story, let's assume that under flat conditions, I actually have some punch).  Although the last time I saw anyone behind me I had a comfortable lead, I began to fret that one of the rough water experts would catch me.  I was surprised that Eric Costanzo - a guy who cleaned my clock in the challenging conditions at last year's Northeast Surfski Downwind race - hadn't been closer at previous turns.  Could he be rope-a-doping me?

I'll grant that it doesn't look very rough, but as a point of reference, the boat in this shot is more than 300 feet long.  (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

Conditions improved in measure as the final turn at the green can near the House on the Rocks approached, but I couldn't shake the residual wobble.  I rounded the buoy, holding my breath in anticipation of seeing a lurking Eric.  And indeed he was skulking behind me (after suffering a rare off-ski event, it turns out), but a more pressing concern was posed by Beata Cseke - apparently a paddler I need to reclassify as a Class V rough water threat.  Fortunately, the end of the race was approaching more quickly than Beata and Eric.  I limped into the finish, elated that the race wasn't longer.

As I waited to see how the remaining places would play out, Beata rounded the corner into the finishing cove with Eric in foaming-at-the-mouth pursuit.  His efforts were not enough, giving Beata her first overall podium finish in New England (and, I believe, the first such finish by any woman).  Andrius pulled in not 15 seconds behind Eric, with Wesley and Tim (merged at the bucket for most of the race, once again), Jan, Chris Chappell, and Tom Kerr completing the top 10.

While every one of us is willing and eager to do One More Mile For Glicker, I noticed that Chris and Bob "forgot" to put on their stickers until after the race. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

There had been several ritual dunkings and one or two craven images hastily constructed in the face of intimidating conditions, but the entire field returned safely to Fort Wetherill Park.  Thanks to Wesley and Tim for throwing another memorable watery fete, to Betsy Echols for documenting the occasion, and to Jerry Kastner for his sportsmanship.

I made the mistake of scheduling two races, a vacation, a computer meltdown, and the World Cup all within a two week span.  As a result, I'm a little behind on both my race reports and my macrame projects.  The Casco Bay Challenge summary will be coming soon.  Don't hold your breath on those friendship headbands though.

Sakonnet River Race: Still Waters Run Fast

As I watched the sun rise majestically over the mild waters of the Sakonnet River (I might have arrived a little early), I could tell that the fourth donut had been a bad idea.  And that it was going to be a fast day - at least for those who had the self-control to stop at three pastries.  As in the past, we'd start from McCorrie Point, head south 6.2 miles towards the ocean, turn around, and come back.

A fine crew assembled for the race, traveling from as far as Montreal and as close as 4 blocks up McCorrie Lane.  The folks from Ocean Paddlesports East (Mark Ceconi, Steve DelGaudio, and Jim Hoffman) even brought a trailer full of spare skis - just in case we wrecked ours trying to get through the surf zone.  Boat casualties were surprisingly limited, but they let us play around with their new Fenns and Epics after the race anyways.  Also, they brought cookies.  Thanks guys!

The fleet gets underway.  Destination?  Doldrums. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols).

Twenty-three skis lined up off the beach, with a handful of kayaks thrown in for flavor.  Wesley counted us down and the race was on.  Perhaps we were cowed by dire pre-race warnings about the shallows and the semi-submerged hazard just off the point, but the field seemed a bit tentative for the first tenth of a mile.  A relaxed start being right in my wheelhouse, I was happy to conform.  After we cleared McCorrie Point, I worked my way past Chris Chappell, Wesley, Beata Cseke, and Eric McNett.  As I pulled even with Andrius Zinkevichus, some 50 feet off to my right, he angled over to grab a draft.  I believe that Eric hopped on as well.  Borys Markin was paddling lazily up ahead, doubtless day-dreaming about how much more coffee he and Beata were going to score this season.

I decided that there was no time like the present to try and shake the Zinkevichus off of me, and dove headlong into the red zone.  I've discovered that the key to an effective interval is to just start writing checks your body can't possibly cash, then flee the country before the authorities can catch up to you.  I was racking up some pretty serious debts, but my extravagant expenditures of energy were not in vain.  Andrius - apparently not quite as willing to destroy his credit rating - slipped off my wash.

I have to admit, for the briefest of moments I had visions of continuing my interval to close the gap to Borys, who was perhaps a dozen boat lengths ahead.  Doing some back of the envelope calculations based on my rate of closure, however, I estimated that my interval would last until mid-afternoon and end somewhere in western Connecticut.  I ratcheted back the tempo to something I hoped might be sustainable.  My once-bitten-twice-shy heart, however, decided to remain in overdrive - just in case I tried to pull another circus stunt like that one.

I could now see Eric and Andrius working together on an inside line.  The smart money, and Wesley, said that this was the optimal route since it would minimize the impact of the incoming tide.  During warm-ups, however, it seemed that the breeze from the North was trumping the tidal flow from the South.  My Great Great Great Uncle Beauregard lost an arm and a leg betting against the Union.  I wasn't about to make the same mistake.  I held my outside line to stay well out of the wind shadow nearer the coast.

My GPS was telling me that my navigational decision wasn't catastrophically bad.  In fact, for the first 3 miles to Black Point, the gizmo was showing my wind-assisted average was over 8 mph.  It was also flashing urgent messages about impending bio-system failure, but that didn't seem quite as important as minimizing Borys' red shift.  My simple goal was to keep him in sight until the end.  In retrospect, to accomplish this I would have needed to duct tape binoculars to my face.  And maybe another pair to the hull of his Stellar.

