Blackburn Challenge: Odyssey

When you've been paddling competitively for a certain number of years, the races tend to run together.  But the Blackburn Challenge always stands out in your memory.  And among those races, certain Blackburns are seared into our collective consciousness, universally referenced by simple monikers.  The Rough One.  The Hot One.  The One I Shouldn't Have Eaten a Huge Breakfast Burrito Right Before.  Nobody doubts that the 2024 Blackburn will be added to this pantheon.  I spent the better part of a day workshopping names involving cool terms like "atmospheric condensate" and "compromised visibility", but in the end, I settled for the lowest common denominator.  The Foggy One.

I've been on the Blackburn podium several times, but the top step has eluded me.  Every year I hope for the stars to align in my favor, but since the Cape Ann Rowing Club has repeatedly rejected my requests for veto power over registrants, I'm doomed to compete instead under the black cloud of misfortune.  This year I counted no less than 5 paddlers who would almost surely finish ahead of me.  This list contained 3 previous Blackburn winners - South African Ian Black (2019), Rob Jehn (2021, 2023), and Ed Joy (1996, 1998, 1999, 2001).  Other contenders for the crown included Rob Foley and Matt Drayer, both of whom have been force-feeding me humble pie this season.  I had also heard frightening things about young sprinter Sam Rhodes, although this would be his first ocean race.

At the captain's meeting, we reviewed the basics.  Racers would circumnavigate Cape Ann in a clockwise direction, starting in the Annisquam River and ending 19.5 miles later in Gloucester Harbor.  The skies were overcast, with 10-15 mph winds blowing from the southwest.  On a playful closing note, we were notified of a great white sighting along the course the previous day.  Opportunistic vendors at the launch made a killing on shark repellent, tourniquet kits, and blindfolds.  Once a dozen earlier waves had been launched down the Annisquam - including one with 7 double skis - the 24 singles lined up for our start.  After a lot of confusion about whether racer #45 was present (turns out I was), the starter sent us off.

I doubted that I could keep up with the leaders even for a few seconds, and that proved to be the case.  Ian, Ed, and Rob J made an early break, with Rob F in pursuit.  After a few minutes of jostling, Nick Robison, Sam, and I settled into the next chase group.  This was Nick's first ever race, and he had started paddling less than a year ago, but fortunately I wouldn't become aware of those demoralizing facts until afterwards.  I might also have felt a little guilty taking advantage of his generosity in pulling me (and Sam) for the first 10 minutes of the race.  Nope... that sounds nothing like me.  As we lined up for the final bend in the Annisquam, I swung left and moved past Nick and Sam.  Sam followed on my wash, but Nick took a different line and started to drop back.

The lead trio split into a duo, with Rob J chasing.  Sam and I were closing on Rob F, but we wouldn't catch him until leaving the river and passing the Annisquam light.  He hung with us for a while, but dropped off after a few moments - marshaling his resources for the long race, I imagined.  I had no such long-term strategy.  Which is probably why, for the next six miles, I did the majority of the pulling.  Sam's turns in the lead were noticeably faster than mine, but also much smarter (by which I mean: shorter).

With little wind on the north side of Cape Ann, I was getting a little toasty.  Relief was right around Halibut Point, however, as we started heading southeast across Sandy Bay towards the halfway point, a cool breeze now in our face.  Reaching the safety boat at Straitsmouth, we yelled out our numbers (actually, I yelled out Rob J's, hoping to get him DQed under the broad "Unspecified shenanigans" clause).  In return, we were met with frantic arm-waving and shouts that I couldn't quite make out.  Maybe "Your dog is dead!", which was technically true, but 40-odd years too late to be breaking news.

If they added a few intermediate postures, Sam and I could be the end points on one of those "Evolution of Man" diagrams.  (Photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)

Shortly thereafter, Sam warned me that Rob was catching us and that "there's also some creep lurking further back in a black boat".  That had all the earmarks of Matt.  Rob soon joined us.  With 12 miles under our belt, I still felt relatively fresh.  That is, until I realized that the difference between my 57 years and the combined lifetimes of Sam and Rob left enough extra time to produce a bottle of 12 year old scotch, some well-marbled blue cheese, and several seasons of a brooding Norwegian detective show.  I suspected that those spirited moppets might finish with slightly more vigor than I could muster.  After gamely hanging with them for the next mile or so, I watched the youngsters move ahead and dissolve into misty obscurity.  Given my advanced age, I wasn't particularly surprised at developing cataracts, but the sudden onset over the course of just a few minutes was slightly alarming.

It took me a moment (as would be expected in my dotage) to reconcile the warning shouted from the safety boat at Straitsmouth with my incipient blindness.  "Fog ahead!"  Both mental and physical, it seems.  I was soon enveloped in an otherworldly mist.  Unfortunately, the arrival of the fog coincided with the leg that required we navigate a 3 mile open stretch during which a straight-line path would leave us at least a half-mile from shore.  With shifting visibility in the 100 to 500 feet range, there'd be no landmarks for navigation.

We've had a number of fog-bound races in New England over the past decade, but those have been modest affairs where the loss of, say, ten percent of the field wouldn't raise a public outcry (particularly if one were to select those 1.7 missing paddlers carefully).  Should 20 people go AWOL, however, you can bet the Gloucester Times would have a field day with the debacle.  Some of the more prepared competitors had GPS waypoints or compasses to guide them.  Others wisely decided to hug the shoreline, knowingly adding nearly a mile to their circumnavigation in exchange for not being featured in the full-color In Memoriam insert.  And then there was the "How hard can it be?" crowd, who figured they could dead reckon a straight line through the limbo.

It should go without saying that I was an enthusiastic member of the know-nothing camp.  Fortunately, the misguided confidence in my navigational skills initially worked in my favor.  I missed the "turn off" at Lands End that would send me into open water, inadvertently following the shore for an extra 3/4 of a mile before heading out to sea.  This shifted the crossing closer to shore, which allowed me to use the distant sound of crashing breakers to my right as a guide.  And by keeping the incoming swell (from the southeast) on my left, I hoped to maintain a consistent southwest bearing.

