NE Surfski Downwind: Gulp...

With winds at 15+ knots from an unfavorable ENE direction, the Board of Trustees made a day-before decision to shift the NE Surfski Downwind course from its normal Kittery-to-York route down to the North Shore of Massachusetts.  We'd run 11 miles from Stage Fort Park in Gloucester to Lynch Park in Beverly, covering some of the same ground we'd paddled three weeks ago in the Kettle Island Run.  Unlike that day, however, the course wouldn't be pampering us with well-behaved waves, mild winds, and complimentary snacks.  Instead, we'd be careening through some of the biggest waters many of us have ever paddled.  If the Kettle Island Run were the dulcet tones of Perry Como, this race would be the take-no-prisoners delivery of Ethel Merman.  I'm nothing if not topical.

As the parking lot filled with familiar faces anxious to once again match their skills and conditioning against one another, a few surprise paddlers turned up to throw a monkey in the shower.  Sean Brennan took a break from the witness relocation program (testified in a controversial jay-walking case, I heard) to paddle in his first New England race in 18 months.  Fresh off her appearance representing the Stars and Stripes at the world marathon championships in Denmark, Alex McClain was ready to demonstrate that - given the right equipment - she hasn't completely lost her steering skills.  Pam Boteler and Mark Berry were prepared to brave the conditions, despite never having raced skis in Northeast waters.  Mark lives so far up in Maine that the locals speak a delightful combination of French and bear, while Pam traveled up from Virginia (which really leaves me nothing to work with).

By the time we left Lynch Park to head out to the launch at Stage Fort, Eric's trailer was bristling with skis.  Twenty-three of us would start the race.  After a brief captains' meeting (the gist of which was "go downwind until you see the finish", with a bracing dose of "you're on your own out there", and a pinch of "please try to wash up on shore"), we each signed a commemorative plaque destined to hang in New England Surfski headquarters in honor of the lost squadron.  A nice touch by Eric, I thought.  We hit the water with a true esprit de corps - fellow warriors united in our treacherous downwind mission.  We'd seize the beach back at Lynch come hell and high water.  Or get wet and nervous trying.

Kirk loosens a few straps for good measure.

Our course would take us out around a channel marker a quarter mile from shore in Gloucester Harbor, downwind in unprotected waters for 3 miles, then another 4 miles past a series of islands (Kettle, Egg, House, and Misery), ending with a 4 mile stretch within relatively protected Salem Sound.  Within that middle section, we were free to weave pell-mell among the islands as our whims dictated.

I reasoned that a route outside the islands would keep me clear from refracting slop, provide the most tidal assistance, and line me up for a final downwind stretch that wouldn't be in the lee of Misery Island or the mainland.  I was alone in this belief - much like during an embarrassing argument in 11th grade regarding Leprechauns.  Unlike then, however, the proof would be in the pudding - the pot of golden butterscotch pudding that I'd stashed at the finish and would be casually eating when the rest of the field staggered in.  I calculated that the outside route was maybe an eighth of a mile longer, but that'd be chump change given my astonishing velocity.

After sabotaging the boats, Kirk plays it cool by regaling the field with tales of derring-do.

Careful to avoid a pack of scuba divers who had inexplicably set up an underwater pumpkin carving station near our starting area (seriously, that's what they were doing down there), we lined up for the gun.  Sean and Borys Markin jumped out to an immediate lead, followed by Alex, Francisco Urena, and the entire field of Erics (McNett and Costanzo).  By the time we hit the turn buoy that would catapult us into our downwind run, I had passed Francisco and Eric the Elder.  Sean and Borys were headed out on a line that would eventually swing them by Provincetown.  Despite their grand tour of Massachusetts Bay, these fellows would end up finishing a convincing one-two (at 1:22:01 and 1:25:06).  Oops.  Spoiler alert.

A mile into the race, that cozy feeling of fellowship had been scoured away by the wind and waves.  It was every man for himself.  I started looking for a V8 to hijack, but realizing that I couldn't actually see any of the other competitors over the heaving seas, I reluctantly decided to stick with my V10.  I felt kind of bad later when I saw photos of Matt Drayer treading water while waiting for the boat hand-off that never came (that youngster's got enough esprit for the lot of us!).  As we approached Kettle Island, the condition continued to grow.

In open water, the 6 foot swell by itself wasn't that intimidating, although it did require a certain degree of vigilance.  When that same swell hit shallow water, rose up on its haunches and curled over to reveal its foam-drenched fangs, however, you started to question the chain of decisions that ultimately led you to wander innocently into its enclosure.  As the old adage goes, a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single surfski pitch from Wesley.  Having established the cause of my predicament, I started plotting my revenge. That kept my mind off the crashing surf long enough to sneak by the outside of Kettle Island without being mauled.

I'm the guy chewing gum.

The next few miles were the toughest of my voyage.  Despite being a good half-mile from shore and in deep water, there were enough shelves and shallows close-by that the seas were piling up around me in unnatural fashion.  Within this grotesque stew, the ocean swell was heading about 15 degrees from my preferred direction, while the wind was almost directly behind me.  I struggled mightily to get good rides, meeting with only modest success.

I classified the waves in four categories: (a) waves which there was no possible way I could catch, (b) waves which I could conceivably catch if you'd just let me catch my damned balance first, (c) waves which I could conceivably catch if you'd just let me catch my damned breath first, and (d) waves which I caught but ultimately dropped because I lost my balance, breath, or nerve.  The a:b:c:d ratio was something like 25:10:5:1.  So every 40 waves or so, I'd catch a ripper, skim over the water with agile grace, then have an intermission of two-score waves to spit the seaweed out of my teeth.  Regarding the agile grace part - you can't really see that so much in the GoPro video below, but if you look beyond what appear to be frenzied strokes and desperate braces, you'll maybe get a hint of my effortless proficiency.  Helps to squint a little.  Have a couple-few drinks too.

Nearing House Island, my craft suffered a sudden and catastrophic rotation around its longitudinal axis, resulting in the captain calling for his crew to immediately abandon ship.  Having ensured that everyone was accounted for, I slipped into the roiling waters to see what could be done to repair my vessel.  Amazingly, the ski seemed in perfect working order!  It was clear to anyone with half a brain that my boat must have suffered an intermittent failure of the roll stabilization system, but those pencil-pushing nimrods at the Surfski Safety Alliance insisted on putting "operator error" on the cause-of-accident report.  That whistling sound you hear is my life insurance rates leaving earth orbit.

I remounted without issue and continued to pick my way tentatively through the stacks of waves.  I was now approaching Misery and Little Misery Islands.  These fellows are separated by a 75 foot gap that's usually quite navigable at mid-tide.  I briefly contemplated shooting this gap.  I certainly would have set a new personal speed record, but judging by the spray exploding 30 feet in the air, my ride would likely end in a personal deceleration record as well.  I therefore skirted the outside edge of Little Misery, still logging some of my fastest times of the day.

Within a quarter mile of clearing Little Misery, the conditions had mellowed considerably.  The other racers referred to this segment of a race as a slog to the finish, but I was still managing to get a reasonable boost on my outside line.  I doubt that much of the reasoning behind my grand navigation strategy was actually sound, but at least this one element was bearing fruit.

