I distinctly remember waxing my boat in preparation for the Essex River Race - the first race in the New England Surfski point series back in May. After that, it's pretty much a blur. Based on the fact that I was now watching Eric McNett load his trailer in preparation to shuttle skis to the start of the Glicker Downwinder, however, I had to conclude that we had somehow come to the end of another season. Glancing quickly at my reflection in a car window, this fear was confirmed. In fact, it seemed that perhaps a half-dozen or more seasons had elapsed.
For the first time in 4 years, the race would be starting in its ancestral home in Kittery. We'd be heading north-ish from the mouth of the Piscataqua River to Long Sands Beach, 9 miles and one surf landing away. Our cozy crew of 9 skis was comprised of me, Mary Beth, Jan Lupinski, Eric Costanzo, Hugh Pritchard, Tim Dwyer, Kirk Olsen, Tim Hudyncia, and Jay Appleton. Rod McClain (OC-1) and Ryan Lundbohm (SUP) also joined us. A 10 mph wind from the south would be pushing us in the right general direction.
Tim makes some last minute adjustments to the attachment points for his nipple leash.
By returning to Kittery, the Glicker Downwinder reclaimed the dubious honor of having its launch further from the start than any other race in the region. From Pepperrell Cove to the starting line at the observation pier on Gerrolish Island is a solid half-day paddle. The pier is tall enough that it remains a visible landmark over the curvature of the earth, so at least we knew where we were heading. I just wish I had packed a second sandwich and brought some reading material.
Once the pack arrived at the starting line and woke a grumpy Eric from his lengthy pier-nap, we positioned ourselves for a start in the choppy waters at the mouth of the Piscataqua. The wind and waves were threatening to push the field into the pilings, but that didn't dissuade a certain paddler from taking a leisurely last-minute loop-around while offering disingenuous apologies to those struggling to remain unsplintered. Just realized that makes it sound like I was the paddler, and that I'm poking self-deprecating fun at myself. Nope. I'm poking malicious accusations at Dr. Costanzo, who apparently forgot to take his Hippocratic oath that morning.
It took us about twenty minutes to get Eric's attention.
Of course, I'm joking. At least, that's what I need Eric to think. You never know when, God forbid, I might end up in New Jersey with a pulmonary embolism (God also forbid).
A few seconds after Eric completed his utterly necessary maneuver, the other Eric (as he's started asking to be called) sent us on our downwind run. Heartened by the fact that with a field of only 9 skis there was a pretty hard limit on how far back I could fall with a bad start, I allowed myself the luxury of remaining calm as I slipped cleanly into the bottom performance quartile. While everyone else went to the left of the free-standing remains of an old pier support, I chose to test the waters on the far side. This parting of ways allowed me to gain some ground before rejoining the pack a few moments later. I pulled alongside Hugh, while Jan and Eric shared the lead just ahead.
Old school drone photography - just set your camera's timer and hurl that sucker as high as you can. (Photo courtesy of Eric McNett)
Until we got around the next couple of points, the wind and waves wouldn't be working in our favor. For the time being, we were sloshing around in beamy conditions. Any hopes that the more unstable boats of the other three paddlers would give me a marked advantage in this section were quickly dashed. Although I slowly eased past Hugh - not helped in the least by the vestigial, postage stamp of a rudder on his SES - Jan and Eric remained stubbornly stable, maintaining their pace in the slop.
Eventually I got clear of Eric as well, but Jan continued a boat length or two ahead for the next mile in his blue Nelo. When I finally passed him, I almost immediately wished he was back in the lead. The rocky Maine coast refuses to be pigeon-holed by the traditional definition
of "the land next to the sea". It has a nasty habit of reappearing well away from the land, making the "coast" more of a continuum than a concrete boundary. We had already skirted a few hull-threatening reefs, but at Sewards Point the demarcation between land and sea was particularly ambiguous. I would have preferred to have Jan be my shoal canary, but I was forced to risk my own feathers picking my way through the rocks. After the race he mocked the tentativeness I had shown in Hullgasher Passage, an over-compensating taunt I took as a clear sign that he had deliberately ceded the lead to mask his own faintheartedness. He was too yellow to be the canary.
All I can say is that I'm not proud of all of my tactics.
Once past Sewards Point, we'd head northeast along the so-called coast for the next 4.5 miles to East Point. With the ocean swell coming from the southeast and the wind from the south, you had to keep bearing right to avoid a premature landing. While you could take the occasional nip from the bigger waves rolling in from the ocean, lingering too long on such a ride would lead you on a drunken course with zigzag corrections. I spent about half the time on this stretch attempting to steal some angular momentum from these quartering beauties and the other half trying to resist their salty allure. In my best moments, I sussed out those intermittent waves traveling in the right direction and locked onto those, ignoring most other temptations. I spent most of my time, however, worrying about how much better the guys behind me were handling these conditions. I expected to see superior downwind paddlers like Eric or Tim Dwyer fly by me at any moment, but hurried peripheral glances behind only revealed the same blue splotch about a dozen lengths back. Jan - you should probably get that checked out.
After East Point, our course to the finish on Long Sands Beach was more northerly. Although you still couldn't jump on every wave with reckless abandon, that was my initial strategy. Once I had ascertained that sticking with this approach would leave me beached a mile short of the finish, I tempered my enthusiasm. Although it felt like I was still catching quite a few good rides, subsequent video analysis depicts runner after runner speeding under me with impunity. Despite my lackluster downwind performance, however, Jan was unable to catch me. How was this possible?
Over the last four seasons, Jan has been my most consistent rival.
We've finished next to each other in the standings of 13 races over this
span, and within two positions in another half-dozen. It's no
exaggeration to say that when I drag myself out of bed at 4:30 to train
before work, the thought of beating Lupinski is what's driving me.
Well, actually I seldom paddle in the morning and would never get up
that early. But if I did, I'd blame Jan. My secret weapon in our
rivalry, however, is that Jan is a modern day Job. That is, if instead
of just being an innocent pawn in a sadistic bar bet between God and
Satan, Job also tried to get in on the action by adding his own
self-induced trials. And if he drank and swore a lot more than a
god-fearing Uzite ought. Whether it's a leaky boat, kidney stones,
debilitating weeds, running the wrong course, a sticky rudder, shoulder issues,
forgetting his clothes, crotch boils (just speculating based on how I
saw him walking at one race)... Jan is Fortune's fool. Or perhaps
Destiny's doofus. In any event, his fate is beyond his control. At
East Point the waves lined up for Jan, but once again, the stars
didn't. The rudder line on his month-old boat parted, effectively
ending his race.
The Glicker Downwinder is one of the
few New England races to finish on the beach, and the only one with a
strong possibility of finishing in crashing waves. In fact, the net
total of my lifetime surf landing experience has taken place at this
race, and that experience has been less than entirely positive. I'm
still finding grit in various nooks and crannies after last year's
surf-driven sand-blasting, and that was probably the most successful of
my finishes. Given the size of the waves I'd been haphazardly riding
for the last mile, I sensed there'd be another mouthful of sand in my near future.
Having exhausted my primary and secondary stability, I tertiaried my pants.
Before I could
even get into the surf zone, however, I broached on a steep wave. This
might not have been a problem by itself, but I now found myself wallowed
behind a surf SUP waiting for his next ride. While clumsily attempting
to maneuver around him, I was surprised by a cresting wave and went
over without a fight. Tim Dwyer insists that we should makes a point of
demonstrating the superiority of surfskis over SUPs at every
opportunity, and here I was single-handedly setting us back in
humiliating fashion. "No! No!", I wanted to yell. "I'm incompetent!
It's not the ski!" To reinforce the point, I blew the remount. "See!?!"
