The Essex River introduced me to kayak racing in 2004, guided me through some tough times when Mary Beth and I were having trouble (deciding on cat names, mostly), and will serve as the executor of my estate once I meet my inevitable doom chainsawing an ice sculpture. After so many years standing beside me (well, a 5 minute drive down the road), it was time to finally make the river proud. Having taken fourth, second, and third places in the HPK division of the Essex river Race over the last three years, I was itching to capture the win in 2016, thereby paddling for the cycle. Eric McNett had technically already accomplished this feat, but with some slipshod craftsmanship - he didn't do it in four consecutive years, he clumsily added an extra second place finish in the mix, and (most damningly) he neglected to boast shamelessly about his triumph.
The 5.7 mile race has paddlers wending out the Essex River, rounding Cross Island, traversing a broad estuary, and returning back up the river. We'd be working against a mild incoming tide on the opening leg, then gently caressed by a light headwind on the way back. The area is notoriously difficult to navigate, with frequent shallows and a confusing maze of low-lying islands and river inlets. I had meticulously reconnoitered the course earlier in the week, so I knew exactly where to find red-breasted merganser nests and the best route to avoid game wardens once stocked with eggs for the black market. The race purse isn't what it once was, and these boats don't pay for themselves.
A few weeks ago, after falling asleep in front of the TV during a Chico and the Man marathon, Mary Beth and I awoke to a late-night infomercial pleading with viewers to intervene in the plight of the most miserable examples of humanity one could imagine. The images were heart-breaking. Skin burnished to a sickly sun-kissed bronze, hair tousled into disarray by refreshing trade winds, bodies ravaged by an constant diet of omega-3 rich seafood and fresh produce. Watching the flickering images of these unfortunates navigating their primitive carbon fiber boats downwind (doubtless fleeing some unspeakable horror just off-screen), we wept for the wretched lives of the South Seas surfskiers. But how could we help? Conveniently, an 800 number was provided. We wasted no time calling to pledge our support. Just a few short days later, a confused Hawaiian paddler arrived shivering at our door.
Having never before left his Pacific home (in 2016, that is), Guy Gilliland would spend a night with us and compete the next day in the legendary Essex River Race. Figuring Guy would benefit from the experience of an islander who had fully assimilated to New England paddling, we invited Bob Capellini to stay with us as well. Together, we introduced our new Hawaiian friend to cold water paddling, Massachusetts driving, and whoopie pies (or was that just me, scarfing down the last one when nobody was looking?). Of course, we'd have been remiss if we hadn't also subjected him to some local hazing rituals. After bundling him up in a snowsuit and ski goggles, Bob and I took Guy out in Salem Harbor, giggling like schoolgirls every time Guy startled after we yelled "Look out! Walrus!!!".
Guy turned out be an excellent guest, eagerly swapping tales from his tropical paradise in exchange for spoonfuls of dinner that night. After completing our final pre-race rite (ferrying our cars over to Essex to secure the best parking places - perhaps the most important element in psyching out the opponent), we turned in. Jan Lupinski had expressed some interest in crashing at our swinging ski pad too, but the matter was left a little ambiguous. I had a fitful night of sleep, worrying that every little sound might be Jan scratching softly at the door. He wasn't curled up on the front stoop in the morning, so we assumed he'd found a cave or tarp or something.
By the time MB, Bob, Guy and I arrived in Essex, a crowd of 30 or 40 people had already gathered to gaze in undisguised wonder at our terrific parking spots from the night before. Surreptitiously, we four squeezed our way through the awestruck throng (amidst shouts of "Hoorah!" and "Bravo!" and "Let's smash the windows!"), then nonchalantly removed our boats as if our prime real estate wasn't in the least noteworthy. Without the hassle of a time trial or formal seeding process, we had seized the pole position.
