Battle of the Bay (Featuring Sean Rice)

Nobody can deny that Rhode Island has a proud history worthy of appreciation.  Crafting a full-fledged state out of a forgotten parcel small enough to be written off as a surveying error?  A real credit to Yankee ingenuity.  Let's say on that basis that Rhode Island merits a couple of surfski races a year.  As the honorary ski capital of the region, it was granted a third race.  A coalition of Rhodies greased the right palms and somehow obtained a fourth race.  Not quite fair, but you gotta admire their gumption.

Recognizing that no rational paddler would consent to a fifth surfski race in Rhode Island without some additional incentive (what with hapless Connecticut starving right next door), Tim Dwyer sweetened the pot by somehow tricking defending world champion Sean Rice into racing with us.  Coincidentally, Tim would also be hosting Sean (and his partner Emily) for two sold-out weekend clinics.  Padawan Jesse Lishchuk would also be attending the festivities.

During the captains meeting Sean sized up the competition, but even that didn't help us.

The weekend's race was formerly called "Rose Island Lighthouse Battle of the Bay", but too many people were dozing off before getting to the end.  Now it's just "Battle of the Bay".  We'll be cutting out 3 more words from the name each subsequent year, so vote now for which one word you'd like to remain next year (I'm throwing my weight behind "Of") and start thinking about which two words we'll be removing from the English language when we go negative in 2017.

The course was to be a 5.3 mile loop that would take us across the bay around the north end of Rose Island, through Newport Harbor inside of Goat Island, back across the bay to Clingstone, and returning to the Yacht Club.  With some bouncy chop, two busy channel crossings, and the old-money decadence of Newport, we'd experience a full range of conditions in our short journey.  To give us ample opportunity to be humbled mid-race by their superior skills, Sean and Jesse would give us more seasoned paddlers a head start (of 5 and 3 minutes, respectively).

Once everyone had met the new kid and listened attentively as Tim reviewed the rudder-shredding perils that awaited us if we failed to keep the rusty steel ball to our right, we paddled out for a start into the quartering waves.  True to form, Andrius Zinkevichus and Jan Lupinski took the early lead on parallel tracks.  I climbed my way past Wesley, Tim D, and Joe Shaw to move into third position.  From there it was a long jump to catch Andrius, but a menacing sailboat provided precisely the boost of terror I needed to bridge the gap.

By the time we reached the rusty steel ball, I had pulled into the lead, with Jan and Andrius trailing by a couple of boat lengths.  The run to Goat Island was largely downwind, with some kiddie rides available for a small fee.  I noticed Jan well off to my starboard, obviously looking for a way to cut to the front of the line.  He didn't seem to be gaining ground, so I stayed my more direct course.

A quarter mile before reaching Goat Island, Jan slid in unexpectedly from the left and latched onto my port bow wake with an audible click.  Apparently he had found the loophole he had been searching for.  The champagne and caviar I had packed in expectation of a leisurely sight-seeing cruise through Newport Harbor were going to have to wait.  This would be grueling.

Nobody has more naked disdain for stand up paddlers than Tim, so I wasn't surprised to find that he had scheduled our race to coincide with a SUP race around Goat Island.  If we "accidentally" thinned out their herd when we crossed paths, Tim would shed no tears.  Jan and I sliced through the lead pack of shuffling water zombies, careful to evade their highly contagious marketing hype so as to avoid finding ourselves balanced precariously on a 14' slab with a cooler of beer behind us.  At our race after-party nobody called me "brah" or "dude", so it looks like we all made it through unscathed.

Uh-oh.  Could be that it's really Tim's antiSUPism that's dangerously infectious.

The trip through Newport Harbor was unexpectedly lucrative.  Apparently thinking that nobody would intentionally captain such insubstantial craft (powered by hand levers, no less!), several philanthropically-minded mega-yacht owners took us for beggars and tossed silver dollars and junk bonds into our footwells.  Some less compassionate aristocrats threatened to call the gendarmes, however, so I didn't tarry.  In my haste to escape the exclusive harbor, I managed to gap Jan.

The beamy waves on the crossing back toward Clingstone meant that I daresn't chance a peek back  to check for stalkers, lest I tumble from my steed (sorry - the Newport influence).  As I rounded buoy G11 near Clingstone to turn for home, however, I did catch a glimpse of Jan about a half-minute behind.  I searched gropingly for a higher gear, but the grinding sound and cloud of smoke issuing from my transmission indicated that I'd be lucky if I could keep it in first.

Even though Sean had given us a five minute head start, there was little doubt that he would catch me before the finish.  Long before I could see him, I felt a reassuring warmth on my back that could only be the aura of approaching greatness.  Halfway between G11 and the Yacht Club, the nose of his Uno Max surged into my periphery.  I tried to avert my eyes, as we had been taught, but he exploded into my field of view so quickly that I couldn't shift my gaze in time.  The full splendor of the reigning world champion remains imprinted on my retinas (which, I'll admit, has proven a bit distracting when trying to get a good look at the sun).

Sean offered no words of encouragement as he passed.  A simple "Wow!  I didn't know Dawid and Jasper had another brother!" would have been nice.  I'm not sure Sean even noticed me.  He wasn't a fellow competitor.  This was a steely-eyed pro doing a training session that just happened to coincide with our race.  Based on his measured cadence and lack of apparent effort, Sean was warming down by the time he reached me.  Of course, this didn't stop him from streaking by like a well-oiled springbok.  I suggested to myself that we hop on Sean's draft, which had us both rolling in the bucket with laughter.

With tears still in my eyes, I made it back to the Yacht Club a minute or so behind Sean.  Although I was the second to cross the finish line, Jesse's corrected time was more than a minute better than mine, dropping me to the final podium step.  Jan and Joe Shaw comprised the rest of the top five (or the mortal top three).  Mary Beth once again was in a class by herself.