"Vaikobi. At least they'll find your body!"
Once
back on my ski, I tentatively turned down range and started paddling in
a last ditch attempt to abandon all remaining shreds of dignity.
Success was swift and inexorable. After missing two consecutive waves, I
inexplicably stopped paddling in the surf zone. I was broached and
swept shoreward on a mass of foam, which then unceremoniously dumped me
in neck-deep water. Measuring from the top of my sand-planted head, of
course. Once I had re-oriented myself, spit out a hermit crab, and
restored a dislodged surf shoe, I stood and assessed my situation. Not
yet knowing how Jan would be knocked out of this race (I had figured
maybe bear mauling during the run to the finish), I was amazed to see that
not only was I the first to the beach, but that there didn't appear to
be anyone right behind me. Only 150 meters separated me from victory.
After Eric's unfortunate L2L incident, Gentleman Kirk was asked to make sure nobody walked off with the sample V7.
Figuring
there was no reason to leave my boat thrashing in the surf, I started hauling it
towards the finish. I had only taken a few steps, however, when I
spotted someone running along the beach from the south. Costanzo! I
dropped my ski and started a heroic sprint of my own (which, after
seeing the GoPro video, would probably be more accurately characterized
as an "arthritic waddle"). Given that we were approaching the finish
from different angles, I wasn't sure which of us would win (or perhaps
expire) until I stumbled in two steps ahead. Despite limited surf experience, Hugh glided effortlessly in a short time later for third, after which he remounted to frolic in the waves. We eventually had to wade in and pry him from his ski for the awards ceremony. Tim Dwyer and Jay rounded out the top five overall, and were joined by Kirk on the Masters' podium (now fully accessible!).
Mary
Beth had a long day, but finished in style with what was easily the
day's best two-thirds of a ride to the beach - screaming down an
incoming wave until she disappeared in a cascade of boiling foam, her
riderless ski bolting out of the chaos like a battle-spooked steed. It
would have been even more legendary if I hadn't then witnessed a
wild-eyed MB staggering through waist-deep water to get to shore, but
we'll omit that part from the epic poem version.
Jan really took offense at being referred to as Destiny's doofus, but accidentally super-gluing rocks to his hands really just underscored my point. (Photo courtesy of Eric McNett)
After handing out race medals, Eric awarded the New England Surfski point series titles. I won the overall men's championship again, with Eric taking second and Jan in third. Mary Beth similarly repeated as the women's champ, with Leslie Chappell in second and Jen Kreamer and Justin Rawley tied for third. Tim Dwyer also repeated his Masters' title from 2015. Jan and I are concerned that Tim
might be growing a little complacent in the 50+ group, so we decided to
age into the bracket to give him some more competition next season. Wesley won the drawing for the V7 generously donated by Epic, finally breaking Bruce and Bill's stranglehold on free skis. Thanks to Eric for giving us a memorable race to close out the season.
After a record-breaking surfski turnout in 2014, the venerable Lighthouse to Lighthouse race was given a fallow year to regenerate. Under the indefatigable stewardship of Gary Williams, however, the field was seeded for a fresh harvest this year. And once again, the L2L would be hosting the East Coast Surfski Championship. With 66 skis participating in the 7 and 14 miles races, this would easily be the largest surfski race east of the Rockies since the last L2L (sorry, Shark Bite - that was some rotten luck).
There's been a lot of speculation about why the 2015 race was cancelled. One source told me that there was a permitting issue with the venue while another claimed that an important sponsor pulled their support. Rather than just asking Gary, I started circulating my own baseless conjecture involving a beach quarantine after the loss of a nuclear sub off the Connecticut coast. Regardless of the reason, the L2L was about to experience a glorious rebirth, emerging phoenix-like from the watery depths to raze Tokyo. Wait... that can't be right. Emerging Phoenix-like from its own ashes to become a popular retirement destination for aged paddlers? Still not quite right, but close enough.
It's possible that I could have paid a little more attention at the captains' meeting.
From the start line off Shady Beach, we'd skirt outside of Sprite Island, the Peck Ledge Light, Goose Island, Copps Island, and Sheffield Island before rounding Greens Ledge Light and - all of that effort for naught - retracing our path to the finish. Although billed as a 14 mile race, those who registered with the special coupon code (GARYRULZ) received a 5% mileage discount. The forecast was for sun with light winds of 5 to 10 mph from the south. With a lightly incoming tide and calm conditions, it could be a record fast day.
Our ancestors tell of a great paddler from the western frontier who would ply our New England waters every July, returning to his distant wilderness home only after besting our forefathers in ritual competition. Seeing the mythic name of Erik Borgnes on the registration list for L2L, I looked in vain for a Junior or III qualifier. Blowing the dust off the old Blackburn Challenge records (I really gotta clean my monitor more often), I was shocked to see that Erik had won that race as recently as 2008. Hell, I think Wisconsin might even have been a state by then.
Ironically, once he finally got in his boat, Bruce just sat there smiling.
Erik was returning to New England, and this time he was bringing back-up. And his father, Arne. Sweeping through the upper Midwest on the way to Connecticut, they picked up Rob Hartman and Denny Paull - two of Michigan's finest paddlers. With fellow Great Lakes paddlers Joe White, Ulli Sherer, John Hair, Todd Furstoss, and Paul Tomblin also making the trek east, I figured we had a pretty good shot at getting Gordon Lightfoot to write a song about the race should tragedy strike. Other competitors from outside the immediate area included defending L2L champions Austin Kieffer (2016) and Reid Hyle (2015).
I'd never raced against Erik or Rob, but on paper it didn't look like I
had much of a chance of beating them. I had, on the other hand, raced
against Austin, Reid, and Jesse Lishchuk. On paper or on water - no hope there either. With Eric Costanzo and Craig Impens opting to paddle together in a double, Mike Dostal competing in the ICF Marathon Worlds, and Ben Piggot resting up for the Josh Billings triathlon on Sunday (it worked - his team destroyed the field), I was able to focus 100% of my stink-eye efforts on Jan Lupinski. Denny worried me as well, but I didn't want to make him feel unwelcome.
Overwhelmed by stress and sleep deprivation, a disoriented Gary leads us in a rousing rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game".
Once Gary had sucked all of the fun out of the race yammering on about safety and sportsmanship (apparently not a Lightfoot fan), the anxious long-race field of 57 skis (including 3 doubles) paddled out into the Sound. On Tim Dwyer's advice, I took a position on the far side of the starting line. Although he's not yet fully grizzled, Tim is about as well-seasoned a surfski vet as we have hereabouts. That's why when he says "you're not extending on the catch" or "put a dash of nutmeg in your water" or "I forgot to put on underwear this morning", you pay heed.
As promised, starting from the outside kept me away from the confused fray and gave a better downwind line. That perhaps mitigated the damage I did myself during the first couple of minutes, but it couldn't stanch the hemorrhaging. I hadn't paid too dearly for starting slow yet this season, but this was a field I couldn't afford to let slip away. And chumming the water with an inviting blood trail was only going to encourage those few sharks I had gotten ahead of.
By the time we reached the first lighthouse, a gap of perhaps 15 boat lengths separated me from the nearest paddler ahead. I was sitting in 8th place. Austin, Rob, Reid, and Jesse were up front, followed by Kurt Smithgall and Erik, with Jan in pursuit. By letting all of these guys get away from me, I had dug my own grave and lain down in it. Seemed a shame not to just settle in for a peaceful eternity, but maybe my race wasn't yet run. Perhaps I could rouse myself and catch at least one of those guys. I just needed to figure out how to claw my way back to the surface
Over next four grueling miles, not much changed. Austin gradually receded out of sight, while Rob, Reid, and Jesse converted into indistinct flickering blurs. Erik and Kurt seemed to be working together for a while, but eventually Erik began to move ahead. Jan had pulled even with Kurt, but was staying on his own on an outside line. I was slowly gaining on those two, but Erik remained ahead by that magic 15 boat length margin.