I started scanning the shoreline looking for paddlers who had taken the inner passage.  I live in constant fear of being overtaken by an unanticipated competitor (and not just during races).  Craig Impens struck from the blue in the Blackburn, while Joe Glickman did the same in the Lighthouse-to-Lighthouse.  This was my chance to deliver that stomach-turning bolt of disappointment (he thought, with undisguised glee).  Not until I was within a mile from the finish did I spot anyone, however, and the crushing letdown was to be mine.  The bright orange Mocke PFD I saw well ahead must surely have Eric McNett at its core.  By beating me, he would nestle comfortably into the penultimate spot in the point series, leaving me in third for the second year.

Perhaps because I was occupied howling my bitter lamentations heavenward ("Why, oh why, must bad things - well, not really bad, but say slightly off-putting - happen to good people - ok, good may be overstating it, but people who at least wouldn't deliberately swerve to hit a squirrel?"), I didn't notice until a few minutes later that I was rapidly converging with another paddler.  I couldn't figure who it was, but I seemed to be a few boat lengths ahead.  And so I did manage after all to deliver my own spirit-breaking message of "Surprise!  You're one place further back than you thought."  But my heart just wasn't in it.

Bob showing his new-found appreciation for dry land.

I pulled into the finish 15 seconds ahead of Alex, who turned out to be the mystery paddler - a great performance in conditions that couldn't be more different from those she trains in.  I received another disheartening blow when I saw Eric Costanzo waiting at the finish.  Beaten by every single Eric we had!  Eric McNett was nowhere to be seen - probably already strapping his boat onto the van.  Then, to my initial confusion, I saw McNett paddle around the point towards the finish.  Newton's controversial 4th law of motion - the Conservation of Erics - was finally proved to be true.  I was beaten by Eric C (who, it turns out, also was Mocke'd up), but had beaten Eric M.  The former Eric (he was so young...) really established himself as a force to be reckoned with and/or beat by.

Matt, Ken Cooper, Tim Dwyer, and Francisco rounded out the top ten.  Six paddlers wouldn't make it to the finish by water, but everybody arrived safely in some manner (hitchhiking with a 20 foot boat offers its own challenges).  As we shared our race experiences while waiting for the awards ceremony, we studiously (and uncharacteristically) avoided exaggerating our tales of wonder and terror, lest they sound just too outlandish.  I even knocked a couple of feet off some waves to make them more palatable to a dubious audience.

In addition to awards for the race, Eric handed out the point series trophies to Borys and Beata.  Despite living four hours away, this pair had showed up to nearly every race to take command of the series for the second year running.  A deserving Matt received a new spanking paddle for being the most improved paddler of the season.  Scratch that.  Spanking new paddle.  From Think.  Everyone who had completed at least six races in the New England Surfski series was eligible to win an Epic V12 via raffle drawing.  This inspired bit of promotion doubtless helped to drive participation this season.  Bruce Deltorchio was the winner.  He promptly traded the boat for a Fenn Swordfish, a Jantex paddle, and a carburetor for a 53 Chevy.

Many thanks to Eric (not you, Costanzo), Ed, and Ken for making all of this happen.  It was a great and memorable day.

Kettle Island Run: 15.3 Miles of Radiant Bliss

If you were going to schedule a race for the confused waters of Salem Sound, you probably wouldn't make it 15+ miles.  Or schedule it in late September.  Or choose a course almost guaranteed to beam slap you into submission.  That's why you'll never be Ed Duggan.  Ed once paddled shore-to-shore across the Bay of Fundy.  At low tide.  He's done the Blackburn course so many times that he lost count.  In a single day.  He's been known to... well, you get the idea.  My point isn't that Ed is a remarkably tough and persistent paddler who expects no less from participants in his race.  It's that he's just plain bonkers.  Hence the Kettle Island Run.

In last year's race, I went belly up two-thirds of the way through and had to be scooped out of the water by the rescue boat.  Conditions on that day weren't particularly big, but they were everywhere at once.  This year promised to be better behaved, with a light breeze, sunny skies, and mild temperatures.  Sixteen paddlers prepared to answer Ed's challenge.

Remember a time before GoPro when we had no lasting records of our most humiliating moments?  And before we had blogs to advertize these times to everyone?  A representative shot from last year's race. 

 The course is simple - start offshore of Lynch Park in Beverly, circle Kettle Island, and return to Lynch.  Kettle Island starts off at about 7.25 miles away, but quickly recedes to about twice that as you approach it.  An outgoing tide, a NNE breeze, and ocean swell from the SE meant that if you played your cards right... you'd fold and head for the craps table.  The house was going to win this one.  The best you could do was keep your head down and hope that, when you finally got back to the finish, your car hadn't been repossessed.  You probably weren't going to have trouble staying upright, but there'd be a fair amount of slogging involved.

In a competition that at most two people care about, Eric McNett and I are neck and neck in the New England Surfski point series.  Since Borys has already locked up the NESS series crown, Eric claims that he and I are competing for the first place loser spot.  I prefer to think of it as the penultimate position, because after six or seven beers, it starts to sound like that actually may be better than the ultimate spot.  In any event, a win by me in Beverly would make it very difficult for Eric to pry my grubby hands off of sweet penultimateness.

We lined up for an on-water start marked by what I believe was a rapidly drifting dodgeball.  Apparently there was a consensus that a race this long wasn't going to be won or lost in the first quarter mile.  After the start, I found myself in uncharted waters - in amongst the early leaders.  Thirty seconds in, only Chris Chappell was ahead of me.  That may have been in part because Eric and a few others forked off to the left, but nevertheless, I was only a single paddler away from open water.  As I prepared to pass Chris, I remembered the glassy-eyed zeal with which he had latched onto me after I pulled ahead of him at the Great Stone Dam Classic.  Kinda creepy, actually.  I had forgotten to renew my restraining order, so I gave him an extra wide berth as I passed.

Eric opted to forgo any help from the outgoing tide, tucking in close to shore to keep out of the breeze quartering from our left and stay in calmer waters.  It looked like several other paddlers had also decided to adopt the McNett Way.  Before the race, Mike McDonough and I discussed the relative merits of various lines and agreed that the tidal boost would be worth the downsides of staying further out in the Sound.  Eric's uncanny navigational skills usually makes you wonder what kind of deal he might have struck in exchange for his immortal soul, but this was our home surf.  I stayed way outside.

This year's race was slightly less horrific...

Throwing quick glances back I saw that I had some company, but couldn't make out who it was. I had assumed my stalker was Chris, but found out later that it had been a different mortal enemy - Jan Lupinski.  Apparently this perplexing reversal of wash-riding roles threw off Jan's stroke a bit, because after a couple of miles I managed to shake him off.  Meanwhile, Eric continued moving up the coast in parallel, having given the slip to his entourage as well.  With perhaps as much as a quarter mile separating us laterally, it was difficult to gauge who was ahead.