Between the HPK and SS20+ classes, 32 skis and 1 racing kayak (Ben Randall, a newcomer who promises he won't repeat his embarrassing faux pas) had shown up to compete. With a passel of the Northeast's best paddlers unable to make the race, several more not yet trained up for the season, and Bill Kuklinski opting to start early in more unfavorable tidal conditions (due to drawing post-race band duty), the top end of the field was a little thinner than at the recent Run of the Charles. It looked like Jan would be my primary competition, although I was also worried about surprise entrant Chris Laughlin, whose power forward build and alarming glow of general fitness makes lesser men quail.
We had arrived a full week before our 11am start time, but eventually I found myself on the muddy and reed-strewn waters of the Essex, preparing myself mentally for the upcoming pain. Knowing that I'm not going to surge to an immediate lead, I usually hang back at the start of a race, finding a cozy nook in the second tier where I can run through my pre-race self-affirmation exercises with some degree of privacy. Sensing something momentous was going to happen this day, however, I urged my ski forward until it pushed a slight bow into the starting line.
From shore, the starter ran patiently through our numbers. Once all the boats had been accounted for, she called out a 15 second warning. I reached as far forward as I could to start my foredeck-mounted GPS, thereby contorting myself into the yoga position known as "Waterward-Facing Dimwit". Despite having years of practice, I was only able to maintain this precarious pose for a fraction of a second before gravity man-handled me into the river.
Just like when I got pantsed while reading the Gettysburg Address at a school assembly (terrible day to wear my Aquaman underoos - who exactly thought it was a good idea to include "gill slits"?), time ground to a virtual standstill. I took advantage of this unexpected bonanza to reflect on exactly how utter and complete was my humiliation. I recalled that Matt Drayer had attempted a similar stunt prior to the Blackburn start, but without the measured discipline required for true mortification. That was just a youthful indiscretion compared to my all-out cornucopia of shame.
Eventually the laughter of my fellow paddlers awoke me from my sad reverie and I sprung into action. The same cruel god that had painted me the fool (granted, it was a kind of color-by-numbers situation) now took mercy. My remount was quick and effective. I opened the bailer, regripped my paddle, and slid my feet under the footstraps just as the starter sent us off. I emerged from my ignominious start with increased devotion to my cause. Only a decisive victory would unconditionally erase the memory of my ignominious start from the minds of my fellow paddlers. Never to be spoken of again.
You know, Aquaman doesn't even have gills.
Every race has a guy that goes a dead sprint, implodes after about a half-mile, and then suffers his way through to the finish. And - assuming he hasn't dislodged a rudder or left his boat on the side of the Turnpike - that guy is Kirk Olsen. Kirk outdid himself this day, windmilling out of the gate along the left bank. Jan, Matt, Chris (Laughlin), and Hawaiian guy (Gilliland) also got off to strong starts, trending more to the right.
My ornithological survey of the race course led me to
believe that Kirk was on the superior line (you just look which way the
grebes are pointing), so I followed along behind, taking advantage of
the cooling breeze provided by his whirring blades. Unskilled as they
were in grebe-craft, Matt, Chris, and Guy fell back as they struggled
against the incoming tide. A few minutes later, I heard the
unmistakable grinding sound of a failed bearing, and a cloud of dense
smoke enveloped Kirk. I soon caught and overtook him, leaving only Jan
ahead.
The Man from Atlantis. He has gills. But even so, they're discretely hidden.
I stuck tight to the left bank while Jan labored in the channel. Ducking behind a grassy island just off shore, I threw in a short interval to take advantage of the slack water. By the time I merged back into the main river, I was in the lead. Jan angled over to rest on my draft, but could never seem to find a comfortable position. After a few failed attempts to shake him, I finally broke free and enjoyed an uneventful remainder of the race (although I'll note that the gentle returning headwind that I mentioned earlier was playing a little rougher than seemed necessary) to take my first Essex win.
It's long been a goal of mine to write a race report without actually discussing the race itself. I managed to limit the racing portion here to only three paragraphs, so I've made some real progress.