The remaining trip to the turn-around was mostly uneventful, although as I rounded Black Point I somehow found myself enveloped in the foaming whitewater of the only breaking wave in a 40 mile radius.  I managed to splutter through without being unsaddled.  My speed dropped steadily over the next few miles, but I was too frightened to turn around to see who might be gaining ground.

Conditions were challenging, but only if you knew where to look.

After the turn at 3rd Beach, I got my first look at what was going on behind me.  Eric had broken free from Andrius, but appeared to be a couple of minutes back.  I noticed several pods of racers, playfully porpoising off each others' wakes, laughing heartily, and shouting encouragement to me and others.  It hardly seemed fair that I was having to plow my own furrows in an unyielding sea whilst several paddlers appeared to have their feet up on their front decks, sipping mimosas as they were swept along behind their agua daddies.  Although this nearly defies belief, these heretics seemed to be actually enjoying the race.  Blasphemy!  I yelled something incoherently to them about Sodom and Gomorrah, but given that Bruce Deltorchio merely responded with a thumbs up, I don't believe I effectively conveyed my disapproval/jealousy.

Soon enough the last paddler had skipped breezily by and I was left paddling alone in pious indignation.  Borys had vanished in the haze ahead (it was a clear day, so I'm using "haze" here as a metaphor for "limits of human vision" or perhaps "curvature of the earth").  With only myself for company, I quickly learned that I didn't appreciate all the smart-ass quips about how slowly we were now moving.  We said some things we regretted, then I had to endure the silent treatment for the rest of the race.

Although I had feared we'd be bucking a headwind all the way back, with 3 miles left the wind died completely and left the Sakonnet a glassy pond.  I've heard old-timers talk about being left becalmed by the Great Mirror Lull of '96, forced to cannibalize their doubles partners to survive (when asked why they didn't just paddle to safety, one survivor allegedly replied "Oh... (burp)... yeah").  A cold chill running down my spine, I wondered whether it was Timmy or Bill whom I'd seen the last of.

Tim Hudyncia has accused me outright of "making stuff up".  I've heard others whisper in disapproving tones about embellishments and "poetic" license (their quotes, not mine).  I therefore am hesitant to write about the damnable creatures that plagued me during my race.  Although the canker of suspicion had been gnawing at my mind during the first hour on the water, it now became apparent that the frequent swirls and eddies just off my bow were not just artifacts of wind and waves.  Something was troubling the oily waters of the Sakonnet.  Something... alive.

We've all been startled by unexpectedly surfacing cormorants in our paddles (I know those flap-jackers enjoy the shrill yelps of sudden terror they elicit).  I've heard tales of nausea-inducing shark sightings from the bucket.  And who here hasn't had to pry the tentacles of ravenous squid from their gunwales in a desperate attempt to avoid being hauled to the depths?  The Sakonnet was harboring something far more sinister.  An enigmatic horror so elusive that it could only be observed indirectly - a shadowy ripple seen out of the corner of your eye.

As I pushed my insubstantial craft through the mirrored sea, I became obsessed with discovering what manner of abomination was lurking beneath the surface.  A splash there.  A boil there.  No matter where I concentrated my gaze, the creature would surface elsewhere.  I wish I could say that I definitely solved the mystery, but I never did manage to catch a glimpse.  I suspect it was likely a crocodile-piranha hybrid, or perhaps a silver-backed leviathan.  But I'm not ruling out bait fish.

My unhealthy preoccupation with surface disturbances had the advantage of distracting me from the  slog at hand.  When I finally snapped out of my reverie, the end was nigh.  I was exhausted, but I mustered enough resolve to up my pace to "leisurely" for the finish.

Oh my God!  Where's Timmy? (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

I resisted the urge to expire, instead hanging around the line to watch the other finishes.  Borys, of course, had wrapped up the crown several hours earlier by successfully navigating I-95 East.  With near-optimal conditions for a fast race, he finished in an astonishing 1:32:45, shaving more than 8 minutes off the course record.  Eric M rolled in next (not sure what the rule book has to say about that), followed shortly after by Andrius.  It looked like youngster Matt Drayer might pull out a top five finish in his inaugural Sakonnet River Race (in a V10 Sport, I should add), but Joe Shaw did what Joe Shaw does - catapult by in the final 25 meters - to claim fifth place.  Eric Costanzo and Mike McDonough came in with no such theatrics, but Chris Chappell, Tom Kerr, Wesley, and Tim Dwyer put on fine sprint performances for the kids in the grandstands, ultimately finishing in that order.

The gang (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

I'm going to get some miniature surfski models made so that after the race we can use them to reenact pivotal moments - you know, like they do with the little planes in Top Gun.  As it was, we had to make do with crazed gesticulations and goofy sound effects on the beach.  Thanks to Wesley and Betsy for another great day on the Sakonnet.

On a serious note... kudos to Bill Kuklinksi.  In honor of the 70th anniversary of the D-Day landing, Bill selflessly donated his old life vest for use in a life-sized diorama in a Normandy museum.  A grateful nation thanks you for your sacrifice.  (Mike McDonough gets an assist in this final dig at my favorite target.)

Next up is Ride the Bull on June 21.  I'm pretty sure we're all supposed to be paying Rhode Island income taxes at this point.