As I watched the sun rise majestically over the mild waters of the Sakonnet River (I might have arrived a little early), I could tell that the fourth donut had been a bad idea. And that it was going to be a fast day - at least for those who had the self-control to stop at three pastries. As in the past, we'd start from McCorrie Point, head
south 6.2 miles towards the ocean, turn around, and come back.
A fine crew assembled for the race, traveling from as far as Montreal and as close as 4 blocks up McCorrie Lane. The folks from Ocean Paddlesports East (Mark Ceconi, Steve DelGaudio, and Jim Hoffman) even brought a trailer full of spare skis - just in case we wrecked ours trying to get through the surf zone. Boat casualties were surprisingly limited, but they let us play around with their new Fenns and Epics after the race anyways. Also, they brought cookies. Thanks guys!
Twenty-three skis lined up off the beach, with a handful of kayaks thrown in for flavor. Wesley counted us down and the race was on. Perhaps we were cowed by dire pre-race warnings about the shallows and the semi-submerged hazard just off the point, but the field seemed a bit tentative for the first tenth of a mile. A relaxed start being right in my wheelhouse, I was happy to conform. After we cleared McCorrie Point, I worked my way past Chris Chappell, Wesley, Beata Cseke, and Eric McNett. As I pulled even with Andrius Zinkevichus, some 50 feet off to my right, he angled over to grab a draft. I believe that Eric hopped on as well. Borys Markin was paddling lazily up ahead, doubtless day-dreaming about how much more coffee he and Beata were going to score this season.
I decided that there was no time like the present to try and shake the Zinkevichus off of me, and dove headlong into the red zone. I've discovered that the key to an effective interval is to just start writing checks your body can't possibly cash, then flee the country before the authorities can catch up to you. I was racking up some pretty serious debts, but my extravagant expenditures of energy were not in vain. Andrius - apparently not quite as willing to destroy his credit rating - slipped off my wash.
I have to admit, for the briefest of moments I had visions of continuing my interval to close the gap to Borys, who was perhaps a dozen boat lengths ahead. Doing some back of the envelope calculations based on my rate of closure, however, I estimated that my interval would last until mid-afternoon and end somewhere in western Connecticut. I ratcheted back the tempo to something I hoped might be sustainable. My once-bitten-twice-shy heart, however, decided to remain in overdrive - just in case I tried to pull another circus stunt like that one.
I could now see Eric and Andrius working together on an inside line. The smart money, and Wesley, said that this was the optimal route since it would minimize the impact of the incoming tide. During warm-ups, however, it seemed that the breeze from the North was trumping the tidal flow from the South. My Great Great Great Uncle Beauregard lost an arm and a leg betting against the Union. I wasn't about to make the same mistake. I held my outside line to stay well out of the wind shadow nearer the coast.
My GPS was telling me that my navigational decision wasn't catastrophically bad. In fact, for the first 3 miles to Black Point, the gizmo was showing my wind-assisted average was over 8 mph. It was also flashing urgent messages about impending bio-system failure, but that didn't seem quite as important as minimizing Borys' red shift. My simple goal was to keep him in sight until the end. In retrospect, to accomplish this I would have needed to duct tape binoculars to my face. And maybe another pair to the hull of his Stellar.
The remaining trip to the turn-around was mostly uneventful, although as I rounded Black Point I somehow found myself enveloped in the foaming whitewater of the only breaking wave in a 40 mile radius. I managed to splutter through without being unsaddled. My speed dropped steadily over the next few miles, but I was too frightened to turn around to see who might be gaining ground.
After the turn at 3rd Beach, I got my first look at what was going on behind me. Eric had broken free from Andrius, but appeared to be a couple of minutes back. I noticed several pods of racers, playfully porpoising off each others' wakes, laughing heartily, and shouting encouragement to me and others. It hardly seemed fair that I was having to plow my own furrows in an
unyielding sea whilst several paddlers appeared to have their feet up on
their front decks, sipping mimosas as they were swept along behind
their agua daddies. Although this nearly defies belief, these heretics seemed to be actually enjoying the race. Blasphemy! I yelled something incoherently to them about Sodom and Gomorrah, but given that Bruce Deltorchio merely responded with a thumbs up, I don't believe I effectively conveyed my disapproval/jealousy.
Soon enough the last paddler had skipped breezily by and I was left paddling alone in pious indignation. Borys had vanished in the haze ahead (it was a clear day, so I'm using "haze" here as a metaphor for "limits of human vision" or perhaps "curvature of the earth"). With only myself for company, I quickly learned that I didn't appreciate all the smart-ass quips about how slowly we were now moving. We said some things we regretted, then I had to endure the silent treatment for the rest of the race.
