As the first open water competition of the year, the Sakonnet River race always attracts an enthusiastic group of paddlers anxious to frolic once again in the salt spray. Twenty-some skis and assorted accoutrement festooned the beach at McCorrie Point, adding some color to the overcast and breezy morning. This was to be the second of five planned Rhode Island races for the season. A quick side note: Wesley and Tim have been directed by Providence to provide a clamroll, small drink and the key to the governor's private washroom to anyone who completes all the Ocean State races. Plan accordingly - I hear they have one of those high-tech toilets that checks your blood sugar levels (ouch) and gives you financial advice.
Despite its mild-mannered appearance, the Sakonnet has been the site of a disproportionate share of weather-related drama. From the palpable will-they/won't-they tension of the thunderstorm-plagued 2010 race, to the lamentable upwind grind of 2013, to the rain of hellfire in 2012 - it's been a meteorologist/theologist paradise. While we wouldn't be risking lightning strikes or eternal damnation this year, we would have to contend with a small craft advisory ("For a festive day on the water, consider decorating your boat with stenciled flowers", I believe). For the 3rd time in the past 6 years, Wesley would be tasked with concocting a new set of ambiguous waypoints to define a course customized for the weather conditions. I'll grudgingly admit that the course was optimal, but I still maintain that instructing us to turn on the yacht "with a barnacle pattern that looks a little like my nephew Floyd" was vague at best and deceitful at worst (I knew Floyd. Floyd was a friend of mine. Collection of sessile suspension feeders of the infraclass Cirripedia, you're no Floyd).
The revised 9 mile course would take us upwind from McCorrie Point for 3 miles to the end of the Sakonnet, followed by a gleeful 4.5 miles downwind to Sandy Point, where we'd turn back towards McCorrie and commence cursing the 20 mph headwind for the final 1.5 miles. Planning ahead, I brainstormed a series of expletive-laden oaths so that come crunch time, I'd have a range of vibrant options at my fingertips. The ancient sea gods have pretty much heard it all (sailors...), so they appreciate it when you go the extra mile when blaspheming them.
After his impressive K-1 showing on the Essex River, someone got the bright idea to put Mike Dostal in a ski. Sure, he's personable, humble, and has a delightful accent - a real credit to flatwater paddlers. But as we've learned from kudzu, Asian carp, and Independence Day, invasive species pose acute threats to delicate ecosystems. With no natural predators, Mike is liable to irreversibly disrupt the innate balance of the ocean paddler environment. But, as they say, you can't unring a bell. Get used to the tolling (it is, after all, for thee). The best we can do is try to contain the spread of the invasion. As a first step in this direction, I recommend that we discourage Ben Pigott (Mike's fellow flatwater paddler) from upgrading his old Epic to a next generation ski. What's that? He's paddling a Fenn Glide today? OK, new strategy. Just cover your ears and pray that the end is quick and painless.
Wesley conducted a well-orchestrated rolling start just off the McCorrie Point beach and the 8th Sakonnet River Race was on. Somewhat paradoxically, I've long since stopped commenting on my slow starts. Roughly a dozen paddlers stood between me and the lead, including Jim Hoffman to my right. It never says anything outright, but I feel like Jim's uncompromising posture has a sneering contempt for my lazy, dejected slump. Jan Lupinski was to my left at the start, but quickly pulled ahead and worked his way to the lead. Mike followed, handling the choppy conditions with aplomb (or possibly with equanimity - he was too far ahead to tell for sure).
Once I passed Andrius Zinkevichus to move into 3rd a mile into the race, twenty boat lengths or more lay between me and the lead pair of Jan and Mike. I wasn't alone though. Eric Costanzo had glommed onto my draft with both hands and a liberal application of pine tar. As a rough water specialist, Eric was practically licking his chops for the second leg of the race. Behind me, I could hear him sharpening the knives he'd use to filet me on the downwind run. No matter what I tried, I couldn't generate enough speed to shake him. I'd periodically throw a glance behind, catch a glimpse of his maniacal smile over the millstone I seemed to be dragging, and my hair would stand up on end (you know, like a phantom limb).