Some people argue that having a bailer instead of venturi drains reduces drag significantly.  Others claim that a well-designed venturi is inherently more efficient than an open bailer when conditions get rough.  What bailer proponents don't tell you, however, is how obsessed you become with the state of your bailer.  They also don't mention that you definitely won't capsize less because you have a bailer.  Most of the drama in the middle of my race resulted from fumbling attempts to open and close that sucker without subsequently examining it from the flip side.

After 7 miles of eyeballing each other from afar, Eric and I would finally converge at the north end of Kettle Island to compare notes on our trajectories.  I suspected I'd have the lead, but it certainly wouldn't be substantial enough to deliver the crushing psychological blow that I had been fantasizing about for the past few miles.  Sure enough, I reached the island perhaps a half-dozen lengths ahead of Eric.  Tentative in the sloppy conditions around the back side of Kettle, I could feel my lead and my confidence slipping away.  As we rounded the island and pointed our skis back towards the start, Eric pulled alongside with a casual ease that can only be adequately described as "malevolent".

Almost immediately after hitting open water, our paths diverged once more.  Eric took an inner line, while I stayed outside so that I could better experience the exasperation of not catching the ocean swell headed in our direction, while also struggling in wind and tide-driven slop from other directions.  I hadn't seen anyone else for a half hour, but as my speed continued to drop, I feared a sneak attack from behind.  The miles were ticking by slowly, with Eric gradually prying open a lead.

At one point a working boat decided to cross my path at a shallow angle and a velocity as closely matched to mine as he could manage - a classic case of WFO syndrome.  This yahoo has the whole darn ocean at his disposal, and he decides to provide me with another dubious excuse for why I couldn't catch Eric.  I did my best to serve up some choice gestures while still paddling, which, in retrospect, may explain why one of the crew asked if I was in need of emergency assistance.  Where's McDonough when you need him?  When it comes to indignant tirades directed at vessels several thousand times heavier than ours, he's in a class by himself (everyone else having graduated after passing their self-preservation exams).

I eventually crossed behind the irksome boat, failing even to wrestle a compensatory ride from the miserly bastard.  Eric was continuing to extend his lead.  With a couple of miles remaining, he was perhaps 30 lengths ahead.  At the Lighthouse to Lighthouse race a few weeks back, Eric had similarly passed me at about the halfway point, but had slowed dramatically near the end, allowing me to slip by in the last mile.  I needed a little déjà vu.  Tout de suite.

I made a few pathetic attempts to buckle down and interval my way up to Eric, but you'd be hard pressed to identify these microblips of effort on my GPS track.  I had not only hit the wall, but had slid down it like Wile E. Coyote, and then had it collapse on top of me.  My stroke resembled an educational video on what to avoid if you find yourself floating in shark-infested waters.  I should have been a little more specific with my ocean vu request - instead of the L2L I was reliving one of the many races in which I had watched impotently as Eric finished ahead of me.  My revised strategy was to buckle down and limp my way in ahead of Jan, who I assumed must be closing on me at breakneck speed.

Several days later, I finally spotted the traditional dodgeball finish marker bobbing in the sea.  I hadn't beaten Eric, but at least this year I had made it around the course with my dignity as intact as it was when I started.  Jan pulled in to take third, completing an Epic V10 podium sweep.  Wesley Echols and Ken Cooper - both of whom may have had their best races of the season - claimed the 4th and 5th spots, just 13 seconds apart.  Joe Shaw, Peter Kahn, Matt Drayer, John Mathieu, and Kirk Olsen rounded out the top 10, with Mary Beth nabbing the top women's spot.

Our race day was topped off with a tasty buffet at the Black Lobster in nearby Salem, at which I put a serious hurt on the world's supply of sesame shrimp poppers.  Awards were awarded.  Races were rehashed in stroke-by-stroke detail.  Someone was asked by the staff to empty poppers from his or her pockets, in what I found to be a less than cordial tone.  We hadn't seen the worst of the Kettle Island Run that day, but nonetheless, it had brought out the best in us.  That's what I might say in earnest tones if I was doing the voice-over for a video tribute celebrating Ed's mad genius.  As it is, perhaps I'll instead just thank him and his crew for putting on another great race.

Lighthouse to Lighthouse: Last Gasps of the Summer

In New England's relatively short but colorful surfski history (whatever happened to that that guy who used to paddle with a porcupine balanced on his rear deck?), this year's Lighthouse to Lighthouse may rank as the best ever all-around race.  It had a little of everything: most of the top competitors from the Northeast and Florida, reigning world champion Michele Eray, spectacular weather, a convenient and accommodating venue, plenty of green and black boats, great hosts in Wayne Lysobey and Gary Williams, and enough good food to choke a family of porcupines (right - now I recall what happened to that guy).  Best of all, however, was the smorgasbord of conditions out on Long Island Sound.  The downwind dessert was among the finest we've seen in these parts.  I could have done without the castor oil chaser of an upwind ending, but, hey, my dropsy has cleared right up.

If you laid all the skis at L2L end-to-end, well, that would be a little pointless.

As the East Coast Surfski Championship, with prize money donated by Stellar, the L2L attracted a record field of nearly 50 skis - more than twice the participation of last year.  Reid Hyle had made the trip up from Florida to challenge defending men's champion Borys Markin, with Michele an overall podium threat as well (even while paddling on a knife-edge Nelo 560 in sloppy water).  Joe Glickman, Jan Lupinski, Eric McNett, and Craig Impens (all of whom dusted me in the Blackburn back in July) also showed up to brawl.  It was going to be a fast day - or at least a painful one.

Gary briefed us on the race.  The 14 mile course starting at Shady Beach would take us out around Sprite Island, past Peck's Ledge Lighthouse to Goose Island, down Long Island Sound to Green's Ledge Lighthouse, then back again.  An incoming tide would be working against a moderate SW breeze, adding some technical challenges to the course.  There was protracted confusion about the starting order for some boat classes (generations hence, there will be entire symposiums where gray-haired scholars argue about out who exactly was supposed to go off in Wave 2), but anxious to get on the water I left before the fisticuffs.

Perhaps someone should have been paying a little more attention at the captain's meeting.

I've decided that getting off the starting line slow is my Signature Move.  It's neither flashy nor effective, but given that I apparently have the fast twitch muscle fibers of a geriatric sloth, I'm turning a liability into a brand.  So I Signature Moved the hell out of this race.  Jesse Lishchuk (member of the US Junior Men sprint and marathon teams) gave a picture-perfect clinic on disheartening one's puny opponents, leaving a trail of flames that put the Cuyahoga River to shame.  Fortunately, I could only see him for a few seconds - not because he was obscured by the smoke (although he probably was), but because I was being drenched by paddle spray.  I found myself wedged uncomfortably in the inundation zone between Beata Cseke and youngster Ryan Mechini, taking on a titanic amount of water.

I was just about to radio the Coast Guard for a rescue when things opened up a bit, allowing me to pull forward far enough to avoid the worst of the deluge.  I soon started clawing my way through the fast twitchers - Ryan, Beata, Kirk Olsen, Joe Shaw, Francisco Urena, Alex Ambotas, and a couple of other paddlers I didn't recognize.  I expected that when I got to Craig, he would either resist the pass or jump on my wash, but he seemed to be racing his own race - a strategy he used to great effect at the Blackburn.  I was also concerned by the absence of Eric, whom I hadn't seen since the start.  That guy thinks like the ocean, which means he spends a lot of time plotting ludicrously fast lines and worrying about his salinity levels.