Although I had feared we'd be bucking a headwind all the way back, with 3 miles left the wind died completely and left the Sakonnet a glassy pond. I've heard old-timers talk about being left becalmed by the Great Mirror Lull of '96, forced to cannibalize their doubles partners to survive (when asked why they didn't just paddle to safety, one survivor allegedly replied "Oh... (burp)... yeah"). A cold chill running down my spine, I wondered whether it was Timmy or Bill whom I'd seen the last of.
Tim Hudyncia has accused me outright of "making stuff up". I've heard others whisper in disapproving tones about embellishments and "poetic" license (their quotes, not mine). I therefore am hesitant to write about the damnable creatures that plagued me during my race. Although the canker of suspicion had been gnawing at my mind during the first hour on the water, it now became apparent that the frequent swirls and eddies just off my bow were not just artifacts of wind and waves. Something was troubling the oily waters of the Sakonnet. Something... alive.
We've all been startled by unexpectedly surfacing cormorants in our paddles (I know those flap-jackers enjoy the shrill yelps of sudden terror they elicit). I've heard tales of nausea-inducing shark sightings from the bucket. And who here hasn't had to pry the tentacles of ravenous squid from their gunwales in a desperate attempt to avoid being hauled to the depths? The Sakonnet was harboring something far more sinister. An enigmatic horror so elusive that it could only be observed indirectly - a shadowy ripple seen out of the corner of your eye.
As I pushed my insubstantial craft through the mirrored sea, I became obsessed with discovering what manner of abomination was lurking beneath the surface. A splash there. A boil there. No matter where I concentrated my gaze, the creature would surface elsewhere. I wish I could say that I definitely solved the mystery, but I never did manage to catch a glimpse. I suspect it was likely a crocodile-piranha hybrid, or perhaps a silver-backed leviathan. But I'm not ruling out bait fish.
My unhealthy preoccupation with surface disturbances had the advantage of distracting me from the slog at hand. When I finally snapped out of my reverie, the end was nigh. I was exhausted, but I mustered enough resolve to up my pace to "leisurely" for the finish.
I resisted the urge to expire, instead hanging around the line to watch the other finishes. Borys, of course, had wrapped up the crown several hours earlier by
successfully navigating I-95 East. With near-optimal conditions for a fast
race, he finished in an astonishing 1:32:45, shaving more than 8 minutes
off the course record. Eric M rolled in next (not sure what the rule book has to say about that), followed shortly after by Andrius. It looked like youngster Matt Drayer might pull out a top five finish in his inaugural Sakonnet River Race (in a V10 Sport, I should add), but Joe Shaw did what Joe Shaw does - catapult by in the final 25 meters - to claim fifth place. Eric Costanzo and Mike McDonough came in with no such theatrics, but Chris Chappell, Tom Kerr, Wesley, and Tim Dwyer put on fine sprint performances for the kids in the grandstands, ultimately finishing in that order.
I'm going to get some miniature surfski models made so that after the race we can use them to reenact pivotal moments - you know, like they do with the little planes in Top Gun. As it was, we had to make do with crazed gesticulations and goofy sound effects on the beach. Thanks to Wesley and Betsy for another great day on the Sakonnet.
On a serious note... kudos to Bill Kuklinksi. In honor of the 70th anniversary of the D-Day landing, Bill selflessly donated his old life vest for use in a life-sized diorama in a Normandy museum. A grateful nation thanks you for your sacrifice. (Mike McDonough gets an assist in this final dig at my favorite target.)
Next up is Ride the Bull on June 21. I'm pretty sure we're all supposed to be paying Rhode Island income taxes at this point.
A fine crew assembled for the race, traveling from as far as Montreal and as close as 4 blocks up McCorrie Lane. The folks from Ocean Paddlesports East (Mark Ceconi, Steve DelGaudio, and Jim Hoffman) even brought a trailer full of spare skis - just in case we wrecked ours trying to get through the surf zone. Boat casualties were surprisingly limited, but they let us play around with their new Fenns and Epics after the race anyways. Also, they brought cookies. Thanks guys!
 |
| The fleet gets underway. Destination? Doldrums. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols). |
I decided that there was no time like the present to try and shake the Zinkevichus off of me, and dove headlong into the red zone. I've discovered that the key to an effective interval is to just start writing checks your body can't possibly cash, then flee the country before the authorities can catch up to you. I was racking up some pretty serious debts, but my extravagant expenditures of energy were not in vain. Andrius - apparently not quite as willing to destroy his credit rating - slipped off my wash.