Something they don't tell you about paddling in the fog (probably because they assume that the one thing they do tell you - don't - should be enough) is the amount of second guessing you'll experience.  Usually I decide on a course of action and then ride that decision to its inevitably disastrous outcome.  But now I would repeatedly say to myself (aloud, mind you, to help break the eeriness) "You've got the line now!", only to be convinced moments later that I'd be making landfall on a different continent.  Perhaps one that doesn't even exist in our normal space-time continuum.  This uncertainty also impacts motivation.  It's difficult to maintain a competitive drive when you're 90% sure you're paddling in the wrong direction.  Also, when you're already in purgatory, hard work and clean living are no longer going to earn you any credit.  Which helps explains all the swearing and boozing.

Like they always say, the camera adds 100 feet of visibility.  It felt even foggier than this.

I paddled alone through the void, no sign of fellow man.  Time was now without meaning, but at some "future" point the Back Shore of Gloucester loomed colorlessly into view.  I'd discover later that my open water path had been more EKG-like than you'd prefer, but in broad strokes you could describe it as linear.  I could now feel my way along the coast, making frequent course corrections to avoid a rocky end to the race.  I finally started to encounter other racers and/or spectral manifestations, materializing from the haze ahead.  I was tempted to test their corporeality by passing straight through one of them, but then remembered how difficult it is to remove ectoplasm from neoprene.

After turning one corner (maybe... who can tell?), I was surprised to see Sam and Rob emerge from the gloom.  Giving them the benefit of the doubt as to their physical reality, I assumed that they had squandered some of their zest in taking a longer open water path.  This hypothesis was bolstered by the fact that when I first saw them, the two paddlers were literally heading at right angles to one another.  I wondered for a moment if a lost child had been reported in the area - splitting up for such a search seemed the most likely explanation for such behavior.  Since Rob seemed to be paddling directly for shore (which was, granted, invisible) I decided to follow Sam.  With any luck, I'd be out of earshot by the time Rob met his doom.

Sam would have surely melted into the fog had he not been pathfinding - zigging right to find the shore, then zagging back to avoid the same.  A half-dozen lengths back, I could just make out his wandering silhouette, allowing me to average his deviations to an approximation of a straight line.  After an interminable span tailing Sam in this manner, the Dog Bar breakwater eventually appeared - an unmistakable milestone that would guide us to the entrance of Gloucester Harbor.  Without navigational challenges to slow him down, Sam started to pull away.

I was clinging onto fifth place entering the harbor, but was almost immediately knocked another notch down by Rob, who apparently had managed to avoid being shipwrecked.  With nearly two miles of open water separating the Dog Bar from the Greasy Pole, many racers once again had their heads in the (surface-level) clouds with no concrete target.  As Matt's GPS track later revealed, a few minutes later he would do a full loop within the harbor - disoriented and seasick.  I was fortunate to have a fading string of boats ahead.  Assuming that somewhere sufficiently further up the procession, someone could actually see the finish, our well-spaced fleet would also arrive there safely.  Of course, like a game of telephone, a few distortions were inevitable as the bearings were relayed visually down the line.  My track was vaguely sinusoidal, but got me safely to a 6th place finish without excessive meandering.

Ian had finished first, clocking in at 2:49:54.  Of course, as an aquatic demigod, he has celestial seafaring resources (no, not GPS - the mystical kind) unavailable to the rest of us.  Despite taking a longer coastal route, Ed and Rob finished only 6 and 7.5 minutes behind Ian, respectively, to claim the other podium spots.  Jean Kostelich defended her SS20+ women's title, with Emerson Yang taking the men's award in that category.  In their first ocean race, seasoned flatwater team Joel Pekosz & Chris Weaver destroyed the course, putting in the fastest time of the day at 2:45:23.  In the SS20+ double's race, Bernie Romanowski & Andrew Metz won as the fifth overall surfski.

Five-sixths of the SS20+ doubles podium.  Apprehensive about blowing his witness relocation cover, Igor opted to make himself scarce.

Of course, a race report wouldn't be complete without a well-composed photo of the winner.  That's Ian on the far left with the expressive eyes.

The typical post-Blackburn discussion topics - bad boat choices, funny hats worn by racers, the proletariat's role in post-industrial societies, etc. - were swept away by fog tales.  In the topsy-turvy world, competitors compared distances rather than times, with bragging rights secured by those with the longest trips.  The minority of well-prepared paddlers with GPS guidance were shunned by the clueless daredevils.  These sad pariahs stood mutely by as the rest of us swapped tales of staggering navigational incompetence and giggled over the outrageous tracks shared on our phones.  The median distance was probably in the 20.6 mile range (a mile and change longer than usual), but some intrepid explorers logged well over 22 miles.  Legendary waterman Dana Gaines, with 30+ Blackburns under his belt, showed off his skills by writing messages (in Greek, no less) with his GPS track.  Eli pioneered a new overland route via the sandy causeway linking Salt Island to the mainland - possibly setting himself up for a more extended portage from Good Harbor Beach to Gloucester Inner Harbor in 2025.  We were each Odysseus, searching endlessly for home.

OK, there was also some talk about Ed's ridiculous hat.

The inaugural Bay State Games Paddling Competition is up next this Sunday (July 21) at Wollaston Beach in Quincy, MA, but if you haven't already registered you're gonna have to settle for spectating.  Or, more likely, sleeping in.  However, you can still get in on the New England Paddlesports Championship (register at PaddleGuru) on Sunday, July 28.  This 12 mile course on the Connecticut River in Hinsdale, NH promises to be not only fun, but dangerously close to the excellent pubs across the river in Brattleboro.

Ride the Bull: Doubled Down

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.

Sakonnet Surfski Race: Toil Rewarded

Ocean racing season doesn't officially open until Wesley Echols counts us down to the start of his Sakonnet River Race in Portsmouth, Rhode Island.  I've competed on the Sakonnet in a ski more times than I have any other race.  This would be my 13th iteration.  That got me thinking about the storied history of the race, so I visited the local library and used my journalist credentials ("I got a blog, see?")  to access to the archives.  After donning a pair of cotton gloves, I was allowed to leaf through yellowed copies of the Portsmouth Courier.  There, in sepia tones, were photos of the elder giants of our sport from the earliest days of the race.  Names like Dwyer, Grainger, and Chappell.  It sent chills down my spine to think that descendants of these storied paddlers - grandchildren, perhaps? - were registered to carry on the tradition in 2024.