Once clear of Craig, I could concentrate on what was happening ahead.  The trinity of Reid, Borys, and Jesse had scuttled off this mortal coil (no shufflers, they) to pursue glory in a realm more worthy of their talents.  Godspeed, I say.  And, also, holy crap.  A second trio of Michele, Joe, and Jan followed behind, hoping that in their passage to the undiscovered country, one of the leaders would get caught in a cursed vortex or lose his way in the Fog of Despair.

In making our way past Peck's Ledge Lighthouse and out around Goose Island, we were subjected to a light chop from our right.  I knew Joe would laugh off this threat, and that Michele had been granted full diplomatic immunity, but I had hoped the beam conditions might be enough to gum up Jan's machinery.  As I'd observe later, however, his rough water skills are improving at a truly offensive rate.  Show some respect for the process, man.  I remained a dozen or more boat lengths behind as we turned upwind for the long run towards Green's Ledge Lighthouse.

Several minutes later, it became apparent that the group ahead was separating - perhaps there was some schism over which hemisphere was truly right side up, or maybe one of the guys made some ill-advised springbok joke.  Whatever the cause, Michele began to distance herself from Jan and Joe.  Left behind on their own, they seemed suddenly vulnerable - abandoned kittens swimming feebly in dog-infested waters.  I slow twitched my way past Joe (adorable with his red bow) and set after Jan, who I eventually caught behind Sheffield Island trying to score some catnip.

With the island providing a break from the oncoming waves, I suctioned myself onto Jan's stern to wait for what I expected to be rougher conditions once we cleared the lee.  Sure enough, as we emerged from behind Sheffield to start an unprotected mile to the turn-around, the seas grew cranky.  I pulled alongside Jan, but was unable to break away.  As we neared Green's Ledge, someone started yelling at us in Swedish.  I'm a little rusty, but I believe that we were being told to avoid (or perhaps seek out) doing (or perhaps not doing) something (or perhaps nothing), which is pretty much what I had planned anyway.

Jan and I came around the back side of the lighthouse side by side.  This was it.  Halfway through the race, we'd now duel it out in beautiful downwind conditions - Mano a Jano.

To thine own self be true...

First things first, though.  If you call your blog Full Tilt and you don't have a second layer of meaning beyond "Look at me!  I'm pushing myself to the limit!", you're just being boorish.  Not having executed a race-day tilt of more than, say, 43 degrees this season, and the season winding down, I had a limited window to save myself from that particular flavor of obnoxiousness.  With this noble thought in mind, I seized the opportunity and threw myself upon the mercy of the sea.  I was a bit out of practice, but gravity walked me through the rotation process with a firm hand.

I had assumed that Jan would grant me a mulligan.  We'd just restart together from the lighthouse.  That seems fair, right?  After all, when he foundered off the rocks in Narragansett Bay, did I take advantage of his dire situation?  Well, technically, yes - I cackled maniacally and whacked him on the melon with my paddle for good measure.  But when his boat was filling with water in the Essex River, did I push ahead despite his handicap?  Again, yes, and with joy in my heart, but now you're quibbling.  How about that time when he mistakenly headed into the breakers at the mouth of the Narrow River?  Did I not call him back from certain doom?  Er... OK, you may have a point.  But whatever happened to letting bygones be bygones?

As you've perhaps guessed, Jan ignored my fevered pleas for a redo.  He shot off downwind while I executed an innovative (and yet incredibly awkward) new remount reminiscent of that used by mating elephant seals.  Once safely aboard my craft, I set off in wobbly pursuit of a rapidly receding Lupinski.

Winner of the Great Stone Dam Classic.  Wait, how'd this get in here?

Up until the lighthouse turn, I had been able to see Michelle in the distance.  After turning downwind, however, she disappeared completely - raptured into the firmament to join the other chosen paddlers, no doubt.  Ahead of me was only Jan, who was stubbornly refusing to adhere to my contention that I was the superior downwind racer.  And then, after a short while, Jan was joined by Joe, who was all too willing to adhere to the opposite contention.  Those soggy kittens I had encountered earlier were evidently cheetah cubs.  Ugh.  That was dreadful, but I was too wiped out to come up with anything better.

I was finally starting to get a better feel for the downwind conditions, stringing together some respectable runs and practicing my exuberant hoots.  In short - I was hauling.  I might not catch Joe or Jan, but sure as shootin', nobody else was going to pass me.  Through a sheer effort of will, I managed to maintain that conviction long after I had watched Eric slide effortlessly past on a far inside line.  Mind over matter.  I was pretty sure the race officials at the finish would see things from my perspective.

Once again, the seas had revealed their deepest secrets to the Ocean Whisperer.  Eric's a storied paddler, but even he couldn't skim across the water with such velocity without a little assistance from King Neptune (or, as Eric calls him, Chuck).  As I've seen time and again, he was on the optimal line while the rest of us were still sharpening pencils and looking for our straight edges.  And yet once more I mulishly showed a bull-like pig-headedness - refusing to adopting his path of least resistance, staying outside until I hit the left turn around Goose Island.

Even one who has the ear of a god (look carefully next time - left side) can occasionally falter, though.  Back in the beam chop, Eric slowed and I began to close the gap.  What was 20 lengths at Goose Island was 10 at Peck's Ledge Lighthouse.  By Sprite Island, I was just about to register for a draft when Eric stopped paddling for a moment to let me pull alongside.  Eric's a man of honor.  I figured he wanted to look me in the eye before cutting me down in the final half-mile. But no, that wasn't it.  "George," he said, "I've been at this many years."  I rolled with it. "I've grown weary of the endless toil and I wish to bequeath upon you my blessing as paddling heir."  He may have swallowed a little too much seawater while communing with the ocean, but who was I to ignore a delirious man's request?  "George," I thought, "let's make him proud!"

Looking back, it seems possible that I was the delirious one, but with Eric's benediction I found the strength to push through to a 7th place finish.  I'm sure he expected a lot better from his designated successor, but no take backs, sucker.  Much earlier in the day, Reid had beat Borys for the title, with Michele demonstrating why exactly she's the world's best by beating all the other gentleman.  Despite having limited rough-water experience and being younger than my current (and, alas, probably final) haircut, Jesse held on for 4th place.  Joe and Jan battled tooth and claw for 5th place, with Joe ending up 3 seconds ahead.  Eric coasted in behind me for 8th, Craig finished 9th, and Eric Constanzo took the final spot in the top 10. Bill Kuklinski and Timmy Shields put in another impressive showing to take the doubles crown.

The Lighthouse to Lighthouse ski champions, from left to right.