After lunch at Spinnakers, Tim compelled the top finishers to don inflatable novelty hats (whispering to Sean that it would be perceived as an insult to the natives if he refused) and pose for blackmail photos.  Once that indignity was out of the way, Sean was able to start his Saturday clinic at Bay Voyage Beach.  Not invited to that particular party, Bruce, Jan, and I leaned back on the grills of our nearby cars and coolly mocked the goody two-shoes students to mask our disappointment and shame.

As always, Mary Beth is blissfully unaware of the mayhem that she leaves in her wake.

Overflowing with energy from the cheese-slathered and bacon-laden sandwich I had wolfed down earlier, I soon made the cholesterol-muddled decision to take another paddle.  I was hoping to catch some good runs from the northerly breeze, so I powered five miles through upwind slop (supplemented by a generous helping of wakes from boats passing unnecessarily close) to the end of Conanicut Island.  Exhausted by this effort and the morning's race, my "run" back to Jamestown would better be characterized as a "limply assisted drift".  Fortunately, I eventually washed up to shore close to the Yacht Club.  If any oceanographers out there are interested in my GPS track for Narragansett Bay current analysis, let me know.

We congregated at Tim's for a post-clinic relaxation session on his front porch, where Sean and Emily graciously fielded an endless barrage of questions about their travels, other elite-level paddlers, and what it's like to hike unassisted across Siberia.  I'm not convinced that Joe Shaw knew exactly who Sean was.  We then enjoyed a delicious dinner cooked up by Alyce, Gaelyn, and Tim, supplemented by a work-of-art salad provided by Tim Hudyncia (from his under-appreciated Early Quinoa period) and chowder lovingly made by Bob Wright from unsuspecting clams he wrested himself from the fetid inter-tidal sludge of Jamestown (when you put it that way, I'll have another serving!).

Saturday's clinic focused mainly on posing for group pictures.  Don't worry guys - you'll get it someday.

Urged on by the rapt dinner audience, Sean regaled us with incredible stories of paddling from around the world.  It's tough to one-up a tale that involves getting bitten on the face by a seal during a Miller's Run, but we all gave it our best shot.  I thought my story of a particularly yappy little dog harassing me from his yard when I was out for a jog was the winner, but there was some push-back on that front.  Agree to disagree.  We concurred, however, that the South Africans were enthralling dinner guests.

Once Sean and Emily had retired/escaped for the night, Tim fired up the Apple TV so that we could binge on videos of surfski races and platform tennis matches (thanks Alyce - I was starting to feel seasick).  For those of you unfamiliar with the latter, I recommend a visit to the Platform Tennis Hall of Fame site, where you can read about the daring exploits of Buffy Briggs, Flip Goodspeed, and Mortimer "Mojo" Jonglemeister III (I may have made that last one up).  Eventually the rigors of the day came to collect their toll, and the remaining overnight guests turned in.

Sean checked each of us to make sure everything was hunky-dory.  Chris' foot plates were angled incorrectly and his cockpit was over-padded.  But his boat was fine.

Serenaded awake by the early morning foghorns of Narragansett Bay (at about 4am), we gathered in the Dwyer kitchen.  After a groggy breakfast of scrambled garlic (the key is to add just a dash of egg) and bagels, the sleep-over crew was reinforced with new recruits for the morning's clinic at Fort Wetherill.  After an hour or so of on-land instruction, we would hit the unpredictable waters of the Ride the Bull course for more advanced training.  I received some practical set-up advice from Sean in the first part of the session - move my GPS to a higher position (so that I'm not always looking down), tighten my PFD straps (because otherwise I "look like a hobo"), and stop wearing the same shorts for every paddle (because otherwise I "smell like a hobo").  Fortunately, I managed to hide my lucky bindle before he got started on that too.

Tim and I had spent weeks choreographing our ski dance, but even the big finish failed to impress Sean.  I guess once you've seen Hank MacGregor and Oscar Chalupsky perform Swan Lake on the water, you get a little jaded.

Unexpectedly mild conditions meant that our on-water work was largely concentrated on trying to keep lined up abreast so that we could properly see Sean.  He walked us through several useful drills and exercises (that's how miraculously good he is), provided valuable training insights, and provided feedback on our individual strokes.  I wasn't aware that itinerant train hoppers had a characteristic paddling style, but I apparently share it.  The day after the clinic I tried one of the interval sessions that Sean had recommended.  The sheer brutality of this workout made me quit surfskis and take up knitting.  Does anyone know some merciless purling drills that might traumatize me back onto the water?

All too soon, the clinic was over.  Sean and Emily couldn't have been nicer folks, nor the Dwyer family better hosts (I'll give them a pass on the foghorns).  It was a truly memorable weekend.  I can't wait to see what the Rhode Islanders have up their sleeves to promote a sixth race next season!

Sean and I bonded on an emotional level that transcends the $20 I slipped him to stand next to me in the photo.

For those of you wondering how you're going to fill your time before the next open water race in late September, why not head to the Great Stone Dam Classic in Lawrence on September 13?  It helps fund a great cause, Francisco Urena (one-time local paddling legend, currently not-so-local real-world legend) is co-chair, and shark attacks are exceedingly rare. Turtles... that's another story.

Nahant Bay Race: Triangulation

If you're anything like me, you're inordinately fond of circus peanuts.  And, more to the point, you're suffering a nasty case of race report fatigue.  In an effort to minimize our collective discomfort, I'll  keep this concise.  Actually, let's go with "more concise".  Polonius claims that brevity is the soul of wit, but I'm pretty confident I can dispel that notion here.  The windbag ends up getting stabbed through a tapestry while spying, so I'm not sure you should be trusting his judgment anyway.

