Everyone has that friend. The one that tells you that you just have to go to such-and-such a restaurant and try their possum sliders (I'm assuming your friend is from Appalachia). Bob Capellini's not quite that friend (too refined a palette), but he has been tireless in promoting the Great Peconic Race as a must-do event. We had heard so many good things about this 20 mile circumnavigation of Shelter Island (mostly from Bob, sure, but with an occasional "Hear, hear!" from the Ocean Paddlesports East gents) that Mary Beth and I decided that we had to add it to our bucket list, then check it off immediately.
If you think of Long Island as an eastward-facing alligator with Brooklyn at its tail and Montauk its lower jaw (there's a Staten Island joke here, but I'm just a shade too classy to make it), Shelter Island is the unfortunate armadillo in its toothy maw. The only access to this well-protected island is via reciprocal ferries at the north and south ends. Although this isolation usually keeps the riffraff at bay, the residents of Shelter Island (technically known as "Shelterians", but more colloquially just called "Lawyers, Doctors, and Hedge Fund Managers") would be invaded this weekend by well over a hundred paddlers.
Bob and Linda Capellini graciously opened up their Long Island home (roundabouts the spleen) to out-of-town paddlers. Jan Lupinski, Jesse Lishchuk, Mary Beth and I jumped on the opportunity. We had heard great things about Bob's flame-roasted pizza, and we weren't disappointed. I swore that I wouldn't reveal all his secrets, but suffice it to say that if you aren't forced to pull the pin of a fire extinguisher at some point, you're doing it wrong. After a wonderful dinner, we retired early to dream of glorious victory and of squadrons of flying squirrels (which may sound kind of adorable, but trust me - it does not end well).
Since registration started at 7 and we still had three-quarters of a gator and an entire ferry between us and Shelter Island, we convoyed out from Casa Capellini well before sunrise (warily watching the darkened skies). Arriving at the upscale-quaint town of Greenport, we took the North Ferry across to the island and made our way to the start at Wades Beach. A sizable fleet was already laid out on the sand. The race is open to any human-powered craft, with a healthy mix of kayaks, skis, outriggers, and rowing vessels. However, more than half the participants were on SUPs (including some top-caliber talent drawn by the generous paddleboard prize money), leading to several cases of severe body dysmorphia among other paddlers.
One of the downsides of racing on Shelter Island is the difficulty in finding reasonably priced accommodations within 50 miles. Tim and Alyce Dwyer were forced to abandon their lodgings when it became clear that they were starring in an European art-house horror film. They spent the night shivering in existential angst on the floor of the Hoffman-Ceconi-Delgaudio rental house. Eric McNett camped out in his van in the beach parking lot, leading to a series of hastily erected "Stranger Danger!" posters around the island. Bill Kuklinski and Kirk Olsen... didn't have any problems. That just doesn't make sense.
The field was stacked at the top. Returning as defending champion, Austin Kieffer is hands-down the best American surfski paddler. Given that there were no entrants from the southern hemisphere, the eventual winner of the race wasn't in much doubt. Similarly, Jesse seemed a lock for second unless he snapped both his paddle and a rudder line. Pam Boteler and Eric were in an Epic V10 Double, despite limited experience paddling together. I'd never catch them in the flat, but with the forecast showing a lively breeze from the northeast, I thought perhaps they might be chopped down to a beatable size. Of course, Jan was my real focus. After besting me in five consecutive races earlier in the season, I had gotten the better of him in the last three (with assists from his mutinous kidney, conceded). I sensed this wasn't sitting well with Jan.
The skis and outriggers lined up for an uncharacteristically orderly start and we were soon sent off. Austin and Jesse were out of sight before I finished my third stroke, which made it easier to concentrate on my real competition - paddlers whose DNA hadn't been scrubbed of imperfect genes in top-secret government experiments. Jan quickly established himself as the Normal to beat, with Jim Hoffman (who may well have been accidentally subjected to gamma rays as a youth, but technically still qualifies as genetic-typical) also jumping out to a good start.
With Pam and Eric accelerating to pass me, I was tossed bow-first into the in-class/out-of-class double drafting dilemma. Fortunately, the tandem pulled out of reach while I was still weighing the ethical considerations - doubtless saving me from yet another poor life decision (in my defense, Ralph Nader was saying all the right things). While the ominous sounding Nett-Bott was overtaking Jan up ahead, I managed to skirt around Jim.
Emerging from the lee of the island we were enthusiastically greeted by the headwinds. They meant no harm with their playful rough-housing, but weighing in at a hefty 12 to 15 mph, they weren't aware of their own strength. Luckily, they lavished most of their exuberant affection on the unsuspecting SUP contingent. By keeping a low profile (dressing conservatively and not making any sudden movements), I was able to avoid the worst of the blow-back. Despite my efforts, however, over the next few miles Jan managed to extend his lead to a dozen lengths. As I learned in the Sakonnet River Race, he slices through upwind slogs like a dull knife through my heart. Pam and Eric also powered well through this stretch, opening a significant gap on Jan.