Despite the fact that she continuously badmouths other paddlers (you guys never see this side of her), Mary Beth had built up a store of good will and respect in the New England ski community by her dogged determination to run the true course at the Jamestown Double Beaver (unlike, say, the entire remainder of the field).  Apparently figuring that if a little extra work will win you esteem, a tremendous amount of extra work will get you a new patio furniture set, she paddled aimlessly around the Norwalk Islands to pad her reputation.  I clocked the sanctioned course at 13.3 miles.  With the Cockenoe Island (plus random channel marker) Extension, however, the course comes in at a robust 15.4.  She'd maybe like something in an Adirondack style.

Bob enjoys the thought that, for once, he won't be driving for the next 3 hours.

To top off a spectacular day, there was delicious beer, burgers, massages, dogs, chili and a broad assortment of mollusks.  Many of us lingered deep into the day at Shady Beach, catching up with our paddling buddies, reliving the key elements of our races, and wondering if poor Gary would ever finish giving out awards so that he could lapse into a well-deserved coma.  Congratulations to Gary, Wayne, and all the other race organizers for hosting the race of the season.

Salem League 8/27/13: One Last Time

This was the 13th and final race in the Salem League 8th season.  It was a great year.  With the addition of some new racers (Matt, Bruce, Ed W) and the doggedness of the veterans, this was the best-attended season since 2008.  Matt, Ken, and Mary Beth managed to race every week that weather permitted.  And with 13 weeks to work with, rather than the 11 or 12 of a typical season, both the men's and women's point records were broken.

The day before the race, I strained my back slightly at the gym.  I had hoped to be able to paddle, but during warm-ups I decided that it'd be foolish to push things.  Normally, that realization wouldn't be nearly enough to stop me, but given that I had nothing to gain by racing, I heeded my body's advice and just watched the race from the water while doodling around the harbor.  It was actually fun to get a different perspective.

In a last-minute Yankee swap shuffling of boats, Matt took my V10, Bill took Matt's red-tip V8, Bruce snapped up Bill's black-tip V8, and I ended up the proud paddler of Bruce's Evo II.  We (well, they) would be running double-header course #5 - and out-and-back to Great Haste followed by an out-and-back to the red nun.  Conditions were mild, with a very slight breeze from the south against an ebbing tide.

I positioned myself a few hundred feet off the beach to watch the Le Mans start.  Rod McLain, who was joining us on his outrigger for the first time since the opening race of the season, hopped on and started paddling in one fluid motion, taking a huge lead out of the gate.  Mike, Matt, Ken, and Kirk all seemed intent on taking the 12 points for the night, pushing hard from the start.  It took all my willpower not to just jump in with the pack as they came by.

I followed slowly behind everyone for a half-mile or so, then stopped to wait for their return.  I watched as the indistinct racers disappeared behind Great Haste, reappeared on the far side, and turned back in my direction.  I couldn't make out individual paddlers until they got quite close.  Mike came by first, with Ken only three or four boat lengths behind.  Matt was another few lengths behind, but on a worse line.  After the first leg, it was Mike, Ken (26 seconds back), Matt (another 11 seconds back), and Kirk (7 more seconds back).  It was anyone's ballgame.

The second leg started in much the same way as the first, with Rod launching himself onto the water with abandon.  Everyone else seemed a little lethargic off the beach, but quickly recovered to fight for the win.  I got off the water to watch the finish from land.

Matt arrived first - several boat lengths ahead of Mike - but it was clear that it wasn't enough of a lead to beat Mike's combined time.  Kirk came in just after Mike, barely missing in his bid to slip past Ken into third place for the night.  Here are the full results:

Mike McDonough	Huki S1-X	0:40:05	12
Matt Drayer	Epic V10 (New)	0:40:33	11
Ken Cooper	Epic V10 Sport (New)	0:40:49	10
Kirk Olsen	Epic V12	0:40:55	9
Bruce Deltorchio	Epic V8	0:43:35	8
Bill Kuklinski	Epic V8	0:44:35	7
Mary Beth Gangloff	Huki S1-R	0:51:06	12
Sam McDaniel	Huki S1-X	0:52:00	6

Many thanks to Ed for once again sacrificing his Tuesday nights to supervise the League, and to Ken for keeping the New England Surfski site updated with the latest results.  Despite the pain of all those desperate sprints against Francisco, I had a blast this season.

Salem League 8/20/13: Sans Francisco

With Francisco missing the night due to a work conflict and a low tide sucking additional spirit from the evening, I can't say I was too excited about racing.  However, the beautiful weather and the fact that Ed relented and allowed us to run an all-water version of course #3 helped stoke my competitive fires.  We'd run the course in reverse - out past Black Rocks, around Coney Island, and back to Lynch Park.

Although regulars Kirk and Bill couldn't make it, Graeme Rockett showed up for a guest appearance in his V12.  At the start, Ken jumped out uncharacteristically fast, and maintained a stiff pace towards Black Rocks.  I pulled ahead after a few minutes, but as I made the turn towards Coney, I saw that Ken, Mike, and Matt were not very far behind.

The trip to Coney went pretty smoothly until I got within a quarter mile or so, at which point some odd standing waves threw me off my rhythm.  After successfully making it around the island, I expected to get a fair amount of help from the tide and light wind heading home, but the promised subsidies never really materialized.  I slogged back to base to take the win, followed by Ken and Mike.  Here are the full results.

Greg Lesher	Epic V10 (New)	0:39:45	12
Ken Cooper	Epic V10 Sport (New)	0:41:17	11
Mike McDonough	Huki S1-X	0:41:33	10
Matt Drayer	Epic V8	0:42:00	9
Graeme Rockett	Epic V12	0:43:52	8
Bruce Deltorchio	Think Evo II	0:46:00	7
Mary Beth Gangloff	Huki S1-R	0:53:00	12

Just one week left, after which I guess I'll have no choice but to return to watching reruns of The Jeffersons on my Tuesday nights.

Nahant Bay Race: Coming Soon To a Theater Near You

Before you say anything, let me assure you that I'm at least as tired of this endless string of race summaries as you are.  We're in this together, so let's just power through.  We may someday look back at all this and laugh, but today is not that day.  Grit your teeth, gird your loins, grease your possum - whatever is it that you need to do.  Here we go.  Nahant Bay.

Fisherman's Beach in Swampscott is about 11 miles from my home, but somehow it takes a solid day of driving to get there.  It's a trek worth making.  Mike McDonough and his clan have established the Nahant Bay Race as an August favorite in the New England circuit.  Two dozen paddlers gathered from as close as just down the road (still a 3 hour drive).  We had fine weather for the race, with a slight breeze from the northeast.  The 9.4 mile course has us heading across Nahant Bay out past East Point, turning on a red buoy, returning across the mouth of Nahant Bay outside Egg Rock, rounding Off Rock, and returning for a beach finish.

Given the mild forecast, a number of paddlers opted for less stable boats.  Andrius Zinkevichus showed up with his slender red Nelo 560, a speed demon of a ski designed for flatwater conditions seldom seen outside of a hockey rink.  Eric McNett and Tim Dwyer both decided to brave the seemingly calm conditions in their V14s.  For Tim, with years of rough-water experience in his V12, this seemed like a measured risk.  For Eric... let's leave it at saying that I have some grave concerns about Eric's decision-making abilities.

When they inevitably make a statue honoring Mike, this will be the pose.