It lacks the portability and cost-effectiveness of PVC, but Rob's classy stand lent gravitas to the proceedings.

With a mild southerly breeze and incoming tide, Nahant Bay race director Mike McDonough decided to run the classic triangular course so popular with the Pythagorean set.  Starting from Fisherman's Beach in Swampscott, we'd tack across Nahant Bay, edge around East Point, turn on a channel marker a half-mile further on, make our way across the mouth of the bay outside of Egg Rock, round Off Rock, skirt Dread Ledge, and return for a beach finish.  The mild conditions meant that it was unlikely that Bill Kuklinski would be window-shaded at Off Rock again, so you could get pretty favorable odds at post time.

I'm not sure what Mike did to upset everyone in the greater Swampscott area, but local paddlers Matt Drayer, Graeme Rockett, and Bill Stafford chose to boycott the race.  Matt went so far as to run the course alone in the early morning, cheekily submitting his time as a slap-in-the-face protest.  He did well, but Mike DQ'ed him for failing to finish between the flags.  With Matt out of the picture and Jan Lupinski unable to attend due to being a scaredy-cat (who, coincidentally, may have also had legitimate commitments and a four hour drive behind which he could hide his faint-heartedness), I was guessing that I'd be jousting primarily with Eric McNett, Eric Costanzo, Andrius Zinkevichus, and Ben Pigott.

During the captains meeting, Mike kept stopping to ask us if we could also see "Leprechaun Gary".

Mike gathered the twenty-two paddlers (including a couple of OC-1 guys loitering around the park looking for trouble) for a quick captains meeting, the take-home message being that a Mexican feast would await us after the race.  With visions of tacos and quesadillas dancing in our heads, we made our way onto the water for a brief warm-up.  Conditions at the start favored those more comfortable on flat water, but from past experience I knew that once we hit East Point, the tables (and perhaps a few boats) could quickly turn.  Perennial Nahant Bay assistant Bill Baumann soon lined us up from the dock, counted us down to the start, and then (judging by its conspicuous absence at the post-race party) broke into Mike's car and drank all of the tequila.

Ben, in his newly-purchased canary yellow Stellar, took the immediate lead, followed by Andrius, Eric Costanzo, and Bruce Deltorchio.  A few minutes into the race, I pulled myself up to Bruce and tried to catch a breather.  Despite his reputation as a mild-mannered gentleman and stand-up paddler (trapped in a surfski world), Bruce isn't quite as gold-hearted as everyone thinks.  Enraged by my clumsy attempts to draft off his port quarter, he responded with a torrent of salty abuse.  If you want to get technical, it was more of a torrent of salty water, but the metaphor was clear enough.  I took the hint and swung wide to avoid his refreshing liquid chiding.

Fraternization is frowned upon at Nahant Bay.

By the time I had gotten around Bruce, the lead pack of Ben, Andrius, and Eric had opened up a gap of two or three boat lengths.  My whining pleas for them to slow down ("Hey guys, come on.  Wait for meeee!") were met with stone-backed indifference.  Not wanting to miss out on all the fun they must be having up front, I silenced the annoying "Danger!  Danger!  Danger!" alarm emanating from my heart rate monitor and threw myself into the chase.  This effort had no discernible effect at a human timescale, but geologically speaking, I was making gains that gave continental drift a real run for its money.

I managed to catch Andrius and Eric before the next mass extinction event could end us all.  I used the psychological boost of that accomplishment to slingshot (well, maybe "inch" would be more accurate) myself past Ben and into the lead.  Now it was just a matter of holding everyone off until a meteor or super-volcano etched the mid-race standings into the record books.

The remainder of the trip across Nahant Bay was about as pleasant as it could be while suffering from severe oxygen debt.  I figured I'd eventually evolve to breathe carbon dioxide, so that helped to keep my spirits up.  As expected, at East Point the smooth seas evaporated (climate change, I suppose) to be replaced by saucy refractory waves.  I kept close to shore in rougher waters, hoping that any flat water specialists behind me would follow lemming-like to their doom.  Only my paddle prevented me from rubbing my hands together in malevolent glee thinking about the prospect.  I probably cackled, though.

After maneuvering through the fleet of spectator boats surrounding the turn buoy, I headed back across Nahant Bay.  Nearing Egg Rock, I decided to kick my bailer open for a few seconds to clear the last fifteen minutes of accumulated sweat from the cockpit.  Despite repeated attempts, I only succeeded in pulling a neoprene shoe off my heel.  The bailer lever wouldn't budge.  I would later discover that a plastic component had broken off and lodged fast in the mechanism.  At the time, however, all I knew was that I now had an air-tight excuse if I blew the lead!  I'd just scoop some extra water into the footwell before hitting the beach, then point accusingly at my traitorous boat.

Before sloshing on, I stole a quick glance over my shoulder to see exactly to whom I'd be justifying my forthcoming defeat.  My uncorrected vision is such that I once argued over a parking spot for a half-hour with a traffic cone.  I still say I was there first.  There was a fuzzy presence back a couple hundred meters, but I could tell by his determined blurriness that whoever it was meant business.  Or was actually a buoy.  I wasn't about to stick around to find out.

I chose this frame from my GoPro as a representative example of the kind of lithe athleticism that I only ever seem to achieve in 1/60 of a second bursts.

I spent the rest of the way to Off Rock ping-ponging back and forth between fearing that the hazy blob would catch me and worrying that I'd take a wave over the gunnel and swamp the boat.  Rounding the rock, I saw that I had a reasonably safe lead over a focused Eric.  This left me free to obsess solely over keeping water out of the cockpit, which helped keep my mind off the grind of the last mile and a half.  It was a slow year compared to past races, but I eventually stumbled up the beach for the win.  Although I'd have no qualms claiming the opposite had events turned out differently, the malfunctioning bailer didn't have a significant impact on my race.