There was no shortage of competition at this year's race, but I chose to focus on two recent rivals - Joel Pekosz and Matt Drayer.  Like a supervillain you keep enclosed in a copper sphere suspended by carbon fibers over a sea of lava to neutralize his powers, we've been vigilant in keeping Joel at least 100 miles from the ocean, lest the salt water cause his evil surfski skills to blossom to their full potential.  Here he was, though - peaked to bloom.  Matt and I have been battling for supremacy in our Tuesday night league for more than 10 years.  He shows no signs of giving up, despite my increasingly drastic acts of sabotage on his boat and safety equipment.  

As usual, Wesley monopolized his own Q&A session.  (Photo courtesy of Kendra Lassor)

Wesley briefed us on the 12.5 mile course.  From our start just before McCorrie Point, we'd head southward to the open ocean, passing Sandy Point and Black Point before angling towards Third Beach for our turn-around on mooring buoy 114 (which, in my mind at least, we were told was "literally impossible to miss").  Conditions at the start were calm, but with a 10-15 mph wind from the SW, might just liven once we mounted up.

Jerry Madore broke first off the line, followed closely by Chris Chappell and Tim Dwyer.  In an attempt to heed Wesley's dire warnings about the sand bar off McCorrie Point, the field crowded left, resulting in the kind of jostling you might expect in a log jam, not in a wide-open ocean race.  I was on the verge of standing astride a few boats to pry them apart when the bind resolved itself.  Joel and Matt had started at my pace, but quickly built momentum to pull into the lead.  By the time I had picked my way past the other paddlers, they enjoyed an advantage of several boat lengths.

Conditions had started out benign, but began to build as we progressed southward.  I caught the leaders and took turns drafting off them for a mile or so, until the three of us separated to take our preferred lines.  In my case, "preferred" makes my navigation sound a lot more reasoned than it actually was.  I couldn't decide whether to stay out to utilize the outgoing tide or tuck shoreward to escape the SW headwind, so I just followed my boat's lead.  The three of us pounded forward into an increasingly stiff breeze.

John and Emerson started out reluctant to join the pre-race hootenanny, but by the end they were a-hollering and knee-slapping with the rest of us.

Joel and Matt opened a gap on me, but I was able to limit their advantage to 6 or 8 boat lengths.  Nearing Black Point, Matt took a swim.  This wouldn't normally slow him down.  I've witnessed him remount without missing a stroke - much like a Mongol horseman raiding a village might lean over and scoop up a terrified toddler while simultaneously dispatching his father with a sabre.  Before you accuse me of anti-Mongol bias, you should know that the villagers really had it coming.  Just awful people.  And that boy was fully adopted into the Horde, despite missing a few fingers.  Look, you're swinging that sword around and grabbing up kids at a full gallop, accidents are gonna happen.  In this case, however, Matt's experimental new leash attachment put a hitch in his remount.  While he sorted things out, I toddled past over the liquid steppe.

The gradual turn into Third Beach apparently caught Joel by surprise.  He continued pursuing the tidal current on an outer line well past when he should have started angling shoreward.  Since he was too far away to hear any corrective suggestions, I found myself in the enviable position of being able to enjoy the navigational blunder of a fellow competitor without having to also feign guilt over failing to do anything about it.  Win-win.  Joel eventually noticed me pulling rightward and revised his course accordingly, but the extra distance traveled allowed me to move into the lead.

Within a few minutes, Joel pulled onto my draft.  Knowing that I was familiar with the course, he seemed content to follow me to the turn-around buoy.  A solid strategy in theory, but as Mary Beth is fond of saying - I never fail to disappoint.  If buoy 114 was actually out there (and most of the field assures me that it was), I couldn't find the elusive bastard.  I led Joel and Matt in a tour of the mooring field, eventually circling enough random buoys to achieve a 95% confidence that 114 was among them.  The next two paddlers (Chris and Eli Gallaudet) shared a similar adventure, after which Tim and subsequent paddlers keyed in on the correct target.

I've found that, more often than not, there's a marked asymmetry between the misery experienced during an upwind toil and the joy felt on the return trip.  You'd think that these reciprocal journeys would be in karmic balance - a zero-sum game of pleasure and pain - but I'm usually left substantially in the red after the exchange.  Today, however, the downwind leg didn't disappoint.  The first couple of miles after the turn were especially exhilarating, with well-formed waves cradling your boat along.

Early on our voyage back, I caught a glimpse of Joel much further out, back perhaps a half-dozen lengths.  Matt remained more elusive, but of his nearby lurking presence I had no doubt.  I continued to work the waves, occasionally linking together a few runs with a solid C performance.  If I can occasionally be described as "minimally proficient" without exaggeration, I'll take it.

Although the evidence is mostly circumstantial, it seems that around 8.5 miles into the race, Matt passed me to move into the lead.  He didn't slip by hidden along the shore or pass so wide he wasn't visible.  No, one moment he was behind and the next he was miraculously 10 lengths ahead of me.  And the next after that, 20 lengths.  From my backwards-facing video, I found a single frame that could conceivably be interpreted as showing the blur of a passing black boat, but that's the only indication that Matt's overtaking actually consisted of a continuous motion.  In the remaining third of the race, he'd increase his lead to more than 4 minutes.  By my calculations, this means he was traveling 17 miles per hour faster than me.

I asked Mary Beth if she was planning on doing a little gardening later.  She replied that this was exactly the kind of smartassery that leads her to paddle doubles with Chris, Bill, Kirk, Robin, Igor, etc. (Photo courtesy of Kendra Lassor)

I suspect Matt's high-speed pass left a vacuum in its wake, into which my confidence was suctioned away.  I started missing rideable waves, struggling to maintain pace, and questioning my line.  I resigned myself to being caught by Joel, who had surely witnessed this ego-thrashing and would be keen to exploit my depleted spirit.  Indeed, this would have been the case had he not succumbed to a case of late-race balance fatigue.  After navigating 10+ miles of lively seas with aplomb, he contracted a nasty case of the Wobbles and limped to the finish, dropping several places along the way.  He'll certainly build up an immunity, so I can't count on such luck in future races.

Of course, not knowing of Joel's struggles at the time, I spent my remaining race in white-knuckled panic.  Surely he would be passing at any moment.  I took some solace in the fact that at least a podium place was assured, since back at the turn there seemed to be no imminent threats.  Turns out I had been needlessly unconcerned about paddlers other than Joel.  Turning to look back after finishing, I was surprised to see a steady stream of competitors alarmingly close behind.  Third place was claimed by Tim (less than 30 seconds back), followed by Chris at roughly the same distance behind.  Mary Beth & Chris Sherwood claimed the double's title.  Given the challenging conditions, I was impressed by the overall level of competence and fitness exhibited by the field - nearly everyone finished within a tight 15 minute window.