After a brief captain's meeting punctuated by a lot of pointing, we hit the water.  I've decided to recategorize my race starts.  I'm no longer being "outclassed by faster paddlers".  I'm now "biding my time".  After the horn sounded and the boat order had congealed, I found myself settled comfortably into prime biding position at 8th place.  Andrius and Jan had leapt off the starting line as if afire and established a comfortable lead.  They were pursued by two groups, one drafting line consisting of Wesley Echols, Eric, and myself and the other of Francisco Urena, Beata Cseke, and Tim Dwyer.  Francisco's trio seemed to be pulling ahead of our group, so I abandoned my rear guard post and set off in tepid pursuit (biders avoid extremes).

Over the course of the next few minutes, I moved up the chain and managed to get into third position. I knew those ballet lessons would pay off.  We entered a region of light cross-chop, which seemed to be worrying away the stability of Andrius' Nelo.  He slowed dramatically ("Oh! I am o'ertaken!") while I cheered his performance with a hearty "Huzzah!" and then slipped off without paying.  Now all that was between me and Nahant Bay glory was Jan, another 8 miles, and Borys' ability to successfully navigate the course.

I closed rather more quickly on Jan than I expected.  Leery of some kind of trickery, I tentatively pulled alongside. Almost immediately, Jan stopped paddling and started cussing.  I had a hard time interpreting this stratagem until I noticed him back-paddling.  Unlike at the Blackburn, The Janitor wouldn't be mopping the floor with me in Nahant Bay.  Instead, he'd spend the race scouring seaweed from his unguarded surf rudder.

Oddly, I was alone at the front.  I had expected Jan and Andrius to push the pace as they had at the Sakonnet River Race, but the former was tangled in weeds and the latter was struggling on his unstable steed.  Of stalwart Eric, there was no trace.  Borys was clearly continuing his video documentation of the migratory habits of Paddleficus newenglandora, which I hoped he might find so engrossing that he would fail to see the race for the paddlers.

After a spell, I heard some lively chatter behind me to my left and turned to see Borys and Eric ten boat lengths back.  To all evidence, Borys was now interviewing his documentary subjects mid-race.  I was preparing my story of growing up a double-blade boy in a single-blade household, when I realized I had better lend more attention to the present.  Up ahead were a recreational fishing boat and a lobster boat, both malevolently still in the water.  Like the lion and the hyena, these guys don't usually get along at all, but when there's a lame zebra in the vicinity, they're willing to set aside their philosophical differences.

Let the chess match begin, I thought, swerving wildly across metaphors.  As I plotted my opening move, the fishing boat sprang to life and started to describe a lazy arc towards me.  Nobody on board seemed even remotely interested in steering.  I started to head left, reversed my decision, turned right, and yelled out a nervous "Hey!".  Check and mate.  I had won this battle of wits without the crew of the boat even participating.  I subsequently established myself as a grand master by also besting the lobstermen (their claws give them a fearsome appearance, but they're really not a bad sort).

It wasn't long before Borys slid into view, GoPro mounted on his head and microphone boom in hand.  After wiping the slobber off my face and throwing a glance back to ensure that Eric wasn't going to be crowding the frame, I was ready for my close-up.  I thought I was putting on a fine show, but I could tell that Borys just didn't think I was leading man material.  He soon fell back in search of better footage.

After East Point, the character of the sea changed from "friendly neighbor" to "surly boss".  You'd be fine if you kept your head down and put in the work, but you definitely wanted to avoid any office shenanigans (Tim Hudyncia apparently didn't get this memo).  Upon reaching the buoy and turning around, I was surprised to find that what I had earlier interpreted as formless seas actually had quite a bit of structure, most of which was favorably aligned.  I started to get some decent runs, although working against the ebbing tide meant that my GPS speeds weren't exactly impressive.  There was a rough patch around Egg Rock during which my paddle and I exchanged some regrettable words, but we soon agreed to set our differences aside and get down the business of salting away this race.

Borys, however, had evidently decided that he was the only star bankable enough to feature in his film.  He's a consummate pro, though, so rather than just flying by me, he pulled up off my right flank and took some additional shots of me - something I can show the grand-kids.  While I had him handy, I asked Borys if anyone was behind me.  He reported that Eric was, but that he was at least 100 meters back.  "And Borys", he added.  It took me a moment to make sense of his statement - I didn't realize this was a comedy.  Lacking a script, I ad-libbed a retort.  "Yeah, but I'm not worried about him.  I can take him in the finish sprint.".

Borys with some of his supporting cast.

I never got that chance, alas.  Borys called "Cut!" and pulled away with a stroke so smooth that I couldn't help throttling my paddle in a wordless reprimand.  The remainder of the race was uneventful.  Scratch that.  The remainder of the water portion of the race was uneventful.  I rounded Off Rock without incident (suppressing a shudder at the embarrassing memory of flipping my Huki there two years before in calm waters), avoided grounding myself on Flying Echols Reef, and managed to catch a few small runners on the final leg to the finish.

I hit the shore at a good clip and hopped out for the run up the beach - just as I've done dozens of times in the Salem League.  My upper body and lower body had a transition plan prepared, but someone dropped the baton in the hand-off.  My momentum kept me moving forward, but my legs weren't engaged.  Having only limited control of my benumbed appendages, I shambled the 50 feet to the finish like an arthritic 90 year old carrying a credenza.  Fortunately, this slow-motion train wreck of a finish is immortalized in Borys' YouTube video (where, if I'm not mistaken, it's meant as a metaphor for the plight of man in post-industrial society).

Wasn't there a 70's cop show called Cseke and Gangloff?

Eric rolled in behind me, with Francisco (high-stepping delightfully to the finish) and Tim (inexplicably dragging his boat over the stony beach) a couple of minutes back.  Jan hit the beach a few seconds before Matt Drayer, but in a heart-warming spirit of solidarność, waited in his boat another twenty seconds for Wesley to arrive so that they could cross the line together at full sprint.  Beata and Ken Cooper rounded out the top ten, with Ken demonstrating why his revolutionary new groin leash is unlikely to catch on.  Somewhere there's a bar full of South African paddlers laughing beer out of their noses watching our blooper finishes on YouTube.

As always, Mike and Carol had a wonderful post-race spread for us, along with food to smear it on.  In addition to awards for the podium finishers, Adventurous Joe coffee was dispensed to Ken (for his legend status) and Bruce Deltorchio (for most improved paddler).  Matt was awarded a bonus medal for being the best SS20Plus paddler not actually in an SS20Plus boat.  Thankfully, there's a three week gap until the Lighthouse to Lighthouse Race.  That'll give me a chance to work on my audition reel.

Salem League 8/13/13: Racing on a Mill Pond

If you're looking for the Jamestown Double Beaver race report, you can find it here.

The forecast for the evening as of early afternoon was for rain with intermittent thunderstorms, leading Ed to consider canceling the race.  Fortunately, he decided we should give it a try.  It turned out to be a glorious evening with clear skies and little wind.  Salem Sound was about as glassy as I'd ever seen it.  Ed decreed that we'd run double-header course #4.