Eric has a well-earned reputation as a rough water and downwind specialist, but with a solid second place finish in calm-to-modest conditions I'm afraid we're going to have to re-categorize him as an all-purpose paddler.  Andrius took the final podium position, with Bruce missing out on the top-three accolades by only 17 seconds.  The rest of the top ten: Eric McNett, Mike, Tim Hudyncia, Ben, Kirk Olsen, and Bob Capellini.  Mary Beth was the first woman in, claiming her fifth title of the season.

Tim thought he was a lock for the coveted "Mr. Sourpuss" award, but ultimately had to settle for "Number One Badass".

I was elated to take first, but it would have been a truly hollow victory if it hadn't been for the excellent post-race Mexican spread - the real winner of the day.  Thanks, Mike and Carol!  The Rose Island Lighthouse race is up next, where Jan will almost surely make me pay dearly for that scaredy-cat joke.

Jamestown Double Beaver: Now Rodent Free!

For years Tim Dwyer has dreamed of running a downwind race from Point Judith to Jamestown, taking advantage of the prevailing south-easterly winds to hurtle us screaming across a 10+ mile span of open water.  Since this route passes by the Beavertail Lighthouse that inspired the name of the Jamestown Double Beaver race, Tim decided to make the downwind run the official 2015 course (although the Beavertail would be little more than a blinking blur to competitors).  Perhaps a quarter of the starters would never be seen again, but the finishers would be too jacked up on adrenalin to care very much.

The week before the race, Tim did a dry run of the proposed course.  I was there too, but nobody told me about the "dry" part.  Conditions for our trial were ideal - sustained winds of 15+ miles per hour out of the southeast with air temperature in the low 80s.  Venturing into uncharted waters, Tim and I conservatively decided to use our most stable boats - a V8 and a V10 Sport, respectively.  Like alpinists preparing to set a new climbing route on Everest, we carefully reviewed our safety equipment - leg leashes, phones, VHF radio, supplemental oxygen, flares, etc.  The oxygen might not be strictly necessary at our elevation, but it'd come in handy for any below sea-level excursions.  Finally, I strapped a GoPro on my head to record our historic first descent for posterity.

Launching into the calm waters of the Harbor of Refuge, we soon ventured past the breakwaters into unprotected seas.  It wasn't quite as rough as this year's Blackburn, but it was plenty raucous.  We had to cover a half-mile of beam and quartering waves to get clear of Point Judith itself before we could start our run.  After accomplishing that rocky traverse, Tim stopped to point out the hazy purple protuberance on the northeast horizon that marked the southern tip of Jamestown, 7.5 miles downwind from us.  Then, with a slightly unhinged twinkle in his eyes, he launched himself over the edge.  We were off.

I won't bore you with tales of our adventure - the break-neck speeds, the seamlessly linked runs, the thrill of catching oneself at the last moment before disaster (at least, I assume it would be thrilling), the bitter frustration at missing yet another runner that Tim managed to catch so easily (recording a top speed north of 13 mph in doing so).  Suffice it to say that Dwyer's Run lived up to its future billing as the premier New England downwind paddle.  You'll never have more fun while wearing neoprene shorts and a heart-rate monitor (I'm guessing).  I couldn't wait for everyone else to experience the downwind fun at this year's Double Beaver.

Alas.  As we now all know, Tim failed to submit the required paperwork before the deadline, and thus his application for favorable race-day winds was returned by those pencil-pushers at the Bureau with a gleefully red "DENIED" stamp.  Through some back-channel maneuvering, well-placed bribes, and a dozen sacrificed chickens, however, Tim was able to secure a vague promise for northerly winds.  This fallback option would allow the Double Beaver to be run as a downwind course along the length of Conanicut Island.  We'd start at the north end of the island, round the House on the Rock at the south end, and finish upwind at the Yacht Club, 8.8 miles the wiser.

Somewhere around the third hour of his "History of Rhode Island" lecture, Tim started to lose the crowd.

One unfortunate consequence of the course change was that we'd never even see the Beavertail Lighthouse.  Muttering something about "brand continuity", Tim petulantly refused to change the name of the race, even though I supplied him with some damned fine alternatives (like my personal favorite - the Jamestown Meager Beaver).  Who knew what kind of karmic retribution this misrepresentation might call down on us?  Just to be safe, Mary Beth and I arrived in Jamestown early enough for a pre-race pilgrimage to the lighthouse.  Everyone else was on their own.

Twenty paddlers gathered at Bay Voyage Beach in Jamestown, nineteen of whom are required to consult with their doctors before attempting any strenuous activity.  Among the grizzled regulars one fresh-faced youth stood out.  This was up-and-coming flatwater specialist Jesse Lishchuk.  As an international-caliber U23 paddler, Jesse could likely complete a 1000 meter sprint before the rest of us even finished taking our medication.  In a 9 mile race in modest chop, however... maybe we'd managed to also get a few strokes in.

After a well-executed shuttle drop at the launch site, we gathered around to await the last-minute arrival of Jan Lupinski.  As usual, he'd have been right on time had we been holding the race in, say, Denver.  Once Jan had borrowed an entire paddling outfit from me (in an attempt to trick Mary Beth into cheering him on from shore), we mounted up and headed out to the starting line.  The wind was northerly, but at a disappointing 8 mph wasn't going to give us much to work with.  I expect Tim probably mixed a few seagulls into his offering to save a buck or two.  Studiously avoiding all eye contact, our conscience-stricken race director counted us down to a start.

I shudder to think of the carnage a South African style surf launch would wreak on this crew.