Amazingly, Tim was also on the podium in the inaugural Sakonnet Race back in the 30s.  (Photo courtesy of Kendra Lassor)

Thanks to Wesley for throwing a wonderful race on his home course.  We're in the prime of Rhode Island race season now, with Ride the Bull this coming weekend (pre-register at PaddleGuru) and the Jamestown Double Beaver following two weeks later (also at PaddleGuru).  If you can only make just one of these two... well, I'd recommend you shuffle around your commitments to fit both in your schedule.

Run of the Charles: Back of the Pack

Many had given up the venerable Run of the Charles for dead after it went belly-up in 2020, but just like my pet goldfish Rodney, its bloated carcass turned out to actually be a pupal stage, from which a renewed Rodney emerged while I was at day camp.  The ROTC returned this year, and, just like Rodney, wasn't exactly how I remembered it, but nevertheless provided hours of entertainment.  Here's hoping the race doesn't also have to go through another half-dozen pupations (ending up, surprisingly, as a gerbil).

Including a few doubles, 21 skis would be competing in the 6 mile race - not quite as many as in the pre-COVID years, but a solid field to build on.  Coming off his dominant performance at the Narrow River Race a few weeks earlier, Mike Florio was practically crowned champion by dint of taking his boat off the car, but we'd make him run through the motions on the water.  I figured my primary competition would come from Joel Pekosz and Chris Chappell, although you never know who else might secretly be doing serious early-season training.  The course would have us heading downstream for a half mile, turning on the first bridge, then working 3 miles upstream to turn on an inflatable marker, finishing back where we started.  The weather was fine - sunny and in the mid 50s, with a light breeze.

I must have missed the memo.

I hadn't planned on missing the start of the race, but sometimes these things are simply beyond your control.  Sure, we were told multiple times that our heat would go off at 10:00 sharp.  And I had my watch set to provide verbal reminders of the impending start at regular intervals.  And, as I stepped out of the porta potty, a hooded crone whispered to me in dire tones that she saw tardiness in my future (and also, in the present, some toilet paper stuck to my foot).  But there were old friends to catch up with.  And I had to make multiple last-minute runs back to the car to retrieve forgotten items - seat pad, heart rate monitor, cup (you can never be too protected), etc.  These unavoidable delays put me at the tail end of the launch queue.  I adjusted my safety equipment on the water and was slowly paddling towards the start when the siren sounded.

Look to the person on your left.  Now look to your right.  If Greg is either of those people, then one of you three is going to miss the start of the race.

The more punctual members of the field were invisible to me at their start - hidden well over the horizon - so I can only speculate on what transpired.  However, I know as a certainty what didn't happen.  None of my erstwhile friends said "Wait, where's Greg?  Let's collectively hold up until we ascertain his whereabouts!"  Or, if one did, he was shouted down by craven opportunists looking to pick up a spot or two at my expense.  In any event, we know that not only did the cowards leave without me, but in fact everyone went out faster than usual in a kick-him-when-he's-down orgy of profiteering.

In the interminable span it took me to reach the starting line (yes, technically only 20 seconds, but I hadn't the chance to start my GPS, so time was literally at a standstill), apparently Mike jumped out to an early lead with Chris and Joel in pursuit, along with the double of Hank Thorburn & Joe Guglielmetti.  By the time I could make out individual paddlers, the field was starting to string out, with Mike pulling away.  Despite an effort some might described as Herculean (as in, "Just like Hercules, that guy has no clue how to paddle a kayak."), I started catching those paddlers who, weighed down by the guilt of abandoning me at the start, could no longer maintain a sprightly cadence.

What began as playful ribbing between Tim and Sean quickly escalated to a full-blown noogie fight.

Uh-oh.  Protect your heads!

Once you accept your misfortune, the psychological freedom provided by getting a late start can not be overstated.  All performance pressure is off.  You can't be expected to compete with such a handicap.  Not only do you begin some minutes behind everyone (and nobody can deny that 0.35 is "some"), but you miss out the all-important drafting phase, where you get hauled involuntarily along behind Mike at breakneck speed for the first 250 meters before getting spit off his wake - disoriented and whiplashed, but ahead of everyone else.  So you know that any position you can pick up is gravy.  And, more importantly, you can use the late start to gain sympathy from those you pass, while simultaneously demoralizing them.  For this to work, of course, you need to explain the situation.  Some exaggeration is to be expected.

Here's a typical conversation.

Me: Got started about 10 minutes late.

Victim: But it's only been 3 minutes since the start.

Me: Yeah, yeah, I'm moving along well today. 

Victim: But that doesn't make any sense.

Me: Huh?  Sorry, Doppler shift is making it difficult to understand you.

Victim: You sound just fine.  And you're barely inching past me.

Me: Inching... good one.  I'm using a falsetto voice to compensate.  Surprised you can still see me though.  Infrared vision? 

And so on.

Under the misapprehension that we were required to touch both shores of the Charles during our downriver turn, I ceded several lengths back to the field with an elegant arc best described as
"marginally curved".  Heading back upriver, however, I began to catch more paddlers.  Describing to each subsequent racer how I had still been driving down to the venue when the gun sounded, I slid by Matt Drayer, James Legrand, Tim Dwyer, and Wesley Echols.  At this point I was getting winded, so I pulled to the shore and ran to a Kinko's (in my fantasy world, it's still 1997) to have some 3x5 cards printed up with the details of my late start.  I stuck these under the bungies of subsequent boats to save myself further verbal exposition.  It was becoming increasingly difficult to catch those ahead, so I couldn't afford to waste words.

It took most of the remaining upriver leg to creep by Cliff Roach, Eli Gallaudet, and Chris Chappell.  Before the forthcoming turn buoy even became visible, I saw Mike cruising back towards the finish - several minutes ahead of a nominal chase group consisting of  Joel and Hank & Joe.  By the turn, it was clear that I was closing the gap on that pair of boats.  Over the course of the next mile, I worked my way onto Joel's stern draft.  I didn't really think I could beat him, but if only I could pull up another half-boat length, at least I could slip him my card.  Also, I might be able to get a glimpse of his stern on my backward-facing GoPro so that future generations would know that I was in the fight for silver.