I've had trouble with this course.  We've run it twice this year (once as a non-stop course) and both times Francisco has destroyed me, coming in well over a minute ahead.  High tide was a couple of hours before race time, so we'd had have the ebb helping us on the way to Black Rocks and coming back from the red nun.  On the other spans, we'd be on our own.

Nobody will be amazed to hear that Francisco and Matt got off the line first.  However, I also had a good start and caught them before Lynch Park point.  With me on the inside and Francisco on the outside, Matt found himself squeezed out as we took the turn.  Uncharacteristically, I found myself with the lead less than two minutes into the race.  I pulled away from shore to take advantage of the tide and gave it all I could, not knowing whether Francisco was hanging on or not.

In the heat of the moment, I skirted Black Rocks a little more closely than I should have, watching submerged rocks pass inches below my hull.  After completing the turn, I got a gander at the rest of the field.  I had expected to see Francisco close behind, but was surprised to see a pack of four paddlers (Francisco, Matt, Kirk, and Mike) hanging tightly together a fair ways back.  I appeared to have a solid lead, but wanted to nail down a big as an advantage as possible going into the second leg, so I maintained a slobber-flying level of effort.  By staying closer to shore, I was able to minimize the impacts of the ebbing tide while finding a few tiny swells to boost me along.

The finish order of the first leg was me, Francisco, Matt, Kirk, Mike, Ken, Bruce, Bill, and Mary Beth.  I had a 1:49 advantage over Francisco, which I thought was probably enough to cement the win for the night.  Francisco must have felt the same way, because he and Kirk switched boats for the second leg.

We all adopted the same navigational strategy on this leg - keep to the shallower waters inside when heading to the red nun, then stay outside in the channel on the way back.  Matt and Francisco jumped out to the lead.  My start wasn't great, so it took me a few minutes to catch up.  After sparring with Francisco for a while (a weird experience with him in a V12), I took the lead about halfway to the turn-around.  I was again surprised by how little of an effect the outgoing tide was having on my speed and wondered if perhaps I had overestimated the tidal currents.

After rounding the red nun, it became immediately obvious that the tide was in fact ripping along in the channel.  My GPS was showing numbers in the high 8's right after the turn.  So this is what it must be like to be Dorian, I thought.  My speed dropped a little as the channel widened, but I was able to stay well over 8 mph for most of the return to the beach.  With such favorable conditions, I thought I had a reasonable shot at the course record, so I kept pushing and panting through the finish.  The effort paid off.

Francisco and Matt had a good battle for second place, with Francisco ending up only a second ahead overall.  Mike overcame his deficit in the first leg to edge out Kirk, with both finishing less than a minute behind Matt.  Here are the full results:

Greg Lesher	Epic V10 (New)	0:38:02	12
Francisco Urena	Stellar SE	0:41:01	11
Matt Drayer	Epic V8	0:41:02	10
Mike McDonough	Huki S1-X	0:41:26	9
Kirk Olsen	Epic V12	0:41:46	8
Ken Cooper	Epic V10 Sport (New)	0:43:13	7
Bruce Deltorchio	Think Eze	0:44:20	6
Bill Kuklinski	Epic V10 Sport (New)	0:46:21	5
Mary Beth Gangloff	Huki S1-R	0:52:29	12

I'm up 3 points on Francisco, hoping to hang on in the final 2 races of the season.

Jamestown Double Beaver: Now 17% More Thrilling!

Ah, mid-summer, when a young man's fancy turns to the Jamestown Double Beaver - the most technically challenging and innuendo-laden course on the New England ski calendar (although the upstart Ride the Bull race admittedly has potential).  Mostly named for the out-and-back crossings past Beavertail Light at the southern-most tip of Conanicut Island, the Double Beaver features the invariably confused waters of Narragansett Bay, which have been known to make grown men cry.  Well, at least one man.  In my defense, I was pretty terrified.

This is why Easter ski hunts never caught on.

As always, Tim Dwyer and his family hosted the race out from the welcoming grounds of the Jamestown Yacht Club.  With a spacious lawn for boat prep, a picnic area with beautiful views of the bay, and onsite trauma counselors available 24-7, it's the perfect venue for the Double Beaver.  A lively crowd of paddlers gathered for the festivities, including several spectators who came solely to gawk at the carnage.

Perhaps fearing that the Northeast crew was getting a little complacent (not a single lost paddler this season) (well, not permanently lost), Tim had doubled-down and changed the course to make it "one bad-elf mother chugger" (he talks like that).  After rounding the Beavertail can, we'd continue heading across the bay to Whale Rock instead of keeping to the relative safety of the western shore of Conanicut Island as in the past.  This new route would send us through unprotected, tempestuous waters and across a busy channel, virtually guaranteeing that several of us would perish.  The change was, of course, met by the participants with universal acclaim.

Last year the calm conditions in the protected harbor deceived me into paddling my V12, even though I had also brought the Huki, a move which I felt fortunate to be able to subsequently regret.  Having safely ignored the lessons of 2012, I noticed the calm waters of the harbor and chose my V10, leaving the S1-R on the roof rack again.  Given that the V10 is much stabler than the V12 and conditions weren't as beamy as last year, however, I'm happy to report that I'm only half-heartedly haunted by regret.  Mary Beth tells me that I've virtually stopped screaming in my sleep.

Tim's lecture on post-colonial onion farming in Jamestown was unexpected, but surprisingly moving.

After a brief captains' meeting that rather ominously included the phrases "next of kin" and "dental records", twenty-one skis and an outrigger lined up for a clean start.  Due to the number of paddlers and the necessity of weaving between moored pleasure craft, the leaders divided into two prongs.  Borys Markin and Jan Lupinski surged on the left, while Joe Glickman, Flavio Costa, and Eric McNett took an inside line on the right.  In between the two, I vacillated beside Rowan Sampson for a few moments before deciding that Jan would probably feel hurt if I didn't once again scramble monkey-like onto his back.

Inexplicably, Borys wasn't rapidly becoming a test of visual acuity, but rather seemed to be hanging with the other leaders.  At one point, he even dropped behind me.  Could he have snagged the mooring line of a ketch, which he was now towing out to sea?  Had some prankster perhaps severed a few tendons in each arm?  Then it hit me.  He was curious.  Like an anthropologist studying the primitive behavior of a remote and uncultivated tribe, Borys wanted to document our primordial attempts at aquatic locomotion.  I saw him jot down a few notes before, having collected enough data for the day, he rushed off, leaving us to contemplate the black sorcery that must propel his vessel.

Fresh in his new red-tip V10 (a boat which had earlier this summer been involved in a complicated multi-boat trade that ended up also sending a promising young paddler to the frigid waters of Maine), I expected Jan to push the pace like he had a few weeks earlier in the Blackburn.  Within a few minutes, however, I sensed that he was off his game.  As we merged with the track of the other lead pack (which had by this time pulled ahead a few lengths), Jan slid back out of view with nary a gurgle.  In danger of losing contact with the paddlers ahead, my ego unilaterally scrapped my meticulously crafted race plan (which had nothing in it about field testing a Zone 6 heart rate) and set off in earnest pursuit.