Opposite Sheffield Island, something odd was going on with Jesse. Over the last mile or so, Erik had been steadily closing the gap between the two. Suddenly, Jesse turned hard to port and started heading perpendicular to the course. I thought at first he might have seen a reef or mass of floating weeds ahead, but I eventually deduced that he was making a beeline to Jan. Soon they were paddling alongside one another. My pulse quickened as I anticipated being waved over to reunite team TripL Threat in a collaborative quest for glory, but the invitation never came. There would be no Lishchuk-Lupinski-Lesher podium.
Remarkably, as I processed this disappointing snub, I finally managed to run down Kurt. After chasing him for more than 5 miles, when I finally caught up, I found myself at a loss for words. Just as well since I didn't really have the breath to voice them. Finally feeling like I had dialed in my stroke, rather than lingering with Kurt I pushed on towards Erik, catching some adorable little runners in the process. Glancing back, I was pleased to see that Kurt had let me by without an extended struggle.
Jan and Jesse had dropped back a bit on their outside line. As I found out after the race, Jesse had asked Jan to clear some stubborn weeds from his (humorously large) rudder. I continued my endless pursuit of Erik, who at this point was roughly 15 lengths ahead. Shortly after clearing the end of Sheffield Island, Jesse caught up to me and, after cavorting dolphin-like in my wake for a few moments, pulled ahead on his own Borgnesquest.
Approaching Greens Ledge Light, I saw Reid timidly poke his nose around the far side on the start of his return voyage. By the time I had rounded the Light, he was plotting a course on an extreme outside line (or perhaps an extreme inside line, given that Long Island appeared to be his actual goal). Erik was veering out to give mid-Sound chase, while Jesse was angling back towards Sheffield Island. On one hand, I had no clue which was the better route. On the other, I doubted these outlanders did either. Having spent the better part of my life ruled by indecision (the few decisive moments inevitably resulting in fierce regret and/or hospitalization), I felt uniquely qualified to remain in the limbo area halfway between Erik and Jesse.
While the reassuring warmth of uncertainty was still washing over me, I heard an odd noise from behind. My mind raced to place the sound as it grew louder, but the best that feeble instrument could come up with was... "Some kind of firework?" The mystery was revealed soon enough, as a low-flying drone zoomed just over my head, paused for a moment ahead, then retreated to its mother-ship. This would have been fine, except that I possess the violent startle reflex of a slumbering cat. This reflex is inevitably followed by a three second flash of blinding rage that I'll generously attribute to the "fight" part of the fight-or-flight response. When a college roommate jumped out unexpectedly from behind a door to frighten me (or, in his telling, "to get the mail"), the only thing that saved me from the big house was the fact that I didn't happen to be carrying a pair of scissors at the time. That guy later became my business partner, so eviscerating him also would have really hurt me professionally. The drone elicited the classic response as it suddenly whizzed by my ear - exaggerated flinch, missed heartbeats, involuntary screech, incontinence, blood lust... Unfortunately, by the time the convulsions had stopped, I had missed the opportunity to unleash an incandescent fury of paddle blows on the drone (and my chance to become a viral celebrity).
Subsequent analysis of my GoPro footage of the incident reveals that hackers tampered with the video to make it appear that the drone was always a safe distance above and to the side.
A drunken Eric tries to find his car among a sea of Goodboy racks.
Erik continued about a dozen lengths ahead and outside, dangerously close to drifting into New York territorial waters. Jesse, however, was pulling steadily away on the inside. I attributed this to his ability rather than to his line and therefore held true to my gutless middle course compromise. The members of a blue ribbon committee dedicated to the topic, however, reached the post-race consensus that sticking close to the islands was the superior approach. So Jesse is apparently slightly less phenomenal than I gave him credit for.
About halfway back, Erik cut back to a more moderate line, allowing me to get a better gauge on his lead. Yep. About 15 lengths. Some long-period swells were moving in our direction. I made some quarter-hearted efforts to catch a few, but they were too small to get worked up about. In the shallows off Copps Island, however, they started to kick up and - with surf goggles now firmly in place - were looking darned attractive. If I could land just a couple, I might be able to cut into Erik's immutable lead. Unfortunately, the previous 10 miles had taken their toll on my game. My tired pick-up attempts were repeatedly rebuffed, leaving me wallowing in the troughs of despair.
Rounding Goose Island and heading back to Peck Ledge, I conceded that there was no way I was going to catch Erik. All I could do was cobble together enough self-respect to manage an honorable sprint over the final half-mile (which doubtless resembled one of those inspirational Ironman finishes in which the racer crawls down the final stretch, in control of about 40% of his motor functions). Austin had finished 9 minutes earlier in a course record time of 1:39:37. With some squinting and constructive rounding, I can convince myself that the next five paddlers finished in a tight pack - Rob, Jesse, Reid, Erik, and myself. Erik finished 34.79 seconds ahead of me, which, at a pace of 7.4 miles per hour and a 21 foot boat length, translates to 18 boat lengths. So much for my sprint. Denny, Jan, Steven O'Boyle, and Matt Drayer filled out the remaining spots in the top 10.
Austin put a good face on it, but deep down, I'm pretty sure he would have preferred a check.
In the women's race, Mary Beth grabbed the lead from Jenifer Kreamer just after Sprite Island and, trading pulls with Chris Sherwood, remained out front for the remainder of the race. First-time surfski paddler Julieta Gismondi grabbed second while Leslie Chappell took bronze. Bill Kuklinski, who is Benjamin Buttoning the hell out of this season, was the first SS20+ finisher. I call "not it" on driving Bill to his peewee football games next year. Eric and Craig's bid for the overall best time fell just short, but they easilytook the double's crown. In the 7 mile race, Mark McKenzie was the winner. Austin took the men's hotspot and Mary Beth the women's (which should really help keep our energy costs down this winter).
They can never take Mary Beth's 2016 East Coast Surfski Championship title away from her. Although, for the sake of household harmony, I wish they'd at least try.
There's a vigorous debate over which paddling event has the best post-race raw bar (although we can probably agree that Ride the Bull isn't really in the running - Wesley and Tim's DIY approach of pointing us at West Cove and saying "Have at it!" doesn't count), but the L2L has my vote. The rest of the spread was somewhat less decadent (Domestic caviar? Please.), but still hit the spot. The awards started about 2 and are scheduled to end next Tuesday - the peril of having a multi-craft, multi-course, multi-gender, multi-age group race. Mary Beth, of course, has fashioned her two oversized checks into a sandwich board which, due to losing a regrettable wager on our relative race performances, I must wear around the house between the hours of 5 and 8.
The logistical challenges of throwing an event like the L2L are staggering, and yet everything hummed along smoothly on race day (at least from the perspective of a competitor - I suspect at HQ it never feels that way). I can't say enough about Gary and his crack team of volunteers, so I'll leave it at that. Thanks also to the numerous race sponsors, with special appreciation for the ECSC cash prize donors - Stellar Kayaks, WomenCan International, Think Kayaks, and Nelo. I expect you'll be sending someone around soon to exchange the big checks for cashable ones, right?
