Casco Bay Challenge: Paradise Lost

While it's not unknown for a paddler to diverge slightly off the best line or inadvertently cut (or extend) the course by turning on the wrong waypoint, most New England races follow simple routes that would make it impossible to get truly lost.  If you wander astray in Eric McNett's Casco Bay Challenge, however, you're likely to spend the remainder of your days trying to identify the mainland amidst a sea of islands.  The winner of this race is awarded not only a medal, but also the Marine Navigation merit badge, a special commendation from the National Geographic Society, and a commission in the US Navy.

In theory, it's simple. Start at the bottom of Casco Bay at Willard Beach.  Paddle northeast until, 16.6 miles later, you hit what you hope will be Merepoint boat launch on the other side of the bay.  In practice, well... let's not get ahead of ourselves.

The Maine Tourism Board was laying it on a little thick on race day.  While Mary Beth and I waited for the rest of the field to arrive, we surveyed a panorama that included a dozen islands, two light houses, a pair of 19th century forts, schooners, lobster boats, ferries, sandy beaches, rocky shoals...  We get it.  It's damned scenic.  If only there had been a moose spitting blueberries at us, we'd have filled every square in the Maine bingo card given to us at the border.

There was a pretty strong temptation to just skip the race, but since we already had our neoprene shorts on...

Although 14 outriggers accepted the Challenge, the surfski field was limited to a meager 7 boats - quite surprising given the robust fleet of 25 skis in 2015 (including a strong contingent from our neighbor to the north).  Scholars argue about the precise reasons for this, but most agree that contributing factors include the competing Seas It race in NJ, the recent Canadian referendum that sent potential cross-border paddlers scurrying home (the so-called Canexodus), and Matt Drayer's stubborn insistence that his young children are more important than "Eric's stupid race" (I know - seems harsh, but those are the words falsely ascribed to him).  Whatever their misguided rationales, with a steady southerly breeze of 10+ mph at our backs, the absent paddlers would be missing record-fast conditions.

In addition to seasoned Casco Bay paddlers Joe Shaw, Bruce Deltorchio, Chris Sherwood, Mary Beth, and myself, we were joined by fledglings Nat Woodruff and Dale Hartt.  Nat would be paddling a Think Uno Max, while Dale would be in an Epic V14 GT - both advanced boats.  This would be the first time flatwater paddler Nat would be in a surfski.  And canoeist Dale hadn't used a wing paddle, let alone been in a ski, until 3 weeks ago.  While some expressed concerns about these inexperienced paddlers tackling 16.5 miles of cold and unpredictable Maine waters, I figured they would never make it far enough from the starting beach to be in any danger.

Bruce, Chris, and Mary Beth wait in vain for me to come up with a humorous caption.

Over the years, Eric's directions to the assembled field have grown increasingly terse, as he relies heavily upon the course veterans to lead the unsuspecting newcomers.  His instructions this year were limited to "follow the surfskis" - roughly akin to relating the "physician, heal thyself" proverb to a doctor suffering a heart attack.  Presumably he was talking mainly to the OCs.  The joke was on him, however, as only two skis finished before the first outrigger.

With the nebulous directions fresh in our minds, we soon assembled on the water.  Designated boat wrangler Joe lined us up and Eric startled us on our way with an airhorn blast from shore.  With a good jump, I set a route directly towards the right edge of what I took to be Great Diamond Island.  I suppose I should admit that, despite stern warnings about doing any unsportsmanlike course planning, I had consulted Google Maps the previous night. 

After a few minutes, I glanced back to check the state of the field.  I was in a surfski.  I was in the lead.  But the entire field was pooh-poohing Eric's sole instruction.  Nobody was following me.  The outriggers and the other skis were bunched in a pack well off to the right.  What was going on?  Did I perhaps miss the part of the pre-race briefing where we agreed to land on House Island to stage a surprise attack on poorly-defended Fort Scammel?  No... it looked like they would all be going to the right of House Island!  I wavered in my conviction that I knew where I was going.  Within minutes, I was suffering from a debilitating case of navigation fatigue.  Demoralized, I started to angle towards the group.