Shortly after passing the House on the Rock, I caught Joe and Flavio.  Eric was several lengths ahead.  As the waves diffracted around the southeast corner of Conanicut Island, a few significant runners lined up in our direction, packed a lunch for us, and sped us on our way towards Beavertail Light.  We'd enjoy smaller rides most of the way out to Whale Rock, but that exhilarating initial send-off left me craving more substantive waves and another ham sandwich.  Joe and Eric pulled off on an inside line, while Flavio and I yo-yoed for a few moments further out before he broke free during a walk-the-dog and ran off to join the others.  I remained alone outside (flashback to several of my grade school birthday parties), gradually losing ground to the others.  By the time we reached Beavertail Light, I was perhaps a dozen lengths back.

After passing outside of the intimidatingly large Beavertail can, the leaders appeared to have trouble spotting the low-lying rock island we were supposed to navigate around before returning home.  The 1938 hurricane that stripped Whale Rock of its lighthouse apparently didn't leave much of the island either.  Joe, Flavio, and Eric were heading well to the right of what I took to be the rock, so I hedged my bets and charted an intermediate course.  My wager paid off handsomely several minutes later when the pack corrected course to the left, allowing me to cut a quarter boat length off their lead.

I found my mind wandering aimlessly as I chased ("chased" may be a little optimistic - let's say "followed") the now on-course paddlers.  I wondered, for example, if there had ever been a young lad named "Flavio Glickman".  If so, that'd probably be a bar mitzvah you wouldn't want to miss.  As I was thinking what might be an appropriate gift for this imagined youth, my daydream was interrupted by the Harbinger of Death.  Odd name for a sailboat, I thought, once I had found and dislodged my heart from its hiding place in my gullet.  I suspected Mortal Terror and Impending Doom were likely to bear down on me as well, so I spent the rest of the race weaving madly in the hopes that they'd choose an easier target.  I'm not saying Kirk Olsen is more deserving of bisection than I am, but I did hear him once say (out of the blue!) that sailors are dim-wits who smell of low tide.

Ahead of us was a large green buoy, behind which we could see the confused and foaming waters surrounding Whale Rock.  Joe and Flavio looked to be planning a counterclockwise rounding of the island, while Eric was heading the other way.  I followed the former group, only to be surprised when they abruptly turned on the buoy.  Thinking that the fellows had not understood Tim's directions, I stopped and patiently explained to them that they had deviated from the specified course and would be subject to a time penalty, at the least, with a stint in the public stocks if Tim were feeling particularly churlish.  They, in turn, reminded me that since the Case of the Missing Swim Platform at Ride the Bull earlier this season, the race committee had granted Borys (who had also turned before Whale Rock) broad leeway in defining courses at his discretion.  It's Borys' world, we just paddle in it (at a respectful distance back, naturally).  Seemed reasonable to me, so I rounded the buoy and called out to a rapidly receding Eric to do the same.

The change in course became a party game of Telephone shouted to passing paddlers over a cacophony of wind and waves.  By the time it got to mid-pack, the original cry of "Turn at the buoy!" had reportedly morphed into "Turnips?  Oh boy!"  When the message finally reached Mary Beth, it ironically had come full circle to "Go around the rocks!"  As the only racer to actually complete the prescribed course, she's now petitioning the ICF and General Motors (just to be safe) to have the rest of the field DQ'ed.  To this I say, bring on the Blizzards!

Wary of Tim's pre-race warning that Poseidon frowns on those who approach too close to the Beavertail light, the field showed a healthy respect for his wrath.  Tim's, that is.  Nobody wanted to be the schmuck who screwed up the Double Beaver by raising the insurance premiums.  Eric had caught me quickly after the turn-around and now started to pull away as we headed back.  Joe and Flavio were taking an inner line, presumably to escape the outgoing tide.  Eric followed their lead, but I decided to stay further out, mostly out of mulishness.  If I was going to lose to these guys, I would do it on my terms - because I made poor navigation decisions, not (just) because they were better paddlers.

The GPS never lies, but does it have to tell hard truths with such malicious glee?  I was struggling to keep my velocity in the mid 6's on the long stretch back to the House on the Rock, despite the fact that the surf was heading in my general direction.  Just after Mackerel Cove, all semblance of wave structure disappeared, leaving the sea in a state best described as "pointy".  I figure the waters closer to shore must be even sharper.  Though I was weebling pretty badly, I was closing the gap on Eric.  Shortly before the left turn that would lead us by the House on the Rock and on a straight line for the finish, I pulled alongside.  I tried to come up with a clever quip that, when combined with my unexpected reappearance at his side and tossed off in a carefree manner, would thoroughly demoralize Eric.  I went with a gasping "blaarghhh", which I was pretty pleased with.

Eric's never met a craggy, hull-ripping shoreline he hasn't felt compelled to challenge to hand-to-hand combat.  Some people tempt fate.  Eric knees it in the groin and steals its wallet.  He took a hard left through the rocky shallows around the point.  God smiled and he shot through on the kind of unpredictable eddy current that one generally only experiences shortly before blackness, gaining several boat lengths on me in a matter of seconds.  While this miracle transpired, I was being tossed around by the standing waves that had formed out where sensible paddlers tread.

For the last quarter hour, it had been clear that we were slowly reeling in Flavio.  Heading towards the finish, he took an extreme inside line.  Either he was trying to avoid the outgoing tide or, as a racer on his maiden Beaver run, wasn't exactly sure where to find the finish.  Eric seemed to be following Flavio, but I decided to take a more direct line to the yacht club.  With all the boats moored in the harbor obscuring sight lines, I thought I might be able to slip past Flavio before he perceived any threat.  I pushed hard for the next five minutes, only to look over and discover that Eric had spoiled my half-baked plan by revealing a different threat - that of he himself passing Flavio.  I figured Flavio would respond to this with an extended sprint to the finish, so I also upped my pace (not that my damnable GPS noticed).

Huh.  Hawaiian clown tycoons.  Probably trending on Twitter about now.

Although I kept checking compulsively to ensure my oxygen-starved brain wasn't just making mutinous excuses to ease the pace, I seemed to be pulling steadily ahead of Flavio in the final half-mile.  Apparently, his tank had run dry and he was coasting into the yacht club on fumes. The top-five finish order was Borys, Joe, Eric, me, and Flavio.  Beata Cseke swept in less than a minute after Flavio to take the top woman honors.  Twenty-one of the twenty-two starters finished the course and although a few of the paddlers had the shakes, we expect those that didn't start that way will make full recoveries.

The post-race festivities included jamming entire sandwiches into our mouths, trying to snag some Twizzlers before Joe could pocket them all, and exaggerating how hairy the conditions were (I think I heard Bob Capellini say that at one point he could no longer see the sky).  Raffled awards provided by Epic and Adventurous Joe Coffee were dispensed liberally.  And in what now appears to be a delightful new Rhode Island tradition (no, I'm not talking about chicken shaving), the 2013 Double Beaver champions were dressed in humorous get-ups and made to dance about for our amusement.  Take note, Olympic Committee - it really humanizes the elite athletes.  Thanks to Tim, Alyce, Finn, and Gaelyn for a wonderful day.