Despite being an undeniably flatwater race (I measured) during ocean racing season, the Great Stone Dam Classic has become an essential stop in the New England surfski circuit. Hosted by the Greater Lawrence Community Boating Program, co-chaired by Francisco Urena and Shawn Burke, and staffed largely by an enthusiastic army of student volunteers, it's no secret why the GSDC has become such a favorite. Sure, it's an appealing venue - a magnificent boathouse set on the verdant shores of the Merrimack River. And yes, participants enjoy the warm glow that comes from helping to fund a wonderful youth program. The real reason most of us show up, however, is our shared respect and esteem for Francisco. And by "respect and esteem" I mean, of course, "fear". After all, Francisco has some very powerful friends. Skip this race and you just might wake up one night to find Governor Baker preparing to smother you with a pillow.
Robin was quite tolerant of Mary Beth in the tandem, despite the fact that (based on first-hand K2 experience from our past) she consistently does everything completely wrong.
The GSDC is a classic out-and-not-quite-back-and-out-and-over-and-back course totaling 8.2 miles. From the boathouse dock, we head upriver 3 miles to turn around Pine Island, then return towards to the start. But wait, there's more! With the finish line tantalizingly close, we must reluctantly turn around a "No Wake" marker, head back upstream to round inflatable buoys on each shore, then finally head back to the boathouse to be put in a medically-induced coma until the burgers are ready.
The forecast indicated that a band of storms would move through Lawrence prior to the 11am start, leaving us with breezy but mostly clear conditions for the race. As we milled about and tweaked our equipment, a disturbing band of dark clouds that had been gathering intensity over the last fifteen minutes off to the west suddenly hurtled in our direction. Having recently painted our house, I still had the Benjamin Moore color-chooser app on my phone. Pointing it at the sky, it reported a hue halfway between Deep Charcoal and Impending Apocalypse. Just as a helpful competitor pointed out that a deadly tornado had swept through Lawrence back in 1890 ("Touched down just over there, if I'm not mistaken!"), the first drops of rain started to fall. After ensuring that my boat was securely strapped to the car and quickly scanning the heavens for tell-tale flying cows (clear), I high-tailed it for the boathouse. From there, we watched as the passing storm whipped the Merrimack into a white-capped frenzy while - based on the sound, at least - smaller livestock thudded down on the roof.
Given the likelihood that the raging waters of the Merrimack would soon sweep us all away, the gang was remarkably cheery.
Within fifteen minutes, the squall had passed through with no damage. With the radar showing no significant threats heading our way, racers started launching their boats and massing for the on-water captains meeting. In a rush to join them, I tucked my GoPro (which I call GP - short for George Parker) in my PFD pocket, grabbed the V14 from the car, and waded into the river. I had intended to mount the camera on my boat during launch, but in the adrenaline-fueled excitement, I found myself up the river without GP saddled. Was that a groan I heard? Hey - nobody is forcing you to read this.
Let's skip ahead and get right to the important lesson I learned a few moments later. It's actually two lessons. First, that I'm 90% bonehead. Preaching to the choir on this point, doubtless. Second, that everything Archimedes said about GoPros was indeed true. They do lack sufficient volume to displace a weight of water equal to or greater than their own mass. And they should always be tethered.
As an unblinking witness (and inveterate blabbermouth), GP has captured (and heartlessly disseminated) many of the more thrilling (and humiliating) moments in my life. Although we often locked horns over what was appropriate for public consumption, I was saddened to think of my friend documenting his final frames from the forgotten depths of the Merrimack. The cosmic irony of not being able to broadcast this particular blunder would not be lost on him. Some time after the race was over and we perhaps were enjoying lunch, the fight to carry on would just be too much for GP. Battery exhausted, his recording indicator light would courageously flash until the dark curtain fell at last. Blink... Blink... Blink... The rest is silence.
[I'm going to leave an open space here so that I can insert a jubilant coda when GP is ultimately dredged from the river and returned to me in 2087.]
Shaking off my recent misfortune (after all, it only ranks about 7th on this season's pre-race bloopers), I surveyed the field of 25+ skis. Chris Chappell had brought a shiny new toy to the race - one of the first reinvented Nelo 560s to find its way to the Americas. Designed to slip between individual water molecules, the boat is ridiculously tiny. Chris spent most of the morning looking for it after inadvertently setting the boat in the grass near his car without first activating its locator beacon. Despite its meager 18' 4" length, all reports indicate that the 560 is as fast as a grown-up ski. I figured this made Chris my biggest threat.
I also had to be concerned about the Human Alphabet, Andrius Zinkevichus. If his muscular build, imposing accent, and 32 point Scrabble surname weren't intimidating enough, the guy can paddle. I had beaten Andrius at the Nahant Bay Cup a few weeks earlier, but that was on choppy ocean waters. This time, he'd be in an ICF boat and in his more natural flatwater milieu. He'd also bulked up since the last race, adding an entire second paddler. David VanDorpe would only be contributing 14 points to their combined total, but his impressive paddling resume would more than compensate. To make matters worse, the duo would start in the heat ahead of me.
The double kayaks, which included Mary Beth (in her first-ever doubles race) and Robin Francis, were sent off first while the skis and ICF boats paced nervously in the on-deck basin. Less than a minute later, we were ourselves underway. Poised atop his micro-ski, Chris jumped to an early lead, with Francisco and Wesley in earnest pursuit. As Francisco told me after the race, since he's been too busy nobly working to improve the lives of Massachusetts' veterans to actually train, he sprints at the start so that he can be in the lead pack for at least a little while. That guy... always making the rest of us question whether we add any value to society (when he's not sending the governor out to settle scores, that is).
We keep telling Kirk it's "hands high, chin up, back straight, elbows down", but all he ever seems to hear is "tongue out".
After the first few hundred meters, Chris started to pull away from the field. As a member of that field, I took umbrage at the cavalier attitude with which he was abandoning us. No over-the-shoulder cry of "Good luck, chaps!" or wistful look back at his former comrades. I imagined him sneering in contempt ahead. Watching Chris recede over the next few moments, this expression started to sound increasingly appealing. Adopting a pay-it-forward approach, I separated myself from the field with a similarly callous disregard for esprit de corps. I sneered as well, but the only contempt I felt was for [melodramatic pause, followed by breaking voice] myself.
Chris had started out perhaps four to five boat lengths ahead, but I quickly closed the gap to three to five boat lengths, then to two to five lengths. I figured if I left some ambiguity in there, he wouldn't feel as threatened as I (possibly) crept up on him. When I eventually I reached the lesser end of zero to five boat lengths, there's was nothing he could do about me snapping concretely onto his stern draft. After resting for a moment or two - the legendary wash that the Bunyonesque Chris provides is notoriously difficult to give up - I reluctantly pulled around to take the lead. Of course, he didn't take this move sitting down. Extraordinary balance, I must say. He yoked himself behind me and inexplicably shouted out, "Whoa there, Big Blue! Almost got away from me!"
I tried to free myself from Chris' pitiless grip several times, but he would not be thwarted. When I've been pulling someone, I try not to look back too often to ascertain if they're still there. When the situation is reversed, I always interpret the back-glance a sign of weakness. Sure enough, whenever I succumbed to temptation, I could see Chris smirking at my vulnerability. Well, I couldn't see much more than a vague shape in my periphery, but since I've already started ascribing facial expressions willy-nilly, let's say he was smirking.
After a mile of this, a quick peek back revealed that I had wiped that smug expression off of Chris' imagined face. I had finally gapped him. Shortly afterwards, I passed the last of the doubles, excepting Andrius and Dave. They were still toiling well ahead, but I was definitely closing on them. By the time we rounded the upstream end of Pine Island, they were squarely in my sights. Having seen me so close behind at the turn, I figured they'd scramble away rabbit-like and the chase would commence in earnest. They weren't into playing the prey, however. Like a viper, they reared back as I approached, then sank their fangs into my port draft.