Jesse jumped out to an early lead, taking a line away from shore.  Jan, Andrius Zinkevichus, Eric Costanzo, Jim Hoffman and I followed in his rapidly dissipating wake, while Tim, Wesley, and Joe Shaw seemed to be holding closer to the island.  Over the course of the next few miles, I managed to catch and overtake Andrius, Eric, Jim, and Jan (who, in a moment of supreme confusion, I momentarily mistook for myself before the smooth stroke gave me... I mean him... away).  Jesse extended his lead during this time, but didn't seem to be running away from us.

Although we started the race shortly before high tide, the currents within Narragansett Bay are notoriously difficult to predict.  I perhaps should have figured out that I was on a suboptimal line when, two miles into the race, I glanced over to see someone - let's call him Paddler X to preserve his anonymity - near the shore keeping pace with me.  I don't mean to cast aspersions on him (despite his pretentious moniker), but experience has indicated that by this stage in a race I should be safely ahead of him.  How could Paddler X still be in the hunt?  And yet there he was in his V10 with those dumb Toy Story figurines.  Oops.  I may have blown your cover, X.

There was some confusion about the new Double Beaver course.

In retrospect, it seems that paddlers closer to shore were escaping the tidal current that I was paddling against out in the channel.  I've found that obliviousness is much closer to bliss than ignorance.  Sprinkle a little knowledge on ignorance, next thing you know you're shrouding your loins with fig leaves and looking for a new home.  Obliviousness, on the other hand, can shed a torrent of facts and explanations without the least dampening of spirit.  Ample evidence that I was needlessly working against the tidal current?  I reject the very concept of evidence!  I chose to achieve inner peace through the path of obliviousness. Which just happened to coincide almost perfectly with that of the channel.

Fortunately, many of those smarty-pants paddlers who tried to game the system ran into problems later, when the confused currents of the Bay thwarted their best efforts to divine the transcendent path.  I also heard reports that the inner line was rife with floating biological contaminants.  Perplexed by his uncharacteristically slow pace, Tim Hudyncia leapt overboard to inspect his undercarriage.  His official report indicated that he had "significant accumulations of organic material" on his rudder.  Cleaning off the weeds seemed to restore his speed, but Tim's also taking a full course of amoxicillin - just to be sure.

At the five mile point, we passed under the Clairborne Pell Newport Bridge (more commonly known as "The bridge to Jamestown.  No, not that one.  The other bridge to Jamestown.  No, wait, you were right the first time.").  With a central span of 488 meters, it's the 87th long suspension bridge in the world (in your face, 486 meter Brooklyn Bridge!).  Now that I've paddled safely under Newport Bridge, I only have 98 items remaining on my bucket list.

The remainder of the trip to turn buoy G9 I kept an eye on Olympic Hopeful Jesse Lishchuk (which is an awkward way to refer to someone, but I found soothing to my ego) from a safe distance back.  Didn't want to spook the skittish youngster by appearing suddenly at his side.  After the G9 turn, I saw that Jim and Eric had graciously elected to provide me with the same courtesy, although I remained suspicious that one of these jokers was planning a home-stretch surprise for me.

It's unclear why exactly we recreate Al Capone's infamous 1928 luau-themed birthday party every year, but I was relieved that the hula skirts and Tommy Guns were on back-order.

OHJL swung very wide heading back to the Yacht Club, which gave me a fleeting hope that I might be able to catch him via a more direct line.  No luck there, of course, but at least this starry-eyed vision of glory kept me working hard through the finish.  Jim, Eric, and a hard-charging Joe all finished within a minute of one another, with Tim (Dwyer variety), Andrius, Wesley, Rowan Sampson, and Bruce Deltorchio filling the remaining top-ten spots.  Jim was subsequently assessed a 3 minute penalty when it was discovered that his bright pink shirt violated several local noise ordinances, slipping him from 3rd to 6th place.

As has become Double Beaver tradition, Tim burned off most of the goodwill he had engendered hosting the race by dressing the podium finishers in goofy costumes and skimping on the cigars. Iceland's Finest?  Come on.  I'll tell you what, Tim.  Host another race, a couple of Sean Rice clinics, and a paddler slumber party next weekend.  We'll call it even.

In the mean time, let's see if we can finally keep the Nahant Bay Cup in New England.

Blackburn Challenge: Process of Elimination

The forecast for the 29th Blackburn Challenge was promising, at least for those of us who make their living writing about sudden and unexpected immersion.  Winds of 10-12 knots from an atypical summer direction meant that it'd be a perfectly credible (and excusable) exaggeration to claim that the race was held in the midst of a raging Nor'easter.  Howard Blackburn (or "Ole No-Hand Howie" to those who didn't mind a kick to the groin) would almost certainly have smiled appreciatively on those hearty souls who would brave such conditions in traditional Banks dories.  And spit contemptuously on the sissified dandies who made the trip on 28 pound synthetic miracles of technology.  Big fan of chewing tobacco too, Howard.  Having never come out of my boat at the Blackburn in 10 previous attempts, the prospect of adding another notch in my chaw-stained hull had me on tenterhooks.

I'm assuming this won't come as a spoiler to many readers, but the meteorologists' mystic prophecies were fulfilled.  Conditions were... I'm going to go with... lively.  Last year was the fastest Blackburn ever, with 21 single skis breaking the 3 hour mark.  This year, contending with 3 to 4 foot seas for the majority of the course, only 4 boats of any kind finished in under 3 hours.  Four out of every five participants had to be resuscitated at least once during the race, property damages were in the high 7 digits (a bargain, Howie would argue), and the Man at the Wheel statue in Gloucester was reported to be weeping salty tears for the lost. 