Approaching the lee provided by the north end of the sound, the water started to flatten. I was now able to get some traction in my struggle to pull myself free from Eric, and with a great sucking sound, finally escaped his clutches. After putting a few lengths between us, I surveyed my situation. Jan and Mike were well ahead, but apparently didn't know Floyd from a hole in the wall - they were well off heading. Perhaps I could make up a little time as they realized their mistake, but that alone wouldn't be nearly enough to catch them. Of more immediate concern was Matt Drayer, who was looking strong paddling my traitorous old black-tip V10.
Desperate to give myself as much of a head-start as possible over Eric in the mild conditions in the half-mile on either side of the upwind turn-around, I pushed so hard for the next 10 minutes that I was surprised to not be cradling a newborn afterwards. I lost track of everyone behind me after the turn, so I had no idea if my labor had been in vain (insert rim shot here). By this time, distance had dispersed the lee and I found myself in increasingly improving downwind conditions. A blanket of calm descended over me. The race was now out of my hands. All I could do was wait to be overtaken by Eric. While ranking my teeth from most to least favorite - had to pass the time somehow.
I'd never wish a fellow paddler ill unless there was a clear personal benefit in doing so. It was therefore with a misguidedly clear conscience that I prayed that the downwind conditions would be Mike's undoing. He'd obviously done fine in the bumpy upwind grind, so I wasn't particularly optimistic that he'd falter going the opposite direction. And yet... he did seem to be slowing. Since Mike was on an inside line while I stayed much further out, it was difficult to judge our relative positions. Over the next 20 minutes, however, it became clear that he was falling more and more to my side. And there eventually came a time when I looked to my right and couldn't spot his bright orange boat. As I discovered later, he had at this point started falling more and more to his side. He had been baptized in the warm Rhode Island waters just off McCorrie Point, almost exactly where I had been similarly indoctrinated my first time in a ski five years ago. With this new-found bond, a sudden realization came to me... Mike was no different from us. I imagine a similar thought crossed the mind of the last dodo the first time he saw a human laying an egg.
Now it was only Jan ahead. Way ahead. He also was well to the inside of me, but no amount of absurd "yeah, but I'm on a better line" self-deceit could actually convince me that I would be catching him. Conditions continued to improve as we progressed further down the Sakonnet, with the waves becoming larger, cleaner, and more predictable. Even a downwind bumbler like me was able to link together some quality runs. I still missed some good rides here and there, but for once I wasn't grappling in a life-or-death struggle with each wave. Nevertheless, it wasn't until I was 50 meters from the end of the leg that I convinced myself that I wasn't going to be passed.
It was a tie for first, by the way. Left lateral incisor and right 2nd bicuspid.
After an excruciatingly slow and wide turn at the final turn-around, I finally got a look at the field behind me. Given that we had just completed 5 miles of open downwind, I was surprised to see how close the next 6 paddlers were clustered. It looked like Eric, Andrius, Matt, Joe Shaw, Chris Chappell, and Bruce Deltorchio would be competing for (what I sincerely hoped would be) third place. These guys were perhaps 90 seconds behind me, but unless I increased my upwind pace from "near-standstill" to at least "laggardly", that soon wouldn't be the case. In the latter stages of the downwind leg, I had averaged something north of 8 miles per hour. Struggling against the wind and waves, I was now barely breaking 5.
There's a saying in my family: "Make Greg eat it." That's not particularly relevant in this case. Another saying is: "Nobody hates X as much as I do." There's an implicit challenge there - "I dare you to say that you hate X more than I do." Over the years we've ceded certain Xs to particular family members. My mom has "hypocrites", a cousin has "snakes", and an oddly-specific racist aunt has "Samoans". I have a lock on "the sun" and "garden hoses" (my blood pressure went up 20 pips just typing that out). For 30 years, my father, my Uncle John and I have been arguing about who gets "wind". I'm happy to announce that I've now unilaterally awarded it to myself. During the upwind leg I achieved a medical grade purity of hatred - a poisonous knot of rancor that threatened to sear me from the inside out unless I spat out the excess venom. Needless to say, I was grateful to have an assortment of scripted curses at hand. A non-stop stream of profane invectives powered me through the last leg. Wind power, I suppose.