I haven't mentioned that we had been bucking a headwind on the upstream part of the course. We now enjoyed a stiff quartering breeze behind us. At the next turn of the river, we'd be going dead downwind. Figuring the two boats had roughly the same sail area (that is, one upright paddler silhouette's worth) but mine had roughly half the weight, that's when I would try to pry myself loose from the tandem. It was a plan backed up by hard science, but two attempts at super-maximum intensity intervals failed to produce noticeable results. Presumably the guys had set out a jib or spinnaker or something. Finally, on my third attempt, just as I was about to go into the light, I heard a slight pop as Andrius and David disengaged from the draft. Evidently Andrius, stewing in the skirt-covered front cockpit, had overheated and called off the pursuit.
The remainder of the race was painful, but mostly uneventful. Surprisingly, I found the downstream turn-around marker without problems, and wasn't slammed in the chest by either of the remaining two inflatable turn buoys. As I approached the finish, a roar rose up from the dock. The volunteer kids were cheering me home! Unused to such outbursts from spectators (or, for that matter, spectators), I was quite startled, but managed to stay upright - narrowly avoiding an embarrassing photo finish.
I don't recall doing multiple tequila shots after the race, but that pose is unmistakable.
Chris finished (grinning, let's say) in an easy second, with Tim Hudyncia taking third. Kirk Olsen and Bruce Deltorchio rounded out the top five (despite Bruce taking the "No Wake" turn buoy a little too seriously by giving it 75 meters of leeway). Jenifer Kreamer and Leslie Chappell battled the entire race for the women's lead, with Jen eventually earning the win. Of course, Andrius and David claimed the tandem crown. Afterwards, we enjoyed burgers and dogs while Francisco gave out awards and liberally distributed bags of fruit (to the great disappointment of those of us who were told there were donuts and Twinkies inside). Thanks to the Greater Lawrence Community Boating Program (which should consider adopting a cool acronym, like GLAWCOBOP), and to the many volunteers who made the race possible.
The Lighthouse to Lighthouse is this coming Saturday (register at PaddleGuru by 11pm on Thursday, 9/15). It's also the East Coast Surfski Championship, with $2,000 in prize money split evenly between men and women paddlers. Is it going to be competitive? Let's see. Austin Kieffer. Jesse Lishchuk. Reid Hyle. Rob Hartman. Erik Borgnes. Apparently the men's places start at 6th.
The Nahant Bay Cup traditionally marks a break in the summer surfski season. The savvy paddler will collect enough momentum in Mike McDonough's race to carry him or her into the September races, coasting smoothly over the doldrums of late August. The rest of us just thrash around in Nahant Bay until we find ourselves beached in Swampscott, panting heavily and praying that some good Samaritan doesn't try to push us back to sea.
Mike told us we should head "over their" and then "down they're" and then "back to hear". I would've corrected his spelling, but I didn't want to be that guy.
Say what you like about Mike (and there's been a lot said since he hasn't
been around to stop us), you can't deny that when it comes to energetic
pointing during a captains meeting, he stands alone. We, the
nearly-blinded, have learned our lesson. With Nahant Bay as his canvas,
Mike finger-painted a course for us in emphatic strokes. With an anemic
zephyr from the southeast forecast to quicken to a hearty gale by the
afternoon, he sketched a new route in the hopes of introducing a bracing
downwind leg. From the pier at Fisherman's Beach, we'd head across Nahant
Bay for 2.5 miles to Egg Rock, then turn back into the bay to a cluster of
orange buoys off of Red Rock Park, roughly 2.5 miles downwind from the
island. We'd then reverse our course, ending on the beach adjacent to the
starting pier. After a few extra jabs at the sky for good measure, Mike
commanded us to storm (off) the beach with one final, imperious gesture.
At this point, Dave is more drink tube than man.
After a brief warm-up, an orderly start broke out off the end of the
pier. A lead group consisting of Eric Constanzo, Andrius Zinkevichus, and
Chris Chappell quickly pulled ahead of the field. A half mile into the
race, I caught the trio and filed a formal petition to join their ranks.
Admissions officer Chris told me (exclusively via non-verbal cues) they'd get
back to me in 6 to 8 weeks with a decision. And that this decision would
definitely be that I "go to Hell". Having already visited that
infernal region at last week's broiling USCA Nationals, I wasn't so keen on
returning (although I hear it's much nicer in late October, what
with most of the demons on earth-side holiday). Fortunately, I had
toughened myself against rejections through a rigorous acclimatization program
in high school (with some follow-on university training), allowing me to shake
off this latest brush-off with a minimum of tears.
I had little choice but to forge ahead on my own. This hadn't worked
out so well at the Narrow River Race, where I led the entire field around an
improvised course, but that was a tricky "straight line in a tiny river
situation". Here I'd only have to locate a small set of buoys in
four square miles of choppy ocean. I was optimistic. Mike had
provided us with a landmark to key off of after rounding Egg Rock - a Christian
Science church in Lynn with a white steeple and a pastor who answers to the name of "Snoopy"
(a result of which is that his dog, the disastrously named "Reverend
McAllister", ends up officiating a lot of weddings). Fun fact: The
fall that would set Mary Baker Eddy on the path to founding Christian Science
happened in Lynn. They still haven't fixed that pothole.
I wasn't sure exactly what was happening, but all of a sudden, everyone started paddling. (Photo courtesy of Chun Yang)
I couldn't quite make out the denomination from Egg Rock, but I was 90% sure
that I was lined up with the right steeple. When I eventually saw the
parson relieving himself on the front lawn of the church, I knew I was in
business. After poking around the offshore area a little, I spotted the
turn buoys. Having enjoyed a pleasant downwind ride, I wasn't looking
forward to the grind back to the Rock. Surveying the stream of skis still
making their way to the turn, I took some solace in the fact that I had a
decent lead over Andrius, who appeared to be in second place. For the
next couple miles, I bounced my way back upwind.
Absorbed daydreaming about how I would spend the award money (torn between a
V10 GT and cosmetic surgery to finally get rid of my fingernails), it took a few
moments to register the surfski up ahead and to the left. Must be in a
different race, I figured initially. Probably the Swampscott Ski Shootout
or the Nahant Paddle Paradox. But hold on a second, that looks like
Eric. Didn't he start out in our race? So much for
loyalty! Wait, though. Eric wasn't wearing the mandatory
Shootout safety goggles (and didn't appear to have a paint gun). And the
Paradox only allows paddlers older than the median age of the field. I
was relieved that Eric wasn't two-timing us, but appalled at the prospect of a
continued life with keratin-tipped fingers.
Our paths merged just as we reached Egg Rock, with Eric perhaps a dozen boat
lengths ahead. I had chased that New Jersey devil down at the start of
the race, but that was in relatively flat water. With a decided edge in
downwind conditions (which we'd see again after Egg Rock), catching Eric would
be like bottling greased lightning - messy, painful, and likely to induce heart
failure. Fortunately, the confused conditions behind Egg Rock didn't sit
too well with his new V14, allowing me to halve the gap before we cleared the
island.
Rounding Egg Rock in the reflective chop can be quite disorienting.
It's the surfski equivalent of that old college game where you blindfold
someone and spin them around a few times before shaving their head and leaving
them naked in the woods. Now that I think of it, I never did hear back
from the brothers at Alpha Sigma Sigma. Emerging on the north side of the
island, I carefully assessed my navigational options. Failing to reach a
consensus as to where to aim on the extended shoreline ahead, I decided to just
follow Eric. If I caught him, perhaps we could pool our ignorance to make
some shared bad course decisions.