After finishing, I immediately headed shoreward to lash myself to a piling so that I could watch the remaining paddlers come by without the risk of book-ending my race with swims. Jan finished a strong second, tenaciously dragging a mass of reeds that Thor Hyerdahl could have woven into an ocean-worthy vessel. And here I had always assumed that Jan's boasts of weed-snagging proficiency were so much hollow bluster... Third place was captured by peripatetic paddler Chris Laughlin, who edged out hard-charging Tim Hudyncia. Mike McDonough brought his Huki in for fifth. Mary Beth came across as the first women (nipped at the line by Timmy Shields), joined on the podium by Leslie Chappell and Jenifer Kreamer. In the SS20+ class, Bob finished first, with Ken Cooper right on his tail and Dana Gaines not far behind.
For those of you tired of coughing up brackish estuary water, the open ocean beckons as the (ignore the name, I promise you it's not a river) Sakonnet River Race approaches. Registration is through PaddleGuru, as it is for the entire Rhode Island series (like rabies shots, it's pretty important that you don't skip any). Wesley guarantees that the first 50 people that sign up will be rewarded with a real sense of accomplishment. So don't wait and end up being that 51st loser.
For those of you in the Greater Boston area, the venerable (ignore the name, I promise you it's in Beverly) Salem League kicked off this past Tuesday and will continue through the summer. Join us for the 11th season of Bill complaining about Le Mans-style starts and double-headers.
The 5.7 mile race has paddlers wending out the Essex River, rounding Cross Island, traversing a broad estuary, and returning back up the river. We'd be working against a mild incoming tide on the opening leg, then gently caressed by a light headwind on the way back. The area is notoriously difficult to navigate, with frequent shallows and a confusing maze of low-lying islands and river inlets. I had meticulously reconnoitered the course earlier in the week, so I knew exactly where to find red-breasted merganser nests and the best route to avoid game wardens once stocked with eggs for the black market. The race purse isn't what it once was, and these boats don't pay for themselves.
 |
| Rod seemed oddly insistent that everyone "taste this chowder". |
Having never before left his Pacific home (in 2016, that is), Guy Gilliland would spend a night with us and compete the next day in the legendary Essex River Race. Figuring Guy would benefit from the experience of an islander who had fully assimilated to New England paddling, we invited Bob Capellini to stay with us as well. Together, we introduced our new Hawaiian friend to cold water paddling, Massachusetts driving, and whoopie pies (or was that just me, scarfing down the last one when nobody was looking?). Of course, we'd have been remiss if we hadn't also subjected him to some local hazing rituals. After bundling him up in a snowsuit and ski goggles, Bob and I took Guy out in Salem Harbor, giggling like schoolgirls every time Guy startled after we yelled "Look out! Walrus!!!".
Guy turned out be an excellent guest, eagerly swapping tales from his tropical paradise in exchange for spoonfuls of dinner that night. After completing our final pre-race rite (ferrying our cars over to Essex to secure the best parking places - perhaps the most important element in psyching out the opponent), we turned in. Jan Lupinski had expressed some interest in crashing at our swinging ski pad too, but the matter was left a little ambiguous. I had a fitful night of sleep, worrying that every little sound might be Jan scratching softly at the door. He wasn't curled up on the front stoop in the morning, so we assumed he'd found a cave or tarp or something.
 |
| Buzzing as she was with nervous excitement before the race, it was sheer luck that I even caught Mary Beth in the frame. |
Between the HPK and SS20+ classes, 32 skis and 1 racing kayak (Ben Randall, a newcomer who promises he won't repeat his embarrassing faux pas) had shown up to compete. With a passel of the Northeast's best paddlers unable to make the race, several more not yet trained up for the season, and Bill Kuklinski opting to start early in more unfavorable tidal conditions (due to drawing post-race band duty), the top end of the field was a little thinner than at the recent Run of the Charles. It looked like Jan would be my primary competition, although I was also worried about surprise entrant Chris Laughlin, whose power forward build and alarming glow of general fitness makes lesser men quail.