We had been notified that the Coast Guard would be shepherding race traffic through the ferry zones, stopping paddlers when necessary to ensure the safety of all. As we approached the North Ferry, I sprinted to make contact with Roger Gocking and the tandem of Gary Williams and Robin Francis (all of whom started 10 minutes before us in the kayak class), figuring that our crossing guard would be disinclined to split up a line of competitors. There were no ferries in the vicinity at the time, so my strategy was pretty effective. Also effective (according to an anonymous source in the lead double ski) - arguing forcefully with the officiating Guardsman. I imagine a McEnroe-like tirade: "You've got to be kidding me! Are you blind? That ferry isn't even close to running us down!"
Clearing Hay Beach Point at the northernmost corner of the island, we faced 3.5 miles of wind quartering off our sterns. You could get some respectable rides, but only if you were willing to sacrifice the rhumb line and instead snake your way to the next point. I decided to maintain a direct course, although my under-ruddered boat would occasionally get forcefully swung downwind by a particularly aggressive wave. Jan and the double took an inside line, perhaps because they were more actively pursuing runners.
When we converged again, I found myself only a half-dozen lengths behind Jan, who himself had nearly caught Pam-n-Eric. Once we rounded Ram Island (which remains stubbornly attached to Shelter Island, despite its name), we were in true downwind conditions. With 12 miles worth of fatigue under my belt, I was too saddle-weary to catch every available ride, but I was able to link together enough runs to keep close. Up ahead, an elegant duel was unfolding as Jan and the double danced for supremacy. My own elaborate feints and parries would have been a lot more effective had they not all been made several lengths behind the others.
As the downwind portion of our adventure drew to its inevitable end (which wasn't, as it turns out, me sailing effortlessly by Jan), I consulted a mental map of the island to see what the next leg would bring. Someone had folded the thing all wrong and then mistakenly filed it under "Shetland Ponies" (a memory folder still overflowing from a 4th grade field trip), so it took a moment to find it and then get my bearings. I just about had it figured out what to expect next when a vigorous headwind ripped the map clean out of my grasp. Oh yeah.
Having fought back to within striking distance of Jan (you know, with like a slingshot or something), I'd be damned if I let him widen the gap again in the 3 mile upwind grind confronting us! After a few minutes of introspection, I decided that "damned" might be too severe a word. I amended my oath to use "blasted". A little while later, I decided that "despondent" would be more appropriate. Now that it was more of a statement of fact than a vow, I threw myself whole-heartedly down that slippery slope, passing through "miserable", "disappointed", and "saddened" before finally landing on "curiously indifferent". Paddling upwind will do that to you. Unless "you" is Jan, unfortunately.
When we finally turned around the next marker to put the wind abeam, Jan had doubled his lead. Pam and Eric, with their considerable advantage in power-to-surface-area ratio, had once again moved well ahead of us. I shook the upwind-induced apathy from my haunches (that's where it pools) and, staring fixedly ahead, focused on clean and powerful strokes. Then I did my best crude imitation of them, managing to seize back some of the hard-lost ground between us. We soon neared the South Ferry crossing.
Because reveling in the misfortune of one's competitors is generally considered bad form, I tried to tamp down the growing sense of elation I felt upon realizing that Jan would soon be crushed by an oncoming ferry. If I spent only a brief amount of time fruitlessly searching for survivors - just enough to be polite - I figured I still had a pretty good shot at banking the third place check. Jan must have known he was on a collision course with the ferry, but I suppose he figured the captain would cede way to avoid all the tedious paperwork. His mistake. Cousin Jeremy owed me one from our days together in the Merchant Marines.
Unfortunately, the Coast Guard spoiled everything by swooping in from behind to stop us with a staccato siren. I left off paddling at the same time as Jan - not out of a misguided show of sportsmanship, but so that he wouldn't see me weeping in frustration over opportunity lost. In the minute or so until the Coast Guard waved us forward, I composed myself and prepared for one final attack against my seemingly tireless nemesis.
Coming around Wards Point with Jan three lengths ahead, I could finally see the terminus of our long voyage about a half-mile further on. It was time for drastic measures. After breaking the glass labeled "Emergency Use Only", I flipped the switch to initiate my self-destruct sequence. I had 3 minutes of all-out paddling before complete immolation. An initial surge of power cut the distance between us in half, but then the klaxons alerted Jan to my intentions. Unbeknownst to me, he had recently upgraded his drive system, allowing him to easily match my speed. There was nothing I could do to close the gap separating us. My faux-robot voice counting down "Four... Three... Two...", I keyed in the abort code just in time to avoid an embarrassing scene on Wades Beach. At 2:41:11, I had finished 5 seconds behind Jan.