Eric was charting a path that was roughly 30 degrees to the right of the
prevailing wind for me, but seemingly dead downwind for him. I can't say
I understand this conundrum, but the evidence was overwhelming. I was
zigzagging madly at 100% effort trying to catch Eric, while he rode a razor
straight line, lazily dipping a paddle blade in the water from time to
time. It didn't seem fair, but the scales of cosmic justice are
notoriously biased in favor of the skilled. Despite working from such a
disadvantage, I was slowly closing the gap between us.
When I finally caught Eric, he immediately expressed concerns that we had
turned on different buoys at the halfway point. This made some sense,
given that we hadn't seen each other until we got back to Egg Rock. Perhaps
we were in different races after all. If so, he was the clear
leader of the very exclusive Costanzo Invitational. I was pretty
confident that I had rounded the McDonough-sanctioned buoy cluster, and had witnessed many of the other paddlers headed the same way. I suggested that we wait
to sort it out after the finish, but could tell that his heart was no longer in
the competition.
Only Eric and I found the bonus turn buoy...
Finding the finish was proving to be a challenge. For a while we
pursued a course towards a rocky point that I argued would lead us around into
Fisherman's Beach - a route that was actually angling us closer to the turn
buoys than it was to the actual finish. Eric expressed concerns that we
were heading too far port. I insisted we were fine. Eric pointed
out that the extensive field of moored boats we had picked our way through at the
start was absent from the shoreline ahead. Perhaps the entire Swampscott
fleet had been commandeered for an impromptu attack against arch-nemesis
Marblehead, I replied. It was only when Eric called attention to the array of boats moored off to our right that I relented. Evidently their
raid had been successful.
Having identified the finish, we both picked up our pace. I made the
decision to pass to the right of a large moored sailboat, while Eric headed
behind it. Even with a strong incoming tide backed by the wind, I was
surprised by the strength of the current. Despite turning increasingly into
the flow, I was in real danger of being side-swept into the sailboat. My
heart rate was already within a few beats of its theoretical maximum, but a
fear-based shot of adrenaline now sent my pulse to eyeball-bulging
levels. As catastrophe loomed, I made one final push to avoid
bisection. After slipping just in front of the vessel, I finally realized
I had made a serious frame of reference error. I wasn't being swept
sideways by the current - the sailboat was actually underway. And
doubtless wondering why an idiot kayaker seemed intent on impaling himself on
their bow. Oops.
When Mike told us the race would have a dance finish, I knew those Charleston lessons had finally paid off. (Photo courtesy of Chun Yang)
With the ink of my new lease on life still wet, the remainder of the race
was a joyful celebration of continued existence. I pulled into the beach
finish several seconds before Eric to take the celebrated (but wholly
metaphorical) Nahant Bay Cup. There was an
actual traveling cup awarded at one point, but the Department of Public Health
shut that down. Given
how demoralized Eric was at the prospect of having cut the course, I figured
there was a pretty good chance he was just going through the motions of
finishing hard so that I didn't feel bad. I'm OK with that.
Out-sprinting someone is satisfying even when they're not racing. But not
quite as satisfying as the subsequent trash-talking.
Unfortunately, Eric was correct about turning on the wrong church-adjacent
buoy, resulting in disqualification and - in an unusual cross-promotional
arrangement - excommunication. Second place
therefore went to the winner of an exciting sprint between Andrius and Tim
Dwyer. Although Tim had managed to catch and pass Andrius at Egg Rock,
the latter took a cleaner line to the finish to claim silver by two
seconds. Kirk Olsen pulled in alone before Wesley and Tim Hudyncia
reenacted the Zinkevichus-Dwyer sprint finish, with Wesley taking fifth by half
an Echols. Mary Beth selfishly claimed victory for the women.
If it wasn't for Andrius' quick thinking, an improperly ballasted Francisco would have floated away completely. (Photo courtesy of Chun Yang)
After a wonderful lunch prepared by Carol McDonough, Mike got down to the
business of giving out awards. The coveted "Bad Ass" title was
given to mild-mannered Kirk Olsen (I assume ironically), while Bill Kuklinski
was bestowed the "Baby Bad Ass" honorific (and accompanying
ceremonial head gear) for wiping the ocean with competitors half his age.
Many thanks to the McDonoughs and the Staffords for a marvelous day in
Swampscott.
You may be wondering why I failed to mention Swampscott local Matt
Drayer. Unwilling to risk the humiliation of defeat on his home surf,
Matt cowardly opted for a leisurely day paddle from Cape Cod to Cape Ann.
Some have described this first-ever 43 mile jaunt as "historic" and
"ground-breaking". However, I'm pretty sure this circus stunt
will quickly be forgotten, while the winner of the 2016 Nahant Bay Cup will
remain engraved in our collective memories forever (because, remember, there is
no actual cup). If you must, read about Matt's trip here.
Worried about the recent increase in US shark attacks, Bill figured he'd play it safe at the after-party. (Photo courtesy of Chun Yang)
We all look forward to the day when robots will relieve
us of the burden of slogging through these reports and making our own
toast. But for now, we've earned a break. At least on the blog
front. Assuming Elon Musk doesn't make any immediate breakthroughs, we'll
meet back here in three weeks, after the Great
Peconic Race (register at PaddleGuru) and
the Great Stone Dam Classic (no
preregistration required). Those will be excellent warm-ups for the
biggest east coast surfski event of the season - the Lighthouse to Lighthouse
(register at PaddleGuru
- the price goes up September 10).
The USCA National Championships were held in Northfield, Massachusetts this past weekend. I competed in the K1 Unlimited class on Friday. Although I finished well, I felt about as lousy as I've ever felt after a race. It's been a tough week to put together this blog entry, what with work, family commitments and having to watch all the team handball consolation matches. And, honestly, this isn't a race that I'm eager to write about. Through poor decision-making and boat handling, I inadvertently knocked a competitor from the field. I'm embarrassed. And sorry, of course. As a result, this is going to be a quick-and-dirty summary in "just the facts" mode. I'll return to my standard "facts optional" mode for the next report. This will be dry, so remember to hydrate frequently.
Bottleneck at the launch.
There was an impressive field of more than 50 kayaks on Friday, including many of the Northeast's best ocean and flatwater paddlers and a healthy infusion of racers from further afield. This latter group included two former Olympians (Mike Herbert and Roei Yellin). Although the Unlimited class is open to all kayaks, the vast majority of the competitors were on surfskis. That being said, several of the fastest paddlers - including Mike Dostal, Mike Herbert, Jim Mallory, and Hugh Pritchard - chose to race in their ICF boats. The 13 mile course on the Connecticut River would send us downstream for
0.5 miles before turning on a pair of buoys, then upstream 6 miles to
the Route 10 bridge (passing to the right of Kidds Island) before
returning to the start. To add a bit of technical challenge, we'd make a
counterclockwise curlicue around Kidds Island on our downstream route.
From the starting line, the first turn buoy looked to be disturbingly close to the left shore. Fortunately, there was just enough distance for me to overcome my typical leisurely start and get into a respectable position entering the queue for the turn. A pack of four paddlers - Mike, Mike, Roei, and Jesse Lishchuk - had quickly separated themselves from the field and were threatening to salt the race away in the first mile. Chasing were Hugh, Steven Rankinen, Jim, myself, and Dave Thomas (and presumably others behind Dave that I couldn't see).
Start of Open, Master, and Senior groups.
With the lead group continuing to pull away, 1.5 miles into the race I figured it was time to push the pace of our pack. Fresh off a clinic in which Sean Rice discussed the superiority of riding side wash over riding rear wash, I decided to pull up along the right of our line, catching side drafts along the way. I made it past Jim, but struggled to move up to Steve. Obviously, what I should have done was to move well outside of Steve's wake to the right, pull up into drafting position, then ease my way back onto the draft. Or just have sucked it up and moved past both Steve and Hugh to take the lead of our group myself. What I actually did was bounce around sloppily off Steve's rear quarter trying to climb onto his side draft.