Ignoring the fact that I was starting to hear a celestial choir while merely struggling to stay on Joel's draft, I pulled out of his slipstream to make a move.  The intense discomfort quickly ramped up to intolerable torment.  As I started to pass through the mortal veil, the choral vocals became more distinct, and unless there have been some serious quality control issues at the Pearly Gates, those weren't angels singing.  Sure, maybe I had been tricking rubes into thinking I started later than I actually had, but that hardly seemed sufficient for an obscenity-laced welcome from the infernal choir.  That guy I shivved while in the slammer, though - that probably didn't help my cause.  Since this wasn't a gold we were talking about, I decided that an eternity of suffering wasn't quite worth it.  I backed off and returned to Joel's wash, never even getting video evidence of my ill-favored push.

Knowing that I lacked proof that I was right on Joel's tail, my buddy really had me over a barrel. (Photo provided at exorbitant cost by Tim Hudyncia)

I continued to draft behind Joel, recovering from my brief foray into the nether realms.  With perhaps a half-mile remaining in the race, Hank & Joe opened a small lead on us, which inspired me to make one last stand of my own.  With the imagined notes of a cavalry bugle ringing in my ears (trying to silence that damned choir), I made a valiant charge.  Since my direct attack had been heroically rebuffed by Joel (or, as he might tell it, "fizzled pathetically with no intervention whatsoever on my part" - toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe), I'd have to try a different strategy.  My early Herculean effort had yielded some gains, but it was now time to go Pythagorean on the competition.  To that end, I applied all my expertise in geometry to navigate the final sweeping bend of the Charles.  Some may claim that I just "cut the corner" to shorten the distance, but those ignoramuses wouldn't know a hypotenuse from a hyperbolic secant.

Despite the meticulous planning, the best I can say of my maneuver is that I didn't actually lose ground to Joel.  I must have misinterpreted an axiom or something.  At one point I might have succeeded in overlapping Joel's boat, but by the finish he was clear of me by a half length.  Of course, we had both finished 4 and a half minutes behind Mike.  He had gotten so far ahead of the pack by mid-race that officials considered applying a "mercy rule" to terminate the race early and avoid further mass humiliation, but Florio had already holstered his ski and cleared town before the committee could take a vote.  Hank & Joe took the men's doubles crown, with Max Yasochka & Olga Sydorenko claiming the mixed title.  On the women's podium stood Leslie Chappell, Jean Kostelich, and Pam Browning.

I like this picture since it allow me to imagine myself just out of frame.  On the left, of course - I'm not completely delusional.  (Photo courtesy of Tim Hudyncia)

I've been told that I can no longer speak for everyone, but, to the last person, we deemed the resuscitated Run of the Charles a great success.

Traditionally the next meet of the season would be the Essex River Race, but that event has been on ice since the regrettable debauchery of 2022.  The drunkenness and nudity could (and definitely should) be overlooked, but the town board was fed up with all the supplemental tourist income.  And the abandoned livestock.  I'll instead be doing the 12 mile course at the Mystic River Herring Run and Paddle on May 19th - a surprisingly bucolic route that winds through some of the most notorious neighborhoods of Boston (namely, Somerville and Medford).  And, of course, the open water season starts with Wesley's Sakonnet Surfski Race on June 8th - returning to its ancestral home at McCorrie Point after years of tense negotiations there.  Don't forget your goats!

Narrow River II: Stuck in a Groove

It was inevitable that Tim Dwyer would exploit the name recognition of his lucrative spring-time Narrow River Race enterprise by launching a fall version.  With a lock on both ends of the season, he would wield almost unfathomable power over the New England surfski community.  Although the first couple of fall celebrations carried the bitter taste of crass commercialization, Tim announced that starting with the 2023 race, all proceeds would be donated to the Elderly Paddlers' Support Association.  A savvy PR move, although I have yet to receive my cut from EPSA.

A healthy crew of 23 competitors showed up in Kingston, Rhode Island to find the Narrow River bulging at the seams - the victim of a powerful spring tide.  Nobody could remember seeing the water levels this high.  Less experienced paddlers were excited that they wouldn't have to deal with the notorious shallows of the waterway, but I knew better.  The high water would tempt us to plot courses impossible at normal levels - cutting corners and passing over shoals instead of around.  The mischievous river had given us some slack, with confidence that we'd tighten the noose around our own necks.

Just when you think everyone has forgotten they're being filmed...

Tim concluded the captains meeting with a brief pep talk to rile us up.  I'm not entirely confident that he knows what "grabbing a bull by the horns" means though.

Over the years, my fuddy-duddy buddy Bill Kuklinski has been a favorite target for playful digs and harmless gibes.  His recent attempts to inoculate himself from this "actionable harassment" (as his attorney's cease-and-desist letter recently called it) have included partnering in a tandem with Mary Beth, who, as my soulmate (and, incidentally, editor), enjoys blanket immunity to even the gentlest mockery.  Nice try, buddy, but even MB's aura of invincibility can't protect you.  To avoid ferrying Bill down to the race from his burrow near our home, we told him that our rear seats were still damp from a recent Simonizing, leaving Kirk Olsen to Tesla him to Rhode Island.  Kirk reports that Bill was generally well-behaved in the state-of-the-art vehicle, but kept repeatedly exclaiming "What will they think of next?!?"  In reference to the passenger-side floormat, of course.

I wouldn't say there was a favorite to win, because that implies at least a modicum of uncertainty about the outcome.  Mike Florio was there to win a 6th consecutive race on his home course.  The rest of us attended to witness and then spread his gospel.  I hoped to stand on his righthand side afterwards, but to merit this exalted position I'd have to fend off worthy congregants like Chris Chappell and Jerry Madore.  In the women's competition, Loukia Lila (in an ICF boat) would be up against Leslie Chappell.  Mary Beth & Bill would be facing Patty White & Chris Sherwood in the doubles' race.  In addition to the kayakers, we had 5 outriggers, a couple of SUPs, an ocean rowing shell, and a hulking Banks Dory (that weighed nearly as much as all of the other boats combined).

Chris doesn't use his broad-reaching authority as Chief Compliance Officer often, but even Mr. SurfskiRacing.com himself isn't exempt from random banishment.