Austin had finished nearly 15 minutes ahead of us at 2:26:31, with Jesse taking second at 2:34:31. Pam and Eric grabbed the third overall spot at 2:39:33. The rest of the top 10 at the Great Peconic: Jim, Tim, Steve DelGaudio and Mark Ceconi (in a double), Bob, and Mary Beth. Special honors go to Sinclair Ims, a newcomer to paddling (summer of 2015 new, to be specific) who, while gutting it out around the island in challenging conditions, also perfected the innovative training concept of remount intervals. I suspect that next year we'll see more of Sinclair (than his bobbing head). We all evolved from aquatic origins.
In the (hopefully temporary) absence of the Lighthouse-to-Lighthouse, the Great Peconic is peerless in the after-party department. With excellent food and beer, demo boats, a great collection of raffled items, and some valuable prizes (in addition to the cash awards), almost nobody minded waiting around for the last SUP to finish. Thanks to all the volunteers and safety boats for a splendid day on the hapless armadillo.
This coming weekend the Cape Cod Downwind will settle the scores in the SurfskiRacing.com point series. Unless I can figure out a way to beat Jan there, the crown will once again be heading across the Hudson.
If you think of Long Island as an eastward-facing alligator with Brooklyn at its tail and Montauk its lower jaw (there's a Staten Island joke here, but I'm just a shade too classy to make it), Shelter Island is the unfortunate armadillo in its toothy maw. The only access to this well-protected island is via reciprocal ferries at the north and south ends. Although this isolation usually keeps the riffraff at bay, the residents of Shelter Island (technically known as "Shelterians", but more colloquially just called "Lawyers, Doctors, and Hedge Fund Managers") would be invaded this weekend by well over a hundred paddlers.
 |
| Bob, perhaps not fully understanding how ferries work, wouldn't lay off the horn. |
Since registration started at 7 and we still had three-quarters of a gator and an entire ferry between us and Shelter Island, we convoyed out from Casa Capellini well before sunrise (warily watching the darkened skies). Arriving at the upscale-quaint town of Greenport, we took the North Ferry across to the island and made our way to the start at Wades Beach. A sizable fleet was already laid out on the sand. The race is open to any human-powered craft, with a healthy mix of kayaks, skis, outriggers, and rowing vessels. However, more than half the participants were on SUPs (including some top-caliber talent drawn by the generous paddleboard prize money), leading to several cases of severe body dysmorphia among other paddlers.
 |
| Before the race, some guy started yelling through a megaphone. He had some interesting thoughts on the End Days, so we stuck around to hear his message of torment and despair. |
The field was stacked at the top. Returning as defending champion, Austin Kieffer is hands-down the best American surfski paddler. Given that there were no entrants from the southern hemisphere, the eventual winner of the race wasn't in much doubt. Similarly, Jesse seemed a lock for second unless he snapped both his paddle and a rudder line. Pam Boteler and Eric were in an Epic V10 Double, despite limited experience paddling together. I'd never catch them in the flat, but with the forecast showing a lively breeze from the northeast, I thought perhaps they might be chopped down to a beatable size. Of course, Jan was my real focus. After besting me in five consecutive races earlier in the season, I had gotten the better of him in the last three (with assists from his mutinous kidney, conceded). I sensed this wasn't sitting well with Jan.
The skis and outriggers lined up for an uncharacteristically orderly start and we were soon sent off. Austin and Jesse were out of sight before I finished my third stroke, which made it easier to concentrate on my real competition - paddlers whose DNA hadn't been scrubbed of imperfect genes in top-secret government experiments. Jan quickly established himself as the Normal to beat, with Jim Hoffman (who may well have been accidentally subjected to gamma rays as a youth, but technically still qualifies as genetic-typical) also jumping out to a good start.
 |
| Judging by the skies, that guy may just be on to something. |
Emerging from the lee of the island we were enthusiastically greeted by the headwinds. They meant no harm with their playful rough-housing, but weighing in at a hefty 12 to 15 mph, they weren't aware of their own strength. Luckily, they lavished most of their exuberant affection on the unsuspecting SUP contingent. By keeping a low profile (dressing conservatively and not making any sudden movements), I was able to avoid the worst of the blow-back. Despite my efforts, however, over the next few miles Jan managed to extend his lead to a dozen lengths. As I learned in the Sakonnet River Race, he slices through upwind slogs like a dull knife through my heart. Pam and Eric also powered well through this stretch, opening a significant gap on Jan.