This wouldn't have been an issue if Steve's stern draft was unoccupied, but of course Jim was sitting in that spot. As I veered to the left, Jim's paddle nicked my boat. I apologized but stupidly kept to my plan. Unsurprisingly... same action, same outcome. This time our paddles hit, then Jim's paddle hit my boat (or, rather, vice versa), then our boats thudded together.
While such negligent maneuvering would have normally earned me a well-deserved upbraiding before we both carried on with our race, the repercussions of this collision were more serious. Having suffered a pothole-induced bike crash last summer, Jim required surgery to repair his wrist tendons. While he's now able to paddle without pain, unexpected flexions - such as having your paddle jammed by a boat - are trouble. Although I didn't realize it at the time, the crash caused enough ongoing discomfort that Jim was forced to withdraw from the race - the first DNF of his long paddling career.
Naturally, I'd feel terrible about knocking anyone out of a race - let alone a legendary competitor who had a shot at the title. In gentlemanly fashion, Jim left my name out of it when explaining to people why he didn't finish the race. We spoke afterwards and he graciously accepted my apology. I also promised to avoid risky maneuvers until I have enough skill that they're no long risky. I'm relieved to report that Jim's weekend wasn't entirely lost. He downshifted to a V8 and dominated the K1 Sea Kayak class on Saturday (winning by over 7 minutes) and paired with Matt Skeels to take the K2 Unlimited crown on Sunday. Those wins underscore what a threat he would have been in Friday's race.
Back on the water, I offered an embarrassed apology, slowed to let Jim get on my wash, and resolved to pull him for as long as I could as a kind of penance. I thought he was with me over the next mile, but obviously it was someone else (perhaps Dave). Although the flow of the Connecticut River was anemic, everyone was sticking to the river racing game plan - bouncing from bank to bank to stay out of the current. Cutting across from left shore to right in preparation for a rightward bend, I took a shallower angle than Hugh and Steve. With a hard interval, I was able to merge just ahead of them. The four leaders continued to pull away ahead, while Hugh latched competently onto my side draft.
Over the next couple of miles we picked our way through the women's C2s
that had started a few minutes prior to our heat. At times the leaders
were out of sight around bends in the river, but at one point when they
reappeared in a straightaway, I noticed that Roei had dropped off the
back of the group. With an obtainable goal ahead, I put in another strong interval to drop Hugh. With a little under a mile left to the bridge
turnaround, I caught Roei and we commenced working together. We had no
hope of catching the lead group, but perhaps we could limit threats from
the lurking horde behind us.
At the bridge turn, the Elites were roughly 2 minutes ahead of us.
They'd add another 4 minutes to that gap before we were done. I had
been looking forward to turning downstream so that the slight breeze
would be in my face. It was some relief but wasn't as invigorating as I
had hoped. I had been forced to tap into my strategic vigor reserve to
catch Roei in the stifling heat, leaving me with nothing to work with in the
second half of the race.
I wasn't aware until after the
race that Roie was such an accomplished paddler (competing in the 2000
and 2004 Olympics), but it was obvious at the time that he was operating
in a different realm of efficiency. In one stretch I measured our
cadences from my GoPro. He was at 72 strokes per minute, while I was at
nearly 100. And this was when he was pulling me. I didn't like my long term odds of staying with him.
Roei
and I remained together until we hit the bottom of Kidds Island. On
the upstream paddle I hadn't even noticed the island, making me
eventually wonder if I had DQ'ed myself by failing to pass to its right
(Hugh and my GoPro verified after the race that I was weaving through
canoes at the time, apparently filtering out such trivial details as the
"river" narrowing to 1/10th its former width). As we started our
counterclockwise turn of the island, Roei and I took different lines.
By the time we rounded the upstream end, he had a clear lead that he
would never relinquish. I had gotten several glimpses of Steve close
behind me while circumnavigating the island, but was able to narrowly hold him
off to take fifth place. Of course, if Jim had been able to continue in the race, there's a good chance we'd be looking at a different top five.
Tight finish between Jesse and Mike Herbert.
Up
ahead, realizing that he couldn't out sprint his rivals closer to the
finish, Mike Dostal made his move with a mile still remaining, separating
himself from Jesse and Mike Herbert. He held on to win by 20 seconds,
with Jesse nipping the other Mike by a half boat length. The top 10 was
rounded out by Doug Howard, Joe White, Hugh, and Dave. Congratulations
to age group champions Mike (Open), Steve (Senior), Joe Shaw (Veteran
1), Bob Capellini (Veteran 2), Dave Grainger (Grand Veteran 1), and John
Stover (Grand Veteran 2). In the women's K1 Unlimited race on Sunday, champions included Hype Mattingly (Overall, Senior), Sara Jordan (Open), and Jen Kreamer (Master). In Sunday's ICF race, Jesse dispatched the Mikes to take the overall crown.
As all New England paddlers know, Jamestown is the heart of the New England surfski scene. This is home to three open-water races, the Dwyer family, and the best black raspberry milkshakes in the greater Narragansett region (I was a bit off my game this year, only logging 3 for the weekend). For the second year running, Tim would be hosting 2014 world champion Sean Rice, who'd be racing in the Battle of the Bay and holding several clinics. Like moths to a flame, the lure of Sean's brilliance drew us once again to Rhode Island, despite our solemn vows to boycott the Ocean State in protest of its disproportionate representation in the US Senate (and, of course, its aggressive pest spraying program).
Mary Beth and I arrived in Jamestown Friday afternoon so that I could take a private lesson with Sean. I had asked MB to spend the drive down criticizing my technique, hoping that this would inure me to any harsh judgments made during the session. In retrospect, I should have been more specific about the critical domain - seems that I need a lot of work across the board. Despite finding serious flaws in what he diplomatically referred to as my "crazy paddle thrashing", Sean was a patient teacher. With his recommendations for improving my stroke seeded in my brain, it's safe to say I will not be a competitive threat in the future. I just hoped I could prevent these suggestions from germinating before the Battle.
We spent a pleasant evening in Jamestown before retiring at the Dwyer's. We slept on an air mattress which was also legally classified as a trampoline in 36 states, meaning that any time one of us moved during the night, the other was in danger of being tossed like a rag-doll into the ceiling fan. Despite some contusions and a couple of lost toes (if they turn up, Tim or Alyce, they'd make great keepsakes of our visit), I awoke refreshed and looking forward to my first milkshake of the day. Soon after, we headed down to Bay Voyage Beach for the race.
John and Jim drove from Western New York expressly to demonstrate to Tim Hudyncia that Worcester is not "inland".
I should point out that Mary Beth and I had brought the air mattress with us. And apologize to any of our own guests who might have spent a fitful night dreaming of free fall.
After getting a taste of the ocean at the Blackburn (despite being
warned of the consequences), Jim Mallory and John Hair joined us again
from Rochester to top off their electrolytes. As a native myself, it
was nice to reminisce about the Fast Ferry ("Rochester to Toronto in
just two... Hey, where did our boat go?"), to agree that Kodak was "just
about to turn the corner", and to rail against Buffalo for stealing our
god-given 716 area code. The remainder of the field was composed mostly of paddlers who had been unable to find their way off the island after last week's Double Beaver.
In honor of the Olympics, Jan started us off the day with a rousing rendition of the national anthem. On a roll, he continued with a medley of 80's era Polish commercial jingles and closed with "Single Girl".
