A small but cantankerous group gathered last weekend at Long Sands beach in York for the final race of the New England Surfski point series. Newly renamed the Glicker Downwinder in honor of Joe Glickman, this race would finally settle the question on every young surfski enthusiast's mind: Lesher or Lupinski? Partisans from both sides confusingly adopted the L-on-the-forehead hand signal to show their support as they casually walked their dogs on the beach. Although there were a range of scenarios that might play out (one of which involved Jan and I starring in a short-lived sitcom on ABC Family), the long and the short of it was: win the race, win the series. Jan had already taken the SurfskiRacing.com title by thrashing me two weeks earlier at the Cape Cod downwind. This was my chance to even the score.
They asked me to pin my "6" upside down so it would be read correctly as I approached the finish.
Not only had coordinator Eric McNett balked at Chris Sherwood's exorbitant demands for enchanting up favorable winds, he had insulted the necromancer (or "slug-eating charlatan", to use Eric's terminology) to the point that we were cursed with a counter-productive offshore breeze. Not one to be vexed by having his best-laid plans thwarted (this is a man, after all, who has spent most of his adult life shirtless), Eric gamely devised an alternative triangular course. From Long Sands beach we'd round Nubble Island (reluctant host to the picturesque Cape Neddick Lighthouse), then head south to turn at the buoy off the mouth of York Harbor, finally heading back home for a beach finish - 6.75 miles total.
We'd have a chase boat this year, as Eric decided to monitor the course from his small Whaler (with Sarah Waterman as support crew and photographer). After reviewing the course with the competitors, Eric left to take his boat to the nearest launch. Which was apparently somewhere in Delaware. As the hours stretched to days with no sign of our captain, there were mutinous whispers of starting the race without him. Surely his penchant for hugging the coastline too closely had finally spelled his doom, I argued. We had just about given him up for lost when our chief finally hove into view and called us out to the starting line. I knew all along the old salt wouldn't let us down!
Eric designed awesome new medals for the renamed race. (Photo courtesy of Sarah Waterman)
In short order, we were set off towards the Nubble. Jan surged to the early lead, followed closely by Eric Costanzo. For reasons that escape me (or more likely, never existed), I had lined up well off to the right of the other racers. Unable to bar hop my way to the front (from draft to draft), I was forced to toil in obscurity for the first half mile, angling slowly towards the pack. When I rejoined, I found myself just behind Eric, a couple of lengths behind Jan. I soon managed to pull ahead of Eric, leaving only Jan between me and the prize.
As I struggled to close the gap, I noticed in my periphery that Jan was threatening to pass me. I bore down to successfully fight off the challenge. But hold on a second... something's not quite right here. Before I could nail down the source of my unease, Jan counter-attacked from behind and I again had to concentrate on beating him back. Well, if nothing else this spirited sparring will make it easier to catch... uh... Jan. Slowly, the implication of this nightmarish paradox sunk in. I was surrounded by Jans!
My mind reeling with the implications, I ticked through the possibilities. Practical joke with hidden camera? Sounds like something Kirk Olsen might try, but it'd be darn tough to find a second Jan. Clones? Unlikely given the current state of somatic cell nuclear transfer capabilities. No, the only rational explanation was that we were dealing with a type of quantum uncertainty - both possible outcomes (Jan-beats-me versus I-beat-Jan) were superimposed in the same reality. While feverishly trying to devise a method to collapse this uncertainty in my favor (if only I could tweak the tau-zero factor...), I chanced to get a better look at I-beat-Jan Jan.
I'd be remiss if I didn't include at least one picture with a lighthouse in it. And also in breach of the binding contract entered into by all visitors to Maine (read the fine print on the "Welcome" signs).
Who was actually not Jan, but newcomer Mariano Scandizzo. Same Think yellow-on-white color scheme though. Oops. A classic case of mistaken identify leading to a detour through the most abstruse areas of quantum physics. Could have happened to anyone. I wasn't sure that I wanted to live in a Jan-beats-me world, but it looked like I had no choice.
Paddling between the Nubble and shore is the creepiest experience in the New England racing répertoire, and I'm including Tim Dwyer's insistence that out-of-towners "Come spend the night in our basement" every time there's a race in Jamestown. Tourists come to Nubble Point to view the lighthouse, where they stand shoulder-to-shoulder in solemn contemplation. They marked our mournful passage by bowing their heads in gray
remembrance of another season past. The paths of glory lead but to the
grave. Much like the stairs to Tim's dungeon, I'm guessing.