Of the 212 boats that started, 59 pulled out before the finish.  Entire boat classes were DNF'ed out of existence.  Eight sliding seat two-person rowing shells started, but only one made it around.  Four boats literally fell apart in the rough waters.  One of the shipwrecked rowers was proudly carrying the foredeck of his boat around the after-party, to the awe and amusement of the other attendees.  It was a good day to be in a kayak - the 13 fastest solo times came from the HPK class - but most of those that started in a ski also spent some time out of a ski (including the 3rd through 7th finishers, who you'd think would know better).

At the registration tables at Gloucester High School, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the liability waiver now included a box for penciling in a short obituary.  Smart.  Figuring that the sheer volume of published notices would prevent any rigorous fact-checking, I elevated my rank to Commodore Lesher and credited myself with inventing cheese.  My legacy secured, I joined in the prayer of deliverance that opened the captain's meeting.  In truth (don't get used to it), there was an inappropriate lack of anxiety among those mustered in the cafeteria.  One might even say there was a raucous comrade-in-arms levity.

One-third of HPK starters didn't finish.  Look to your left.  Look to your right.  Both those guys are convinced you're going to be the DNF.  And that your ears are kind of weird.  (Photo courtesy of SurfskiRacing.com)

Mary Beth and I said our goodbyes and launched into the peaceful Annisquam.  With international-class West Coast races the weeks before, during, and after the Blackburn, the surfski crowd had a slightly more regional feel than usual.  Although I don't race often against some of the more Canadian of the attendees, I had crossed paddles at least once before with most of this year's registrants.  In theory, this made it possible to handicap the race.  Matt Drayer and I - fellow data nerds - had run through all the possible scenarios in the days leading up to the Challenge.

Sean Brennan came out victorious in all but one of our simulated trials (eaten by walrus, oddly enough).  The next few places, however, were a confused jumble of paddlers.  We figured at least nine paddlers had a legitimate shot at silver: Jan Lupinski (hungry after a meandering performance in Casco Bay), Jack Van Dorp (Canadian, but with colorful shorts), Craig Impens (master of the intimidating Facebook post), Hugh Pritchard (who, in a charming old-world manner, apparently believes there's a pre-race dress code), Robert Lang (of the Kicked-My-Butt-in-Maine Langs), Ben Pigott (real trouble in flat conditions, a wildcard otherwise), and Brian Heath (with 11 top-five Blackburn finishes, just behind Gretzky and Trebek as the most storied Canadian of them all).  That's only seven people, so Matt (too fast for his tender years) and I (nominative first-person singular pronoun) were forced to include ourselves in the list as well.  I dubbed this group the Contenders.  As to what that makes everyone else... I suggest Journeyman (an older paddler), Tenderfoot (a hypothetical youngster), or Bum (someone that coulda been a Contender, but chose a different path).  We would also accept Palooka.

As we lined up for the start, we were told in ominous tones (I believe the announcer was holding a flashlight under her chin) that once we cleared the Annisquam, we'd be facing four foot seas.  Although I noticed a few people blanch and heard one guy muttering to himself "You can do this, Lesher!", nobody turned in their number and headed back to the launch.  With little fuss and no apparent moral compunction (probably has a good lawyer), the starter sent us off.

In the days before the race, I had pored over satellite photos of the Annisquam in search of some navigational advantage.  Speed-draining shallows in the tidal river can mean that the straight-line route isn't necessarily the fastest path.  I identified some candidate long-cuts, dusted off my compass and protractor set, and got to work plotting my victory.  Was it worth the inscribed scratches and permanent marker on my monitor?  We'd soon find out.

Despite the persistent rumors, the use of high-speed photography allows us to state definitively that Sean only has a single pair of arms.  (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

Within a few minutes, Sean Brennan and the Contenders had danced their way on to center stage.  I was slightly off the back of their train, which cemented the decision to enact my long-cut Annisquam strategy.  Passing under the 128 bridge, they went left, I went right.  Merging triumphantly back with the leaders several moments later, it was clear that my strategic maneuver had only cost me a few seconds.  Emboldened by this unqualified near-success, when I arrived at the second of my long-cuts, I seized the chance to widen their lead.  They'd thank me later.  I swung wide around a submerged sandbar as the lead pack charged over it.  Robert, apparently impressed by my independent spirit, decided to stick with me.

To my bewilderment, this course deviation actually provided some benefit.  When I rejoined the mainstream paddlers, I found myself drafting Craig, who in turn was on Matt's wash.  Sean had split from the Contenders some time ago.  He was always more of a solo act anyways.  Jan was a half-dozen boat lengths ahead of Matt.  Robert was still just behind me, but I didn't know how far back Brian, Jack, Hugh, and Ben were.  Given this information, logically deduce Jan's hat size.

After a few minutes of this, Craig veered left to cut the corner over a sandbar.  Consistency has never been a strong point for me, so I followed him rather than keeping to the channel with Matt.  The gamble paid off.  As we left the Annisquam, the three of us were abreast.  Might this race shape up to be a cerebral chess match like the Casco Bay Challenge a few weeks ago?  That question is laughable in retrospect, but at the time it seemed like just the kind of pretentious twaddle I might write.

Ahead, in calm water and without warning, Jan went over.  Someone gleefully yelled "Jan's down!  Jan's down!" from my bucket.  According to the swimmer (perhaps delirious from shock), the capsize was caused when an older female rower in front of him of suddenly stopped, then proceeded to catch an oar on his rudder.  Sounds vaguely plausible, I suppose.  Afterwards, Jan was telling people that my mother-in-law had sabotaged him.  That's ludicrous.  First of all, everyone knows I'm out to get the guy.  I'm not going to be so carelessly blatant about it as to have my mother-in-law flip him.  Do I look like an amateur?  Second of all, it was actually my aunt.  Regardless of who did or didn't toss Jan into the sea, he was out of second place.  Matt, Craig, and I carried on.  With this early fall in the most important New England race, Lupinski lost his confidence and, for the remainder of the season, couldn't get back in his groove.  More prophetic words, I hope, were never written.