The traditional Battle of the Bay course loops across the bay to Newport and back. However, the brisk southerly winds would have made this route a little more demanding than Tim thought appropriate for Sean. Despite living in the Golden Age of Cartography, it took us twice as long to devise a simple alternative than it did to actually paddle it. In our defense, most of that time was spent fruitlessly trying to find Jamestown in Penobscot Bay (with a break to watch some baby sloth videos, naturally). In the end, Tim settled on a route that would limit our cross-wind exposure while providing a couple of downwind legs.
Tim walked us through the revised course, although it was hard to understand him once we got into deeper water. From the Conanicut Yacht Club pier, we'd head upwind 1.4 miles to buoy G11 (which, rumor has it, is vying for a pivotal role in the next Star Wars movie), downwind 1.6 miles to a concrete stanchion of the Newport Bridge, back to G11 (oddly, 3.5 miles in the upwind direction), back to the stanchion, and end back at the pier. Wesley - who had been inappropriately giddy at the prospect of spending half the race in challenging beam conditions - appeared despondent about the change. Others unclenched and wept with relief.
Apparently it's still too soon for Bernie jokes.
Unlike the start of last week's Double Beaver, in which we couldn't see the ocean for the weeds, we had clear sailing at the outset of the Battle (which I still think should have disqualified Joe Shaw and Bob Wright, but whatever). My own start was even more gradual than usual, as I had to wait for Tim Hudyncia to finish strutting diagonally in front of me before I could even move (he'd later get plenty of fretting in too, stretching his allocated hour to an hour-and-a-quarter). Slowly picking my way through mooring balls and competitors, I eventually took the lead of the first wave. The second wave would consist of Sean. He'd start several minutes later, but would surely sweep over us by mid-race.
Jim's role in this production was clearly described in the script. The race director had cast him as the cocky flat-water specialist that would get his well-deserved comeuppance in the angry sea. Jim had botched a similar part in last year's Casco Bay Challenge (by winning) and his take on cockiness was coming across more as affability, but apparently he's related to the executive producer or something. In any event, halfway to G11 it was obvious that he was going rogue again. Despite getting bounced around paddling into the chop, he was sticking tightly on my stern draft, while the stage directions had him capsizing (and disappearing through a trapdoor - it would have been a magical effect).
Having assumed that I was safely in the lead, it was with some disappointment that I noticed Jan had slipped by on an outside line. As an excellent upwind grinder and a solid downwind paddler (whereas my downwind skills are gelatinous, at best), he was going to be a real threat - 98% of this course was either upwind or downwind. Jan arrived at G11 a couple of boat lengths ahead of me, with Jim still right on my tail. I had hoped that once we entered the downwind portion of the race, I'd be able to exploit the latter's relative inexperience. Sure enough, I was able to catch a few nice runners immediately after the turn and pull free from Jim.
Caught in the middle of a phase shift while rounding G11.
Jan seemed to be taking a very wide line to the designated bridge stanchion, but I figured he must have found some righteous waves to surf out further in the channel. Fighting the urge to follow the dude, I kept working back to the left to stay on line for the next turn. After a few minutes of this, I lost track of Jan. It was the last anyone would see of him. Arriving at the concrete support, I spotted three boats making the turn behind me - Jim, Sean, and a non-Jan mystery paddler.
The upwind leg back to G11 was uneventful. Sean, who had started 5 minutes after the "plodders" (as I imagine he calls us when we're not looking), was courteous enough to cruise by at a significant lateral distance away. Any closer and the pressure wave he pushes ahead of him might have shattered my eardrums as he passed. After turning on the buoy, I got an oblong look at my closest pursuer, but couldn't make out who it was. Didn't seem to be Jim, though.
The second downwind leg wasn't as productive as the first, since the
fickle tide had now fully turned against us. But, as the saying goes,
even the worst downwind is better than the best broccoli. While I
struggled to get into a rhythm, Sean gave a free clinic on how to milk
every runner. Ahead by twenty lengths at the turn (plus the 150 or so
he had spotted us), he put his awesome abilities into perspective by
swiftly receding to the vanishing point.
I managed to sneak in a chuckle at the last moment, but John almost managed to get the last laugh.
I
eventually followed Sean around the stanchion for the final turn and
made the short trip back to the Yacht Club to finish in second at 58:34 -
only 9 minutes behind the winner. Moments later, my anonymous stalker
was revealed to be John - an impressive showing for a paddler without much time on the ocean. However, as I watched him weave through the
moored boats, I saw Jan angling in from a completely different direction
to nip John at the line. Comparing notes, we determined that Jan had
been paddling the alternative alternative Battle of the Bay
course, turning twice on the wrong concrete stanchion. He had traveled
slightly (100 meters) farther overall, but graciously DQ'ed himself. At
least, that's how I interpreted his excited shouts of "Third place!
Third place!" - as a congratulatory shout out to John.
As any ethnographer will tell you, ritual humiliation is an essential component of indoctrination ceremonies in primitive cultures. They generally don't use the loaded word "primitive" nowadays, but in this case, I think they'd make an exception.
Despite
losing ground on the downwind legs to more experienced ocean paddlers,
Jim managed to hammer through the upwind portions, finishing just ahead
of Tim to take the final first wave podium spot. Tim was followed by
Joe Shaw, Bob Capellini, Andy Knight, and Bob Wright. Although there
were a few DNFs (primarily of the "Ugh. It's not worth the second lap
upwind effort." variety), most seemed pleased with the revised Battle of
Jamestown Harbor.
Once Tim had bestowed inflatable awards upon the winners (not as fun as you might hope), the afternoon was spent on milkshakes, discussion of future races, and discussion of future milkshakes.
After a leisurely dinner at Simpatico ("Largely skunk-free since
2013!"), we retired to the Dwyer House again to rest up (and down, and
up, and down) for Sunday's all-day clinic with Sean.
Sean's beginner clinic focused mostly on the importance of humbly deflecting praise in a charming accent.
The
next morning's session consisted of land-based instruction, drafting
practice, discovering how inept we were at fundamental drills, and
pestering Sean with incessant questions (mostly about South African
wildlife). With winds building from the southwest, we relocated to Fort
Wetherill for the afternoon. Sean outlined downwind techniques and
strategies, at one point commenting that if you had to brace for balance
more than once every ten minutes during a downwind run, you should be
in a more stable boat. I wanted to ask the limit on falling out of
the boat, but was afraid I wouldn't much like his answer. I decided to just classify that maneuver as a full-body brace. Once per ten minutes? I could probably manage better than that in the V10.
My appearance at breakfast didn't evoke the joyful ovation that the Dwyer House Yelp reviews had led me to expect.
After the instruction, we enjoyed some rewarding out-and-back downwind runs. Although there was some slop mixed into the more ordered waves, I managed a few excellent rides and a couple of spectacular full-body braces (which, unfortunately, Sean didn't see - I think the South African judge would have given me high marks). Tim claimed that the downwind conditions were pitiful. Jaded by his recent experience at the Gorge, if a tsunami swept through New England and carried him and his V10L clear to Ohio, Tim would spit on the still-damp ground and complain about the lack of a shuttle back to the start.
Despite his churlish stand on New England paddling conditions, Tim deserves our gratitude for all the work he put into a great surfski weekend - hosting Sean, putting up a passel of paddlers, organizing the race, supplying equipment to literacy-impaired beginner clinic participants, buttering up Alyce, etc. Thanks as well to Alyce, Finn, and Gaelyn for enduring a full 48 hours of non-stop paddling talk and unsavory types traipsing through their home.
Some of us are off to the USCA Marathon Nationals this Friday, where surfskis and ICF boats will combine in the unholy amalgam known as the Unlimited K1 class. After all my (good-natured!) gibes at the expense of flatwater paddlers, I fear retribution may be at hand. Those guys have no sense of humor.