Rounding the Nubble, Alpha Jan appeared to lose his focus. I quickly caught and passed him as he wandered aimlessly. Doubtless he was shaken by the close call he recently had with non-existence. Mariano continued to pester me as we headed towards the distant buoy, eventually over-taking me. Who was this stranger? We traded the lead a couple of times over the next mile, until I caught a nice run and finally got enough ahead of him to purge him completely from my view. I naturally assumed that he was beaten, and thus banished him from my thoughts.
He didn't take that too well. With a half-mile to go before the turn, both Mariano and Jan made a mockery of that old phrase "out of mind, out of sight" (wait, is that right?) by making themselves quite visible while passing me. Seeing these two side-by-side reminded me that I should apologize to Mariano after the race for confusing them. (He swings. He really got a piece of that one... Yes! It's a Jan Slam!)
Despite my best efforts (which were largely indistinguishable from whatever effort I had been using all along), I was unable to catch the duo prior to the turn. Mariano rounded the buoy a couple lengths ahead of Jan, who was in turn two or three lengths in front of me. Two and a quarter miles of a mild headwind with quartering chop separated us from the finish.
Within a few moments, the undisputed upwind master had taken the lead from Mariano, who fell in on the draft. It took me the better part of a mile to catch up, but I eventually settled in at the end of the train. Something about Maine must be conducive to close
finishes. At the Casco Bay Challenge, the top three paddlers finished
within 4 seconds of each other. It looked like this race might similarly end in a sprint for the finish.
After catching my breath on the wash for a moment, I decided to push the pace. I pulled out to the left and made my move. Although I managed to get abreast of Mariano, Jan wasn't buying into the legitimacy of this so-called "attack". He increased his pace. We continued in this formation for the next mile, with Eric and Sarah cheering us on from the chase boat. It's surprising how much motivation you can get from someone yelling "Way to go, Greg!", even if that same person immediately follows up with "You got 'em, Jan!" Although I'd occasionally fall off the pace by half a boat length, I was always able to claw back even with Mariano (during the "Greg" cheering phase, of course).
Mariano was ever-so-slightly out of sync here, but we worked out the kinks prior to the judging stage. (Photo courtesy of Sarah Waterman)
The straight-line path from the turn buoy brought us in at a shallow angle to Long Sands Beach. Although it was difficult to identify the actual finish line on the extended beach, I was becoming increasingly concerned that we would run out of water before we got there. I was on the shore side of the other boats, so unless I wanted to drop back and cross behind Mariano I'd have to defer to Jan's navigation. We soon found ourselves paddling nearly parallel to the shore in search of the finish.
It feels a little ridiculous talking about the surf zone when the waves topped out at 18 inches, but we found ourselves encroaching in this deadly territory. We were perhaps a 100 feet off the beach when a warning shot was fired across our bows. Steepened by the shallow water, a wave passed under us and started breaking just a few feet shoreward. My balance compromised, I took a couple of half-brace strokes before recovering fully, allowing Jan to open up a boat length's lead. I also got pushed in a little closer to shore than the others.
Fifteen seconds later I looked to my right to see a breaking wave. For a brief moment, I thought I was going to find Mariano's boat in my lap, but he apparently knows how to handle modest surf. I manifestly do not. I followed my brace head-first into the foam. After reorienting my teakettle and removing the sand from critical orifices, I realized I was in knee-deep water.
Sigh. This kind of thing just keeps happening to me. (Photo courtesy of the unblinking witness to my misadventures)
The way I saw it, I had two choices. I could jump back on my boat, paddle 15 more seconds in the surf zone before getting flipped again, then say "screw it" and run up the beach to the finish. Or I could just say "screw it" right off the bat. Even though tumbling out of the boat is kind of my signature move, I chose the latter option given the stakes. As I hit the shore in full stride, I heard Jan ask plaintively from his boat "Are we running?" I still don't know if he meant "Is the finish line on shore?" or "Are we running already?" But by the time he asked, there was nothing he could do to catch either me or Mariano.