For the fourth race in a row, Jan was the first ski to the finish. As far as he's concerned, he should now consider me utterly bereft of fighting spirit. A beaten man. A demoralized husk. In short, definitely not someone who would spend every waking moment over the next three weeks training to avenge his recent drubbings when we meet again at the Casco Bay Challenge. So maybe it's OK for him to have a few extra cheeseburgers or to exchange an interval session for a bubble bath.
Although Eric nabbed the final podium spot, he was frustrated by his less-than-optimal line to the down-wind turn-around. I was pretty OK with it. Andrius managed to hold off a hard-charging Matt for 4th, with Joe, Chris, Bruce, Tim Dwyer, and Wesley rounding out the top 10. Positions 3 through 7 finished within the span of a minute. Despite not being at the race, Mary Beth took the top female spot. Mike and Ben both finished the race strong and upright - a non-trivial feat given the conditions and their lack of ocean experience. Dave Grainger - who's comfortable enough in rough water that he's been known
to nap during downwind runs - was having so much fun
he immediately got back in line for another ride. Many thanks to Wesley and Betsy for organizing the race and the post-race spread - great job as always.
The next race weekend will see our field split in two, as the folks in the New York area head to Eric's inaugural Seas It Downwinder in New Jersey, while the rest of us Ride the Bull in Narragansett Bay. The winners of the two races will then compete in a best-of-five rock-paper-scissors match at a neutral site to determine the week's Northeast regional champion.
Despite its mild-mannered appearance, the Sakonnet has been the site of a disproportionate share of weather-related drama. From the palpable will-they/won't-they tension of the thunderstorm-plagued 2010 race, to the lamentable upwind grind of 2013, to the rain of hellfire in 2012 - it's been a meteorologist/theologist paradise. While we wouldn't be risking lightning strikes or eternal damnation this year, we would have to contend with a small craft advisory ("For a festive day on the water, consider decorating your boat with stenciled flowers", I believe). For the 3rd time in the past 6 years, Wesley would be tasked with concocting a new set of ambiguous waypoints to define a course customized for the weather conditions. I'll grudgingly admit that the course was optimal, but I still maintain that instructing us to turn on the yacht "with a barnacle pattern that looks a little like my nephew Floyd" was vague at best and deceitful at worst (I knew Floyd. Floyd was a friend of mine. Collection of sessile suspension feeders of the infraclass Cirripedia, you're no Floyd).
The revised 9 mile course would take us upwind from McCorrie Point for 3 miles to the end of the Sakonnet, followed by a gleeful 4.5 miles downwind to Sandy Point, where we'd turn back towards McCorrie and commence cursing the 20 mph headwind for the final 1.5 miles. Planning ahead, I brainstormed a series of expletive-laden oaths so that come crunch time, I'd have a range of vibrant options at my fingertips. The ancient sea gods have pretty much heard it all (sailors...), so they appreciate it when you go the extra mile when blaspheming them.
 |
| Reactions ranged from bemused smiles to puzzled stares as I unveiled my new racing thong. |
Wesley conducted a well-orchestrated rolling start just off the McCorrie Point beach and the 8th Sakonnet River Race was on. Somewhat paradoxically, I've long since stopped commenting on my slow starts. Roughly a dozen paddlers stood between me and the lead, including Jim Hoffman to my right. It never says anything outright, but I feel like Jim's uncompromising posture has a sneering contempt for my lazy, dejected slump. Jan Lupinski was to my left at the start, but quickly pulled ahead and worked his way to the lead. Mike followed, handling the choppy conditions with aplomb (or possibly with equanimity - he was too far ahead to tell for sure).
Once I passed Andrius Zinkevichus to move into 3rd a mile into the race, twenty boat lengths or more lay between me and the lead pair of Jan and Mike. I wasn't alone though. Eric Costanzo had glommed onto my draft with both hands and a liberal application of pine tar. As a rough water specialist, Eric was practically licking his chops for the second leg of the race. Behind me, I could hear him sharpening the knives he'd use to filet me on the downwind run. No matter what I tried, I couldn't generate enough speed to shake him. I'd periodically throw a glance behind, catch a glimpse of his maniacal smile over the millstone I seemed to be dragging, and my hair would stand up on end (you know, like a phantom limb).