We had been notified that the Coast Guard would be shepherding race traffic through the ferry zones, stopping paddlers when necessary to ensure the safety of all. As we approached the North Ferry, I sprinted to make contact with Roger Gocking and the tandem of Gary Williams and Robin Francis (all of whom started 10 minutes before us in the kayak class), figuring that our crossing guard would be disinclined to split up a line of competitors. There were no ferries in the vicinity at the time, so my strategy was pretty effective. Also effective (according to an anonymous source in the lead double ski) - arguing forcefully with the officiating Guardsman. I imagine a McEnroe-like tirade: "You've got to be kidding me! Are you blind? That ferry isn't even close to running us down!"
Clearing Hay Beach Point at the northernmost corner of the island, we faced 3.5 miles of wind quartering off our sterns. You could get some respectable rides, but only if you were willing to sacrifice the rhumb line and instead snake your way to the next point. I decided to maintain a direct course, although my under-ruddered boat would occasionally get forcefully swung downwind by a particularly aggressive wave. Jan and the double took an inside line, perhaps because they were more actively pursuing runners.
When we converged again, I found myself only a half-dozen lengths behind Jan, who himself had nearly caught Pam-n-Eric. Once we rounded Ram Island (which remains stubbornly attached to Shelter Island, despite its name), we were in true downwind conditions. With 12 miles worth of fatigue under my belt, I was too saddle-weary to catch every available ride, but I was able to link together enough runs to keep close. Up ahead, an elegant duel was unfolding as Jan and the double danced for supremacy. My own elaborate feints and parries would have been a lot more effective had they not all been made several lengths behind the others.
Having fought back to within striking distance of Jan (you know, with like a slingshot or something), I'd be damned if I let him widen the gap again in the 3 mile upwind grind confronting us! After a few minutes of introspection, I decided that "damned" might be too severe a word. I amended my oath to use "blasted". A little while later, I decided that "despondent" would be more appropriate. Now that it was more of a statement of fact than a vow, I threw myself whole-heartedly down that slippery slope, passing through "miserable", "disappointed", and "saddened" before finally landing on "curiously indifferent". Paddling upwind will do that to you. Unless "you" is Jan, unfortunately.
When we finally turned around the next marker to put the wind abeam, Jan had doubled his lead. Pam and Eric, with their considerable advantage in power-to-surface-area ratio, had once again moved well ahead of us. I shook the upwind-induced apathy from my haunches (that's where it pools) and, staring fixedly ahead, focused on clean and powerful strokes. Then I did my best crude imitation of them, managing to seize back some of the hard-lost ground between us. We soon neared the South Ferry crossing.
Because reveling in the misfortune of one's competitors is generally considered bad form, I tried to tamp down the growing sense of elation I felt upon realizing that Jan would soon be crushed by an oncoming ferry. If I spent only a brief amount of time fruitlessly searching for survivors - just enough to be polite - I figured I still had a pretty good shot at banking the third place check. Jan must have known he was on a collision course with the ferry, but I suppose he figured the captain would cede way to avoid all the tedious paperwork. His mistake. Cousin Jeremy owed me one from our days together in the Merchant Marines.
Unfortunately, the Coast Guard spoiled everything by swooping in from behind to stop us with a staccato siren. I left off paddling at the same time as Jan - not out of a misguided show of sportsmanship, but so that he wouldn't see me weeping in frustration over opportunity lost. In the minute or so until the Coast Guard waved us forward, I composed myself and prepared for one final attack against my seemingly tireless nemesis.
 |
| Mary Beth finished so strong that we had to physically restrain her from taking another lap. |
Austin had finished nearly 15 minutes ahead of us at 2:26:31, with Jesse taking second at 2:34:31. Pam and Eric grabbed the third overall spot at 2:39:33. The rest of the top 10 at the Great Peconic: Jim, Tim, Steve DelGaudio and Mark Ceconi (in a double), Bob, and Mary Beth. Special honors go to Sinclair Ims, a newcomer to paddling (summer of 2015 new, to be specific) who, while gutting it out around the island in challenging conditions, also perfected the innovative training concept of remount intervals. I suspect that next year we'll see more of Sinclair (than his bobbing head). We all evolved from aquatic origins.
 |
| First, second, and Bob. |
In the (hopefully temporary) absence of the Lighthouse-to-Lighthouse, the Great Peconic is peerless in the after-party department. With excellent food and beer, demo boats, a great collection of raffled items, and some valuable prizes (in addition to the cash awards), almost nobody minded waiting around for the last SUP to finish. Thanks to all the volunteers and safety boats for a splendid day on the hapless armadillo.
This coming weekend the Cape Cod Downwind will settle the scores in the SurfskiRacing.com point series. Unless I can figure out a way to beat Jan there, the crown will once again be heading across the Hudson.