A lot of people (mostly via their accusing eyes) have asked me, "Greg, how do you feel about your weasel win?" It's true that if the finish had been on the water, there's a 95% chance that Jan would have won (108% if you trust Jan rather than me). If we had come into shore at a preset position with 100 meter run up the beach, I'd decrease Jan's chances to 70% given my Salem League experience at dry finishes (and don't forget Mariano in the mix). In the dynamic confusion of the actual race, however, Jan drew the short straw. So to answer the original question... it's not the manner I would have chosen to win (which would be slowly walking backwards up the beach, while giving the L-on-the-forehead hand signal to a still-paddling Jan), but we play the hand we are dealt. And also... mildly sheepish.
I can't help but notice that nobody was hoisting the men's champion. (Photo courtesy of Sarah Waterman)
Eric Costanzo and Joe Shaw rounded out the top five, followed by Tim, Bruce Deltorchio, Kirk, Jay Appleton (first SS20+), and Bob Capellini (second SS20+). Mary Beth finished off a spectacular season with another solo win (I saw her strutting around the beach afterwards, roaring "That's right, ladies! Don't even think about coming into my ocean and challenging me!"), easily taking the women's point series trophy (to match her SurfskiRacing.com crown). In the men's point series, Jan finished second and Eric (Costanzo) third. Congratulations also to Tim Dwyer and Joe Shaw, co-champions in the newly established 50+ division (with Bruce finishing closely behind them). To finish off the day's festivities, Bruce added another boat to his unparalleled stable of V12s by winning the Epic drawing for the second time in three years. Thanks to Eric (and Cindy) for hosting the race and for organizing another successful New England Surfski season.
If we happen to go at the same time (I'm betting on "buffalo stampede", but wouldn't rule out "bowling accident"), please enlarge this photo to poster size for display at the wake.
Say what you may about Chris Sherwood, you have to credit his Prospero-like powers to bend tempests to his will. After an impressive inaugural effort in 2014, this year's rollicking Cape Cod Downwind cements him as New England's preeminent Weathermage. With an unseasonable northeast wind (a bit of showing off there) cracking at 15 to 20 mph, the 10 mile Buzzards Bay course from Megansatt Harbor to Stony Beach was the best regional downwind race in years.
After a grueling season in the SurfskiRacing.com point series, we had arrived at its winner-take-all conclusion. While Jan Lupinski had dominated in the early races, I had rallied to pull ahead in the point total. A win on the Cape, however, would be enough for Jan to wrest the crown from my head (I wasn't being presumptuous - just didn't want it to get lost). Several paddlers offered to help, uh, nudge the outcome of the day's race to my benefit. It was satisfying to know that my fellow racers were pulling for me - at least until I figured out they were looking for a little something to compensate them for their troubles.This is a respectable sport, gentlemen! Remember that the next time you're tempted to renege on a contract.
For some of the hipper paddlers, the "chill session" was a welcome addition to the Cape Cod Downwind. (Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
Although I attended Sean Rice's clinic in Jamestown this summer, he neglected to cover a critical topic - perhaps because it's a skill so ingrained into South African surfski culture that he couldn't imagine anyone would actually require instruction to master it. I'm referring, of course, to dry land boat maneuvering. I've seen countless videos of paddlers tackling Miller's Run in 35 knot winds, but I've yet to see a clip showing the more impressive feat of muscling the boat from the car to the water in those gales.
While most of us can handle wind once we're afloat, the beach portion of the Cape Cod Downwind was a slapstick comedy of skis swinging into signposts, cars, people, and other boats. I'm proud to say we didn't lose a single soul navigating the perils of Megansett Beach that day, although I heard the commissioner will be making helmets mandatory next season. Safely on the water, we wandered aimlessly in search of the starting line until Patty (race timer, chase boat liaison, after-party co-host, good sport extraordinaire) counted us down to the kick-off.
Despite protests, Chris was insistent that taking an overland route would result in immediate disqualification.
Attempting to cram a 10 mile race into its first half-mile, Jan, Eric Constanzo, Matt Drayer, Mike Dostal, Ben Pigott, and Andrius Zinkevichus launched off the line with breath-taking fervor. After weaving through the moored boats behind the breakwater, they led the field of 23 boats out of the inner harbor. I thought I had started strong, but I still had to claw past Jim Hoffman, Wesley, Tim Dwyer, and Joe Shaw before I could throw myself into pursuit of the Sprinting Six. Hasty Hexad? Slippery Sextet? Whatever you called those half-dozen hellions, you had to both respect their audacity in going out so fast and hope that they'd suffer dearly for it.