A side note.  People have asked if I've tried getting ChatGPT to help write race reports.  I did some research and found that "generative AI has a tendency to produce distorted versions of the truth embedded in whimsical near-gibberish, assuming that it's not 'hallucinating' outright confabulations."  Uh-oh.  That's pretty much my thing.  Rather than being cast into the dustbin of history, I've decided to take the fight to the Cloud.  If AI can do what I can, the inverse must be true.  I'm therefore boning up on "limericks about racquetball in the style of Dr. Seuss" and "recipes that use basil, bok choy, and bear kidneys".  Be on the lookout for GregChat 1.0 - just in time for the holiday season.

I've gotten slightly better on my race starts, but guess I better work on writing about them, because darned if we're not already a minute into the affair.  We join the race with me just slipping on to Mike's stern draft after weathering the early sprints of Chris, Jerry, Tim, and Loukia.  Or is it just slipping off of Mike's draft?  We'd need a high-speed camera and a team of philosophers to solve that metaphysical conundrum.  Let's just say it was all part of a single continuous motion.  Jerry lasted hundreds of times longer on my draft, but I managed to drop him after another 30 seconds or so.

I made a game of seeing how long I could remain on Mike's successive wakes.  I first did some calculations to gauge my expectations.  I've found that an immediate stern draft is worth about 0.15 mph of effort for me.  Let's say that when you fall back to the next wake, you're getting 2/3 as much help as on the preceding wake.  So 0.10 mph for the second wake, 0.067 for the third wake, etc.  Given that I couldn't stay on his first wake for very long, I'd say that Mike was natively about 0.25 mph faster than me.  So if I were getting no help from the wake, he'd be putting an extra boat length between us every 54.5 seconds.  On the first wake, it'd take him 136.4 seconds.  On the second, 90.9 seconds.  Using this line of reasoning, I was able to calculate that I'd finish roughly 1,273.6 feet behind Mike.  I'll admit that my in-the-moment computations were slightly fuzzier than this - more along the lines of "I'm losing ground mighty fast!", but the fact that I ultimately finished 17 inches closer than estimated means that I actually exceeded my true potential.

At the upstream turn, I was on Mike's 16th wake (reveling in that 0.00022 mph boost, baby!) - roughly 30 seconds back.  Chris was somewhat more than that behind me (felt like maybe the 27th wake), with Jerry just behind and Tim in stones-throw pursuit.  I continued a backward wake progression, until the wind mercifully disturbed the water enough to erase any visual indication of my reversal.  Although the outgoing tide was now providing some help, I eventually found the thigh-deep suck-water necessary to offset that advantage.  Passing under the final downstream bridge, Mike enjoyed a 1.5 minute lead.

Another side note.  When they stopped at a gas station to grab some coffee on the way down, Kirk said that he returned with the drinks to find Bill trying to stretch the gas pump hose across the parking lot to the Tesla.  It'd be funny, instead of sad, if Bill hadn't just recently retired from a tech job.  Vacuum tube design, if I'm not mistaken.

Around 11:30, local powerboat enthusiasts finally conceded that the summer-like weather was not in fact a prank designed to lure them out into the open, only to be subjected to a sudden sleet-ridden squall.  Scrambling to their vehicles like reverse storm-chasers, they raced to area boat launches for the year's last opportunity to satisfy their paddler kill quota.  Since the Narrow River races are held in early spring and late fall (the "crotch side" of the so-called "shoulder seasons"), we're used to having the waterway to ourselves.  On this day, however, more than one paddler (I assume) found themselves screaming obscenities at malevolent boaters.  "Florio, you #$@!% idiot!  I paid you to take out @#$!%& Florio!"... and the like.  Despite my best efforts, Mike continued far ahead as we neared the final turn.

Don't worry.  We made Kirk go back and clean up all the paddle slicks he left.

When you're watching artfully filmed fly-fishing, as in A River Runs Through It, it's impossible not to gaze in mesmerized wonder at the graceful, undulating arc of the line reflecting the sun as the master fishermen lasso their prey.  That's how it works, right?  In any event, it turns out the whole spectacle is not so enthralling from the water-level perspective of the trout.  Approaching the downstream turn, I entered a gauntlet of wader-clad assassins.  Only a perfectly triangulated course between them would protect me from their gossamer snares.  I watched Mike emerge unscathed from the trial-by-angler, his iridescent, mottled skin glistening as we crossed paths.  I similarly managed to thread the needle, although the barbed laughter that accompanied my clumsy 180 degree turn did hurt my feelings.

I spent the final mile back to the finish pondering the enigma that has troubled mariners since early man first climbed aboard the floating carcass of a dead whale and started paddling it: If the downstream current is X, how can the upstream current be 2X?  I know... for idiots tooling around on boats of rotting blubber, they were surprisingly advanced in symbolic mathematics.  Mike must have received some kind of special dispensation on this leg, since he was obviously in more of a 1.5X situation.  He finished 2 minutes ahead of me at 1:06:05, with Jerry coming in 3.5 minutes later to claim bronze.  Mary Beth & Bill had a strong showing to take the double's crown at 1:12:36.  Loukia was the women's champion in 1:17:02.

You wouldn't know it to look at them, but these kids are celebrating their 12th Narrow River Race together.  Not in the same boat, mind you.  That'd be a one-and-done situation followed by a bitter custody battle over the Subaru.

It's been a kind of lousy surfski season, with paradoxically more cancellations than there were scheduled races.  But rather than letting things end on a high note with a spectacular fall day on the Narrow River (thanks, Tim!), Kuklinski has to have the last word.  The Bridges of Essex County (named with a finger on the fading pulse of Boomers) will close out the racing calendar on Sunday, November 5, in Danvers, Massachusetts.  Bill can't promise 30 degree temperatures, a bone-chilling rain, or gale-force winds, but he'll do his best to make this 6 mile flatwater paddle a fitting close to the season.  Please preregister at PaddleGuru.

Blackburn Challenge: Slow Motion

The champ.  (photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)

I was excited when the Blackburn Challenge organizers announced an web-based competition to provide a pithy slogan for the race.  They were probably expecting something upbeat like "Twenty miles of liquid fun!" or "Take a magical tour of Cape Ann."  That was a miscalculation.  As we're now all aware due to the high-profile copyright lawsuit by the producers of Rocky IV, the new official slogan is "I must break you."  Odd choice to personify the race that way, but somehow apt.  I personally preferred "Nope", but admittedly that had infringement issues of its own.  Despite the ominous new tagline, competitors didn't seem dissuaded.