I have to admit, for the briefest of moments I had visions of continuing my interval to close the gap to Borys, who was perhaps a dozen boat lengths ahead. Doing some back of the envelope calculations based on my rate of closure, however, I estimated that my interval would last until mid-afternoon and end somewhere in western Connecticut. I ratcheted back the tempo to something I hoped might be sustainable. My once-bitten-twice-shy heart, however, decided to remain in overdrive - just in case I tried to pull another circus stunt like that one.
I could now see Eric and Andrius working together on an inside line. The smart money, and Wesley, said that this was the optimal route since it would minimize the impact of the incoming tide. During warm-ups, however, it seemed that the breeze from the North was trumping the tidal flow from the South. My Great Great Great Uncle Beauregard lost an arm and a leg betting against the Union. I wasn't about to make the same mistake. I held my outside line to stay well out of the wind shadow nearer the coast.
My GPS was telling me that my navigational decision wasn't catastrophically bad. In fact, for the first 3 miles to Black Point, the gizmo was showing my wind-assisted average was over 8 mph. It was also flashing urgent messages about impending bio-system failure, but that didn't seem quite as important as minimizing Borys' red shift. My simple goal was to keep him in sight until the end. In retrospect, to accomplish this I would have needed to duct tape binoculars to my face. And maybe another pair to the hull of his Stellar.
The remaining trip to the turn-around was mostly uneventful, although as I rounded Black Point I somehow found myself enveloped in the foaming whitewater of the only breaking wave in a 40 mile radius. I managed to splutter through without being unsaddled. My speed dropped steadily over the next few miles, but I was too frightened to turn around to see who might be gaining ground.
 |
| Conditions were challenging, but only if you knew where to look. |
Soon enough the last paddler had skipped breezily by and I was left paddling alone in pious indignation. Borys had vanished in the haze ahead (it was a clear day, so I'm using "haze" here as a metaphor for "limits of human vision" or perhaps "curvature of the earth"). With only myself for company, I quickly learned that I didn't appreciate all the smart-ass quips about how slowly we were now moving. We said some things we regretted, then I had to endure the silent treatment for the rest of the race.
Although I had feared we'd be bucking a headwind all the way back, with 3 miles left the wind died completely and left the Sakonnet a glassy pond. I've heard old-timers talk about being left becalmed by the Great Mirror Lull of '96, forced to cannibalize their doubles partners to survive (when asked why they didn't just paddle to safety, one survivor allegedly replied "Oh... (burp)... yeah"). A cold chill running down my spine, I wondered whether it was Timmy or Bill whom I'd seen the last of.
We've all been startled by unexpectedly surfacing cormorants in our paddles (I know those flap-jackers enjoy the shrill yelps of sudden terror they elicit). I've heard tales of nausea-inducing shark sightings from the bucket. And who here hasn't had to pry the tentacles of ravenous squid from their gunwales in a desperate attempt to avoid being hauled to the depths? The Sakonnet was harboring something far more sinister. An enigmatic horror so elusive that it could only be observed indirectly - a shadowy ripple seen out of the corner of your eye.
As I pushed my insubstantial craft through the mirrored sea, I became obsessed with discovering what manner of abomination was lurking beneath the surface. A splash there. A boil there. No matter where I concentrated my gaze, the creature would surface elsewhere. I wish I could say that I definitely solved the mystery, but I never did manage to catch a glimpse. I suspect it was likely a crocodile-piranha hybrid, or perhaps a silver-backed leviathan. But I'm not ruling out bait fish.
My unhealthy preoccupation with surface disturbances had the advantage of distracting me from the slog at hand. When I finally snapped out of my reverie, the end was nigh. I was exhausted, but I mustered enough resolve to up my pace to "leisurely" for the finish.
 |
| Oh my God! Where's Timmy? (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols) |
 |
| The gang (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols) |
On a serious note... kudos to Bill Kuklinksi. In honor of the 70th anniversary of the D-Day landing, Bill selflessly donated his old life vest for use in a life-sized diorama in a Normandy museum. A grateful nation thanks you for your sacrifice. (Mike McDonough gets an assist in this final dig at my favorite target.)
Next up is Ride the Bull on June 21. I'm pretty sure we're all supposed to be paying Rhode Island income taxes at this point.
Hi Greg! I enjoyed your report. I think you and me were side by side for much of the US Champs race. I was in the Fenn Swordfish with an orange hat and shirt. As we made the left turn from the coast into the channel I was on your left, and then most of the rest of the race you were on my left. It sure was a rough one. I never noticed you capsizing. I finished just ahead of you. Take it easy! Duane email strosaker@yahoo.com
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