Jan's traditional pre-race interpretive dance fails to draw much of a crowd these days. (Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
We had a mile and a half of fetchless downwind before we cleared into the open water of Buzzards Bay. My game-plan was to take the lead before we hit bigger conditions, then nobly hold on as Eric and Jan tried to shamelessly exploit the power of the waves and wind to overtake me. It might have worked, too, had I only been a much better paddler.
By the time we reached the true downwind portion of the course, I was in third place behind Mike and Jan. Off my plan a bit, sure, but perhaps I could bend a little. Given that there was no clear landmark to identify the finish and considerable pre-race debate about the optimal wind-wave-current trade-off, it was no surprise the the field was already starting to fan out. The two leaders headed offshore. Vowing to maintain contact with Jan at all costs, I followed their outside line from a half-dozen boat lengths back.
As Mike and Jan veered further away from shore over the next mile, however, I gradually started to shake free of that restrictive resolution. Surely we were sacrificing too much straight-line distance by chasing the wind and waves into the bay. The veering continued. Eventually, I lost my nerve and broke off pursuit to follow a more moderate line.
I was wondering what that sound was. (Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
I could periodically make out Eric's black boat well inside of me. I
also caught fleeting glimpses of another distant paddler on a similar
line that was unmistakably Jim (mustache gave him away). Given that every time I turned to look for them I would come heart-stoppingly close
to swimming, I decided to concentrate on my own boat. And Jan's, of course. Although Mike had been in front the last time I checked the outsiders, Jan now seemed to have promoted himself to squadron leader. According to the man himself, at about this point he entered into that rarefied zone where every decision you make is the right one, every stroke perfectly executed. I'm not personally familiar with this zone, although I've spent a fair amount of time exploring its antipode. When I checked back again a few moments later, Jan had opened up a significant gap. Five minutes further on, I could no longer even locate him.
I'd like to return, for a moment, to an important topic
raised in a previous post. I'm referring, of course, to the dream I had
of flying squirrels the eve of the Peconic Bay Race. I need to clarify
a point that's caused a lot of confusion. While there are
"flying squirrels" with membranes between their legs that allow them to
glide (you know, like Glaucomys sabrinus), these lovable critters aren't the rodents that now infest my nightmares. No, I'm talking about eastern gray squirrels (Sciurus carolinensis)
who, though lacking any visible means of flight, are still able to dart through the sky. Let that sink in. Until further notice, I'm off
sleep.
Picking back up where we left off... You may remember that I was coasting in to the finish with a commanding lead. If so, you probably got smacked in the melon with a wind-blown surfski back on the beach. You should probably avoid falling asleep too. In reality, even though I was having a blast in the thrilling downwind conditions, I was still losing ground to the leaders. Although I was able to link together two or three nice runs at a time, I couldn't quite keep the chain growing. All too often, I found myself fighting the waves rather than working together with them for the common good (i.e., Jan's downfall).
Up ahead, Mike Dostal was making fools of us who speculated that "once that guy gets some
rough water experience, he's going to be a real threat!" Or maybe we had just grossly overestimated exactly how much experience he needed - perhaps the first ten minutes in Buzzards Bay were enough. In
any event, as our lines merged a few miles before the finish he was
leading by a good dozen boat lengths. For a while I clung to the hope that I could close the distance, but the cumulative evidence of Mike's increasing lead overwhelmed my misguided optimism.
This is why surfskis are so awesome. Even if you're just flailing out there, 1 out of every 10,000 strokes or so you'll end up looking vaguely cool.
So Jan and Mike would definitely finish ahead of me. Miles earlier I had seen both Eric and Jim on an inside line slightly behind me, but hadn't seen them since. I had no choice but to assume the best - that they had foundered on the rocks that Chris had warned us about off the entrance to West Falmouth Harbor. So it'd have to be third place. Just as I came to grips with this, through some kind of sixth sense (in the northern hemisphere it goes: smell, hearing, heebie jeebies, taste, touch, sight), I discovered that Tim had hunted me down and was moving in to drain me of any lingering hopes I had of a podium finish. The joke was on him, of course - we were actually battling for fourth place. Sucker.
Let's have a brief photographic interlude, brought to you with limited caption interruption...
(Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
(Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
(Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
(Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
From our thrilling Dwyer's Run earlier this season (Point Judith to
Jamestown, express), it was clear that Tim had the superior downwind
skills. I'd gotten all-too-familiar with his receding stern that day,
and here he was, about to rub my face in it again. I had no choice but
to paddle more aggressively. I had literally been on the edge for the
past half-hour as I struggled to make the most out of each runner, but
this move increased the likelihood of an irrecoverable mistake from
"inevitable" to "imminent".
Tim and I see-sawed for several minutes, all the while exchanging baseless theories about the location of the finish. He hypothesized that it might be the low-lying shoreline somewhat to our left, while I speculated that perhaps Chris had designed the course as a metaphysical lesson - we could only finish once we'd embraced the ambiguity of life. Or hit Martha's Vineyard. Tim was ultimately proven right, but I think we missed a real opportunity for personal growth and/or cocktails with a Kennedy.
Eventually, I hooked into a couple of good runs and put a little daylight between us. Although it had looked like Tim and I might be gaining slightly on Mike, he was now nowhere to be seen. After the race, I found out that he had capsized, remounted, recapsized, and then become so inextricably tangled in his leash that, had he had a knife, he would have used it to put himself out of his misery. He had run 85% of the race splendidly, but this extended struggle would cost him 8 places in the finishing order.
I'm filing this one under "learning experience", although there's precious little rationale for that.
I needed to stay ahead of Tim at all costs. Lacking the skills to maneuver gracefully through the undulating sea, I continued to throw myself recklessly down every wave within paddle's reach. This was a thrill ride, and what's a thrill ride without a corkscrew inversion? I was just hoping to avoid the loop-the-loop (and the at-least-we-found-his-watch). I managed to fend off destiny for a while with some well-placed braces and foxhole prayers, but fate is, by definition, unavoidable. I over-corrected on a run and suddenly found myself watching Tim pass by from my new underwater home.
I can't wait for the day when Tim and I start mis-remembering this as the time we dueled for the Cape Cod win. What a battle for the gold! (Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
With a mile left to the finish, perhaps I still had time to recover from my near-fatal enthusiasm. I clambered back into the bucket and set off after Tim, working hard but keeping the thrills to a manageable level (halfway between "titillating" and "hair-raising"). My more measured approach paid off. With a quarter mile left, I was again even with Tim. As we approached the finish, a crazed kite-boarder buzzed by us, threatening to disembowel us if we didn't clear off his line. At least, that was my in-the-moment interpretation of what turned out to be his enthusiastic cheering. This was Peter Traykovski, a multi-talented friend of Chris (you should hear him on the pan flute) who had taken some spectacular drone footage at the start of the race.
I've never been involved in a finish as close at that with Tim in the steepening waves near the shore. I'd catch a run to momentarily seize the lead, only to have it yanked out from under me as I wallowed back over the crest and he rode by on the subsequent wave. The flip of a wave decided the winner, and I ended up ahead. There may have been some minor technical infractions committed as I struggled to control my boat in close quarters in the final dash, but Tim graciously declined to file a protest. His wounds were mostly superficial.
Jan had taken first, with Eric and Jim (apparently having survived being dashed on the rocks) respectfully close on his heels. Tim and I were a full three minutes behind Jim, but everyone gamely pretended we were close. The top ten was rounded out by Matt, Bruce Deltorchio, Joe Shaw, Wesley, and Ben. Leslie Chappell scored her first series win ever, with Mary Beth taking second (and swearing that never again would she lose to that blankety-blank).
Mary Beth requests that I clarify that this was a wholly fabricated "joke". She also insisted on the quote marks.
After the race we retired to Chris and Patty's house for lunch, beers, and awards. In addition to winning the race, Jan was crowned the newest SurfskiRacing.com series champion. He's had a spectacular year in the series, capped with a convincing Downwind victory. For the fourth consecutive year, I was relegated to second place (or as I like to think of it - first place, native-born division). Eric finished a strong season by taking third. Mary Beth is the new women series champion, which I'm sure won't come up at all this winter at home.
The new SurfskiRacing.com series king with his court jesters. (Photo courtesy of Peter Traykovski)
Thanks to Chris, Patty, and eagle-eyed Rita for hosting the race, Rich Carl and Lu Ann Burgess for manning the chase boat, and Wesley for piloting another SurfskiRacing.com series safely into harbor. Speaking of which... Eric's New England Surfski series finishes up next weekend in Maine with the recently renamed Glicker Downwinder. It's another winner-take-all battle with Jan, so let me know what it'll take to secure your (ahem) loyalty.