In the spirit of race namesake Howard Blackburn (who famously ate his crewmate before starting his epic winter row to safety, just to bask undiluted in solo glory), Mary Beth and I invited fellow competitors Tim Dwyer and Rob Jehn to stay with us before the race.  This proved to be an error in judgement on everyone's part, as we all spent the night sleepless in the candlelight, daggers at the ready.

Last year, Rob Jehn and Craig Impens battled for the entire race, with Craig getting the edge in the final sprint.  I sensed that Rob hadn't quite negotiated the five stages of grief over this devastating loss, mostly because he kept denying that he had even participated in 2022.  When confronted with photographic evidence from the finish line, he just muttered something about doppelgangers while jabbing Craig's face with a handy dagger.  C'mon, dude.  That was my phone.  In any event, Rob was looking forward to repeating his dominant performance from the last time he had raced the course, back in 2021.  He'd be joined by inveterate Canadians Jack Van Dorp and Brian Heath, who made their annual summer migration to Gloucester in hopes of claiming their own podium spots.

This one photo of the North Shore crew deserves an entire blog post of its own.

Local ne'er-do-well and perennial nemesis, Matt Drayer, would mercifully be out of my category, paddling a V10 Double with beloved native Dan Brooks.  They'd be facing off against Team Lamb (Erin & Alan, who have repeatedly rejected my preferred moniker, The Dylambic Duo) in their own class, and Wesley Echols and Tim Dwyer in an SS20+ tandem.  Other notable paddlers included the legendary Dana Gaines, who hit platinum membership way back at his 15th Blackburn and has since accrued so many multiplied miles that he'd technically be completing his 244th iteration this year.  Doubles "partner" Phil Warner was assigned to do the actual paddling, as well as serving complimentary lobster and champagne at Straitsmouth.

Before the race, I heard someone offering simple, practical advice for navigation once exiting the Annisquam - "Keep the land to your left".  Oops.  He must have misspoken.  "Port." I helpfully corrected.  Assuming the recipients of this wisdom averaged 40 miles a day, brought a few extra energy gels, and carried a change of underwear, we could expect to see them at the finish of the 2025 Blackburn.  I felt bad for the suckers who didn't bring enough cash to cover the Panama Canal transit fee, though.  Of course, the quicker circumnavigation - keeping Cape Ann to your starboard - would entail only 20 miles of paddling, although in some years that extra underwear might nevertheless come in handy. 

I lined up next to Rob, Jack, and Brian.  Or rather, amongst them.  With my less-than-explosive start, I should have known that I would soon find myself squeezed between these guys, desperately looking for a unclaimed patch of water large enough to plant a paddle blade.  After a couple of solid plants on Jack's boat threatened to cause an international incident, I relented and ceded the disputed territory of Rob's starboard draft to Jack.  I slipped onto Rob's stern, with Brian likewise behind Jack.

Rob managed to free himself of parasites within a couple minutes, opening up a half-dozen boat length gap that would persist for most of the trip out the Annisquam.  As we progressed, the strength of the incoming tide grew, knocking a knot off our speeds even when tucked out of the worst of the current.  I managed to get around Jack, who I now pulled in pursuit of Rob.  Brian stayed on the train for a mile or so, but eventually tumbled off.

I enjoy the Hokey Pokey as much as the next guy, but I'm not sure it was a particularly effective as a group warm-up drill.

Despite not having kayaked there until I was 37, my formative years were spent paddling the Annisquam. Having been practically whelped on the marshy estuary, I've been able to use a few navigational sleights-of-hand to my advantage in past Blackburns - including some feats that left Rob blinking in disbelief that his 10 length lead had been magically cut to 8 and a half.  From such harsh instruction, he's since learned to frequently check back with me, adjusting his behavior accordingly.  Little did he realize that my greatest trick had been in planning all along for just such an adaptation.

Each time that Rob started to crane back, I'd adopt a crazy new "strategy" for him to mimic.  Weaving through the moored boats.  Only paddling on one side.  Wearing my shorts inside-out.  He invariably took the bait, but these moves were just for giggles.  The real pay-off came when Rob looked back to find me cutting the final bend of the Annisquam ridiculously close to shore.  He corrected his course to adopt my purported line, while I swerved away from the sandy shallows once his gaze returned forward.  I watched with glee as Rob heeled his boat increasingly to one side to avoid scraping his rudder and then ground to a halt.  The few seconds it took him to hop out of his boat and drag it to deeper water was just enough for me to catch him.  Jack, who had remained scrupulously clear of the shallows, hovered a few lengths back.

My ingenious ploy bought me all of 3 minutes of draft time.  Exiting the river, Rob broke free once again while I was clumsily (and boorishly) trying to pass an outrigger who had the temerity to be out on the same course.  Over the next mile, Rob stretched his advantage to a dozen length lead.  A short distance back, Jack was resolved to stay on a line 50 meters inside of mine.  At one point, I tested his commitment to this strategy by angling over to within 25 meters of the shore.  Sure enough, when I glanced to the right, there was Jack, boat on his shoulder, scrambling spryly across the rocky coast.  He seemed to be gaining on me during this stretch, so I quickly veered back to open water, a subdued splash behind me signaled the end of Jack's portage.  There may have been some mild degree of exercise-induced hypoxia associated with this anecdote.

Race buddies Elmore, Jerry, and Bernie.  The camaraderie of mile 7 was inevitably replaced by the bitter recriminations of mile 12 (photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)

Although the tide had been restraining our exuberance in a motherly manner (firm, but gentle, and with occasional snacks), the sea was smooth with barely a wisp of wind.  At Halibut Point, however, we were collectively shipped off to boarding school, where "tough love" was the order of the day.  Inevitably, this would later evolve to rampant sadism and, for some of the less hardened pupils, psychotic breaks.  I'm getting ahead of myself, though.  At orientation, we were merely slapped in the face and reminded that this was the Atlantic Ocean, not our mama's duck pond.  There was some confused refractory chop around the rocky points and an unwelcome headwind, but crossing Sandy Bay towards Straitsmouth wasn't an unreasonable first assignment.