We had arrived a full week before our 11am start time, but eventually I found myself on the muddy and reed-strewn waters of the Essex, preparing myself mentally for the upcoming pain. Knowing that I'm not going to surge to an immediate lead, I usually hang back at the start of a race, finding a cozy nook in the second tier where I can run through my pre-race self-affirmation exercises with some degree of privacy. Sensing something momentous was going to happen this day, however, I urged my ski forward until it pushed a slight bow into the starting line.
From shore, the starter ran patiently through our numbers. Once all the boats had been accounted for, she called out a 15 second warning. I reached as far forward as I could to start my foredeck-mounted GPS, thereby contorting myself into the yoga position known as "Waterward-Facing Dimwit". Despite having years of practice, I was only able to maintain this precarious pose for a fraction of a second before gravity man-handled me into the river.
Just like when I got pantsed while reading the Gettysburg Address at a school assembly (terrible day to wear my Aquaman underoos - who exactly thought it was a good idea to include "gill slits"?), time ground to a virtual standstill. I took advantage of this unexpected bonanza to reflect on exactly how utter and complete was my humiliation. I recalled that Matt Drayer had attempted a similar stunt prior to the Blackburn start, but without the measured discipline required for true mortification. That was just a youthful indiscretion compared to my all-out cornucopia of shame.
 |
| There was some confusion about what exactly constituted a "water start". |
You know, Aquaman doesn't even have gills.
Every race has a guy that goes a dead sprint, implodes after about a half-mile, and then suffers his way through to the finish. And - assuming he hasn't dislodged a rudder or left his boat on the side of the Turnpike - that guy is Kirk Olsen. Kirk outdid himself this day, windmilling out of the gate along the left bank. Jan, Matt, Chris (Laughlin), and Hawaiian guy (Gilliland) also got off to strong starts, trending more to the right.
The Man from Atlantis. He has gills. But even so, they're discretely hidden.
I stuck tight to the left bank while Jan labored in the channel. Ducking behind a grassy island just off shore, I threw in a short interval to take advantage of the slack water. By the time I merged back into the main river, I was in the lead. Jan angled over to rest on my draft, but could never seem to find a comfortable position. After a few failed attempts to shake him, I finally broke free and enjoyed an uneventful remainder of the race (although I'll note that the gentle returning headwind that I mentioned earlier was playing a little rougher than seemed necessary) to take my first Essex win.
 |
| Our new friend Guy insists that he was born and raised in Hawaii, but we have our doubts. He could barely hold a tune on the ukulele and refused to get riled up when I repeatedly asked him if this was his first time in "The States". |
After finishing, I immediately headed shoreward to lash myself to a piling so that I could watch the remaining paddlers come by without the risk of book-ending my race with swims. Jan finished a strong second, tenaciously dragging a mass of reeds that Thor Hyerdahl could have woven into an ocean-worthy vessel. And here I had always assumed that Jan's boasts of weed-snagging proficiency were so much hollow bluster... Third place was captured by peripatetic paddler Chris Laughlin, who edged out hard-charging Tim Hudyncia. Mike McDonough brought his Huki in for fifth. Mary Beth came across as the first women (nipped at the line by Timmy Shields), joined on the podium by Leslie Chappell and Jenifer Kreamer. In the SS20+ class, Bob finished first, with Ken Cooper right on his tail and Dana Gaines not far behind.
 |
| By now you'd think these 3 would be able to coordinate which camera to look at. |
For those of you in the Greater Boston area, the venerable (ignore the name, I promise you it's in Beverly) Salem League kicked off this past Tuesday and will continue through the summer. Join us for the 11th season of Bill complaining about Le Mans-style starts and double-headers.
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