A few moments later, we rounded the Annisquam Harbor Light and finally got a gander at what awaited us.  For the 3.5 mile stretch from here until Halibut Point, we'd be paddling directly into waves that probably averaged 3 feet, with the occasional 4 and 5 foot behemoths thrown in to keep us on our toes.  I knew I'd need to lighten my load for the upwind struggle, so I jettisoned all technique and decorum.  In this bare knuckles brawl, any effete consideration of proper form would just get me in trouble.  Today would be all about outlasting the competition.

Like they say, the camera adds 10 pounds, a hump, and a beak-like nose.  (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

With Matt a length ahead, Craig angling north towards the arctic (did he learn nothing from the tragic Brennan scenario?), and Rob doggedly hanging just behind me despite his alleged flatwater specialization, I was feeling pretty good about my position.  Surely the other Contenders weren't far behind, but I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of throwing a glance over my shoulder to check.  Also,

For the last few weeks, I had been serving as sparring partner (or perhaps punching bag) for Matt in the Tuesday night Salem League to get him in shape for the longer races.  He had been consistently beating me, but today he was in a lighter boat with a vestigial rudder.  A mile into the rough stuff, he went over.  Knowing that he has a spring-loaded remount, I didn't even bother slowing to check if he was OK.  That'd be akin to askin' Billy the Kid if he needed any extra bullets while he was reloading.  With Craig fending off tusked pinnipeds somewhere over the horizon, I staked my claim to second place.

The remaining trip to Halibut Point wasn't too technically challenging, but it required constant vigilance.  The larger waves were curling at the top in a menacing manner, and more than a few times the front half of my boat liberated itself from the surface.  The subsequent crash and palpable flex of the hull made me wonder exactly how long it would be before Mary Beth noticed I was no longer mowing the lawn.  At some point I spotted Brian in his old-school West Side Boat on an inside line, perhaps a half-dozen lengths back.  At least he'd be able to tell people that I perished like I lived life - begging for mercy from an indifferent God.

Apparently there had been some kind of nuclear incident at Halibut Point, because many of the boats ahead were rounding the promontory at a minimum-safe-distance comparable to that of Chernobyl.  The formerly well-behaved waves were getting increasingly rowdy near the shore, granted, but I doubted that they would render anyone sterile.  Just to be safe, I took a moderate line and leaned away from the point to put that extra layer of kevlar-carbon weave between my payload and the danger source.

By the end of the race, Jack and his boat could fit comfortably in the palm of your hand.  (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

The voyage from Halibut Point to Straitsmouth was particular onerous.  The waves were now quartering from the port stern, constantly threatening to yaw my boat starboard into Sandy Bay.  I saw Tom Kerr and Doug McCarthy in the water, but quickly averted my eyes when it became clear that Tom was having an intimate moment with their tandem ski.  We'd all been out to sea for quite a while by this point, so I tried not to judge.

Although I hadn't noticed his stealth boat creep by, at Straitsmouth I saw Brian several lengths ahead of me.  Just far enough, I told myself with barely disguised satisfaction, that it would hardly make any sense to attempt to catch him.  Yet, you mean.  Hmmm?  Oh, right, yet.  And that's how any slim chance at second place faded away.  In Straitsmouth I shouted my number to the moored safety boat which, oddly, appeared to be staffed entirely by confused fishermen.  Having cleared the strait, a temporary respite from the rough waters awaited.
 
On my deathbed (which I pray will be made from that memory foam - nobody wants to be forgotten), I'll look back at the next moment with bitter regret.  An hour and a half into the race, I hadn't taken any liquid or solid sustenance.  Heck, I had been holding my breath most of the time.  Bracing on a skimming paddle blade while I still had some forward momentum, I fished around clumsily in my PFD pocket for an energy gel.  Would throwing my legs out of the boat for added stability really have cost me that much?  As I continued futzing around in my PFD, my boat came to a stop.  Like a Warner Brother's cartoon character, I looked over at my sinking brace, then stared directly into the camera and mouthed "Mother?".

I went down hard on my weak side.  I blew the remount.  Then another.  A third?  Why not?  After a prolonged struggle, I managed to get upright enough on my fourth attempt to tumble off on my strong side.  Now we were talking!  After corralling a spare water bladder that was sneaking off disguised as a Portuguese man-of-war, I finally made it back into the bucket.  Given that I had been in the water for nearly 45 minutes, it seemed miraculous that nobody had caught me (save Rob Flanagan and Chris Kielb in their double, charmingly merry).  I eased back into the race.

A rare moment of competence in a sea of  "Whoa..."

A mile beyond Straitsmouth, at Emerson Point, the waves finally began to jack up and align with my boat.  Unfortunately, Jack up and aligned with my boat as well.  Van Dorp had caught me unawares.  If I had known he was closing in, I might have welcomed him with fewer curse words.  Jack and I traded a few jabs on successive downwind runs, each looking for an opening that might provide some advantage.  I fell off a playground slide onto my head as a kid, so I was hoping he wouldn't home in on that particular soft spot (like my mom did with that damned wooden spoon).  Then, hooking into a nice ripper, I unexpectedly landed what appeared to be a knock-out blow.  Having dropped Jack, I rejoiced in my superior downwind skills.

The video record shows that the coup de grâce I was so proud of was more of a phantom punch.  Jack wallowed on a big wave and then, having lost most of his speed, crumpled to his left.  He had trouble remounting in the steep waves, allowing me to pull away unmolested.  Craig would soon be dismounted in this treacherous area as well, and similarly have difficulty clambering back in the bucket.  Since Matt's contract stipulated that he capsize at least once a mile, it's a safe bet that he was dunked here too.  I doubt he was in the water long enough to notice, though.  Hugh definitely did not go in here, but given that he could barely reach his badly mis-calibrated rudder pedals, I doubt he had much fun.  The cards were falling into place for me.  Or, at least, out of place for everyone else.