Approaching the lee provided by the north end of the sound, the water started to flatten. I was now able to get some traction in my struggle to pull myself free from Eric, and with a great sucking sound, finally escaped his clutches. After putting a few lengths between us, I surveyed my situation. Jan and Mike were well ahead, but apparently didn't know Floyd from a hole in the wall - they were well off heading. Perhaps I could make up a little time as they realized their mistake, but that alone wouldn't be nearly enough to catch them. Of more immediate concern was Matt Drayer, who was looking strong paddling my traitorous old black-tip V10.
 |
| Allegations that I've rigged my ski with a propulsion device have, until recently, been unsubstantiated. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols and SurfskiRacing.com) |
I'd never wish a fellow paddler ill unless there was a clear personal benefit in doing so. It was therefore with a misguidedly clear conscience that I prayed that the downwind conditions would be Mike's undoing. He'd obviously done fine in the bumpy upwind grind, so I wasn't particularly optimistic that he'd falter going the opposite direction. And yet... he did seem to be slowing. Since Mike was on an inside line while I stayed much further out, it was difficult to judge our relative positions. Over the next 20 minutes, however, it became clear that he was falling more and more to my side. And there eventually came a time when I looked to my right and couldn't spot his bright orange boat. As I discovered later, he had at this point started falling more and more to his side. He had been baptized in the warm Rhode Island waters just off McCorrie Point, almost exactly where I had been similarly indoctrinated my first time in a ski five years ago. With this new-found bond, a sudden realization came to me... Mike was no different from us. I imagine a similar thought crossed the mind of the last dodo the first time he saw a human laying an egg.
Now it was only Jan ahead. Way ahead. He also was well to the inside of me, but no amount of absurd "yeah, but I'm on a better line" self-deceit could actually convince me that I would be catching him. Conditions continued to improve as we progressed further down the Sakonnet, with the waves becoming larger, cleaner, and more predictable. Even a downwind bumbler like me was able to link together some quality runs. I still missed some good rides here and there, but for once I wasn't grappling in a life-or-death struggle with each wave. Nevertheless, it wasn't until I was 50 meters from the end of the leg that I convinced myself that I wasn't going to be passed.
It was a tie for first, by the way. Left lateral incisor and right 2nd bicuspid.
After an excruciatingly slow and wide turn at the final turn-around, I finally got a look at the field behind me. Given that we had just completed 5 miles of open downwind, I was surprised to see how close the next 6 paddlers were clustered. It looked like Eric, Andrius, Matt, Joe Shaw, Chris Chappell, and Bruce Deltorchio would be competing for (what I sincerely hoped would be) third place. These guys were perhaps 90 seconds behind me, but unless I increased my upwind pace from "near-standstill" to at least "laggardly", that soon wouldn't be the case. In the latter stages of the downwind leg, I had averaged something north of 8 miles per hour. Struggling against the wind and waves, I was now barely breaking 5.
 |
| Eric, Andrius, Matt, and Joe vie for 3rd though 6th, apparently not understanding that there's a limit of one ordinal place per paddler. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols and SurfskiRacing.com) |
For the fourth race in a row, Jan was the first ski to the finish. As far as he's concerned, he should now consider me utterly bereft of fighting spirit. A beaten man. A demoralized husk. In short, definitely not someone who would spend every waking moment over the next three weeks training to avenge his recent drubbings when we meet again at the Casco Bay Challenge. So maybe it's OK for him to have a few extra cheeseburgers or to exchange an interval session for a bubble bath.
 |
| Jan collected his $50 hotspot winnings, only to squander it immediately on a generous charitable gesture. |
The next race weekend will see our field split in two, as the folks in the New York area head to Eric's inaugural Seas It Downwinder in New Jersey, while the rest of us Ride the Bull in Narragansett Bay. The winners of the two races will then compete in a best-of-five rock-paper-scissors match at a neutral site to determine the week's Northeast regional champion.
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