Rob was slipping inexorably further ahead during this span, but I took some solace from the possibility that Jack had the same feeling about me.  If his inside line had been helping him while closer to the coast, in Sandy Bay it was doing him no favors - I could see him gradually falling back.  A quarter of the way to Straitsmouth, I heard the first waft of the dreadful sound that would burrow itself into my brain so deeply that I hear it still.  Hut!  The six-person outriggers had started immediately after the skis.  Hut!  The lead OC-6 had blasted by as we left the Annisquam, but now the second was approaching at a rate usually associated with glaciers or your slower growing mosses.  Hut!  For the next half-hour, the rhythmic call to switch paddle sides would scrape at my nerves, fraying my sanity.  Hut!  I can now testify from first-hand experience that torture is an unreliable interrogation technique, since at one point (dear God, make it stop) I confessed to war crimes in Bosnia, cheating on my Econ 101 mid-term, and having a secret crush on Mrs. Garrett.  Hmm.  Somewhat unreliable.

Before you comment that "the OC-6 paddlers themselves seem to have no problems maintaining their sanity after 3 hours of calls", I'd say that (a) you apparently haven't met that many outrigger paddlers and (b) it's a matter of context.  If your own 5 year old (it's Walter, right?) whacks you repeatedly on the head with a croquet mallet, that's adorable.  If it's me getting whacked on the melon, that's felonious assault and Walter is going to be spending the next 35 years in the Big House.  I forgot to mention that in this analogy, we're in Canada - they don't mollycoddle minors up there.  In any event, my hypnotherapist (you may remember Dr. Huber) has promised to wipe all memory of the traumatizing chant, but so far he's only succeeded in making me forget where I put my wallet.

By necessity (except, perhaps, for shore-clambering Jack) boats are funneled through the narrow Straitsmouth gap after traversing Sandy Bay.  I must have got a hold of some bad juju before the race (never trust unlicensed parking lot vendors), because, despite my best efforts, I arrived at the throttle point simultaneously with the OC-6 mentioned in passing above, two rowboats, and a double ski piloted by Chris Kielb and Rob Flanagan.  The tightening situation required deft maneuvering to avoid incident, but I instead opted to close my eyes and hope for the best.  Only when the screaming (mine) stopped did a I dare to reopen them.  I have no new scars, so it seems like everything worked out just fine. 

If technique and style points were factored into the results, I would have been disqualified.  (photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)

Although tempered by the disturbed waters around each subsequent headland, we enjoyed a tidal boost after Straitsmouth.  This uncharacteristic respite from antagonistic conditions faded after clearing Lands End, where we started our 3 mile trek across open water.  Our punishment now took the form of a headwind and waves predominantly from the quarter beam.  Seconds stretched to minutes, and minutes stretched to curses and impassioned prayers that the distant coast would get at least marginally less distant.  That particular request wasn't immediately granted, but I did receive one unexpected blessing from above - the OC-6 took an outside line ahead and was finally out of earshot.  On a negative note, Rob had similarly advanced, and was finally out of eyeshot.

Many of those anxious for landfall after their endless odyssey found themselves in emotional turmoil after achieving their goal.  On one hand, Hooray!  On the other, Zounds!  It's tough to describe the chaotic ocean surface exactly, but perhaps "prickly" comes closest.  We would also accept "nettlesome".  Between the prevailing beam waves, slop reflected randomly from the craggy shore, and undersea seismic activity, conditions were sub-optimal for paddlers who already had 15 miles worth of balance fatigue under their belts.  Although challenging even for veterans, this rough-and-tumble hazing took its toll on the underclassmen.  Several had to be hustled into decompression chambers after the race, lest the sudden change in anxiety levels burst their fragile psyches.

I managed to bumble through the disorder, bouncing along haphazardly in a path that led more-or-less in the right direction.  How different from my early Blackburn years, where I mostly floundered instead of bumbling.  Rounding East Point, the beam waves were finally forced into a more favorable alignment, providing juicy rides along the Dog Bar, just waiting to be harvested.  That's more of a theoretical than empirical observation, since fatigue prevented me from actually sinking my teeth into most of those plums.

The two mile trip from the Dog Bar to the finish across a busy Gloucester harbor is typically an interminable slog - a life sentence punctuated by moments of powerboat-induced terror.  With a breeze at our backs and the reduction of the bounty on paddlers (recently reclassified from "pestilent scourge" to "nuisance species" by the Harbormaster), this year's traverse was only 95% as unpleasant as usual.  And now with a sustainable cull rate!  For once I passed the finish line looking robust enough that concerned spectators weren't calling 911.

Two legendary watermen.  That's 12-time Molokai winner Oscar Chalupsky in the black shirt.  And Blackburn rower extraordinaire Rich Klajnscek in the blue shirt and orange hat.  Our staff is still trying to identify the guy next to Oscar.

No single stretch of the Blackburn was particularly onerous this year, but the relentlessness of unfavorable conditions made for a humbling race.

Rob had notched his second Blackburn championship in 2:54:03.  I don't mean to take anything away from his performance, but I'd hardly be a conscientious journalist if I didn't point out that this was the slowest winning time in nearly 25 years.  I will, however, graciously admit that his 5 minute advantage over 2nd (me) and 10 minute edge over 3rd (Jack) indicates that Rob isn't quite the slouch the facts objectively show him to be.  Johna Till Johnson claimed the women's HPK class, while Jean Kostelich won the SS20+ class.  John Stevens was the men's SS20+ champ.  The HPK tandem team of Matt & Dan came in as the overall fastest surfski at 2:51:50, while the SS20+ duo of Wesley & Tim slotted themselves between me and Jack as the 4th overall ski.  Rejuvenated by his first tandem race, Wesley was heard to shout "We're going around again!" just prior to being knocked unconscious by Tim.

Here's the prescription for those who need to ease themselves back into racing after their 3-to-7 hour long Blackburn trauma.  Start with a flatwater outing on the relatively tranquil Connecticut River - the New England Paddlesports Championship (register at PaddleGuru) on July 30th in Hinsdale, NH.  Follow that with the more adventurous Clean Ocean Access Paddle 2023 in Newport, RI on August 19th (register at PaddleGuru).  Then throw yourself whole-heartedly back into the open water fray at the Nahant Bay Cup in Swampscott, MA on August 26th (probable date - keep tuned).  

You can view many great photos of the race from Phil Sachs (at Halibut Point) and Glen Tine (at Straitsmouth). 

Hut!