After clearing Emerson Point, the seas flattened out a bit.  There were still waves, but had to work much harder to track down good runners.  Given the increasingly rubber-like quality of my arms, I can't say I was too effective in my hunt.  In a typical Blackburn, the four mile long stretch of open water along the Back Shore is an upwind grind.  Doubtless feeling a little guilty about that, this year the wind had given us a break.  I was grateful, sure, but couldn't help but notice that the moderate, uneven rides offered up in this section were pale reflections of the massive and well-formed waves that we had plowed through to get to Halibut Point.  Stupid wind.  Can't do anything right.

I went over again trying to stay in a relationship with a wave that had commitment issues.  When paddling in rough conditions like Saturday's, I can't stress enough how important it is to double-check that your paddle leash is securely fastened on at least one end.  I didn't, and now I'm out a $10 leash.  That crafty water bladder managed to slip away too.  After taking big gulp of seawater to fortify myself, I remounted without problems and went in search of a new swell.

With downwind help, I arrived so unexpectedly early at Eastern Point Lighthouse that they hadn't had time to set up the traditional welcome buffet.  Where were the boat wakes?  The rogue breaking waves?  The piping hot clapotis?  The legendary smorgasbord of demanding conditions 16 miles into the race is a Blackburn institution, for pity's sake!  Words could not express how incensed I was by the pancake-like flatness of the ocean by the Dog Bar, so I let a savage ear-to-ear grin do the talking.

Entering the harbor, I passed Rich Klajnscek (first rower), who informed me that no paddlers were in striking distance.  Although this news should have taken some of the sting out of the slap-in-the-face upwind chop that now greeted me, it was too weak a salve.  Even if I had third place virtually locked down (and Brian's indistinct form far ahead convinced me immediately that second wasn't in the cards), apparently they were still going to make me paddle the final couple miles.  The joke was on them.  By this point, you could hardly call my floppy-armed flailing "paddling".  I'd finish on my terms.

The less remembered about that terrible trip across Gloucester Harbor, the better.  I may have made some rash promises to get through that stretch (something about giving up beer?), but I don't think they'll hold up if I now claim a fatigue-induced blackout.  It's a pretty great loophole.  However it happened, I made it to the Greasy Pole.  Brian was roughly a minute ahead of me.  Sean, of course, had already published his memoirs ("We may never know if anyone finished behind me in that fateful Blackburn...") and retired to Florida.

With an impressive 4th place finish, Matt celebrates his ascendance from "up-and-coming" to "target". (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

In talking with Brian after the race, I discovered that as the last of The Contenders out of the Annisquam, he had lost track of most of the others in the big waves.  Rounding the Dog Bar into Gloucester Harbor, he was astounded that they were all so far ahead of him he couldn't even spot them.  Since situational awareness is such an important part of racing, I'm docking him a place and claiming silver.

I was pleased to see Matt pull in a few minutes later to take 4th place.  Knocked down a dozen times over the last three hours, Matt would just bounce back into the bucket and carry on.  Jack, Jan, and Craig finished together in a tight pack, with Robert, Hugh, and Joe Shaw (stepping in for a DNF'ed Ben) following in one minute intervals.  Hawaii's 'Ale Hedlund took gold for the women, with Mary Beth claiming silver and bronze (because... moxie).  Jim Hoffman and Steve DelGaudio, after demonstrating tandem remount techniques for the cameras at Halibut Point, easily took first in the doubles HPK division.  Jay Appleton now holds the SS20+ crown.  The Clara Barton award went to Bob Wright, who patiently nursed a series of collapsed racers back to upright positions.

Once you win silver, you don't want to contaminate yourself by actually touching bronze.

As you can imagine, the after-party was particularly animated as racers tried to one-up each other with tales of  terror on the high seas.  There were numerous accounts of maritime rescues (by safety boats, the Coast Guard, and fellow racers), several detached amas (insufficient pre-race stretching, I'd wager), mammoth waves ranging in height from 7 feet to 10 meters (Canadians...), a half-dozen krakens (or at least near-krakens), and one possible EBW (missing paddler, incriminating flipper marks on boat).  We can have an honest disagreement about whether this year's race was "exhilarating" or "terrifying", but it was indisputably the greatest Blackburn of all time.  Or at least the one we're most likely to exaggerate about.

There was, of course, one heart-breaking aspect to this year's Blackburn.  Even if you only knew Joe Glickman in passing, you felt his absence from the race he excelled in for so many years.  The web is rightfully overflowing with tributes to the kindness and generosity of spirit that made Joe so beloved.  I'll add one more anecdote.  At the Double Beaver race in 2013, Joe spotted me from across the lawn of the Conanicut Yacht Club and walked purposefully over to where I was fiddling with my boat.  He proceeded to compliment my recent post about that year's Blackburn, citing a few specific elements he found funny, and then to talk to me for a few moments as a fellow writer (despite the fact that I'm clearly not).  I think often of that brief exchange, which left me feeling ten feet tall.  A compliment, a kind remark, a mere interest from Joe made you feel that you were doing something right.  And, given his magnanimous character, that meant he brightened the life of almost everyone he encountered.

I frequently used Joe as a foil in this blog - an effortlessly cool and hyper-competent guy in direct contrast to my blundering self.  I obsessed (only half-facetiously) over besting him in something - paddling, CRASH-B's, anything, really - but, of course, never did.  That's fitting.  Glicker was, and always will be, one more mile ahead.