After I had closed half the distance, however, it became clear that the other paddlers would pass to my side of House Island.  Somewhat relieved, but still shaken by my crisis of confidence, I resumed my original course.  Conditions at the start had been a bit disorganized, but as we started to put some islands between us and the open ocean, the waves started to line up with the wind.  Not wanting to get left behind, the incoming tide got in on the action as well, pushing us gently across the bay.

Do people still use the term "cabin cruiser"?  Seems hopelessly antiquated, like "horseless carriage", "Bill Cosby comedy album", or "my parent's dreams for me".  In any event, the Devil (always a little behind the times) took the form of a cabin cruiser.  Not to smite me (that'd be more of God's purview), but rather to tempt me.  The GPS was stroking my ego - I'm sure just to butter me up for later disillusionment (much as my early coloring book prowess did for my folks) - but Satan came puttering by a full mile per hour faster with a billowing wake that can only be described as luscious.  I could stay within the prescribed lines of race decorum, or I could shake off the bonds of propriety and submit to out-of-class drafting temptation.  Mind racing, mouth watering, I weighed my options.

The next 45 minutes went by in a flash.  As I cleared the end of Chebeague Island, however, my once-reliable companion abandoned me, like that deceiver always must.  I'm referring, of course, to my unwarranted sense of downwind competence.  I had let the tantalizing cabin cruiser pass me by - more out of fear that Joe or Bruce might be close enough to witness my transgression than any moral compunction, sure, but perhaps the road to heaven is paved with thwarted bad intentions.

With a favorable wind behind us, Bruce was able to complete the entire race just by maintaining this pose. (photo courtesy of Eric McNett).

In the open water past the northern tip of Chebeague, I lost my downwind thread in a tangle of side chop, boat wakes, and hard braces.  Another gap in the protective barrier of islands was letting the ocean conditions seep through.  For the next couple of miles, I struggled to cut this Gordian knot and restore my former rate of progress.  I took one brief break to awkwardly smear a power gel on my face and hands - it was the new Topical Fruit flavor - but I never got the osmotic boost of power that I had hoped for.  Next time maybe I'll try Supposiberry.

Eventually I made it to the protection of French's Island and I was able to stop flailing wildly... and start flailing with real purpose.  Unfortunately, the nagging navigational doubts that had been planted earlier were now flowering into full-blown neuroses.  Everything seemed vaguely familiar, but what if I was wrong...  I grew progressively more confident that I was heading into the wrong cove, as Francisco Urena had done in the inaugural Challenge.  We've hardly seen him since.  After another mile of gnawing doubts, I sprinted to cross in front of a lobster boat and flagged him down to ask directions.

This encounter didn't go quite as either of us planned.  Apparently, the lobstermen couldn't hear my question about Merepoint properly over their diesel engine.  They responded by asking if I needed a ride to shore.  I thought they were making a joke, but apparently my unintelligible speech, wild eyes, and spastic paddling had convinced them I was in distress.  The still-unabsorbed facial goo doubtless contributed to their concern. While I was trying to make them understand I just wanted directions, they were trying to pull me on board to administer CPR.  Fortunately, a slippery sheen of sunscreen, sweat, and power gel prevented them from getting their claws on me, allowing me to make an escape and continue my uncertain course.

A half-mile later, I approached an anchored pleasure boat (once you get more than a mile off the Maine coast, pretty much anything is legal) to again ask directions.  Given how completely unaware he was of the local waters (and his insistence on calling me "Barry"), the captain had apparently been drugged and blindfolded before emerging in a half-conscious state to find himself in Casco Bay.  I waited the better part of an hour while he leafed clumsily through maps to get his bearings, but seeing the approaching flash of paddle blades behind me, I decided that I needed to commit to a route.  I threw myself back into action, leaving the captain to find himself.

I wasn't convinced that I was in Merepoint Bay until I eventually saw Eric standing on the finish line pier, verifying his identity using a driver's license and our pre-arranged password ("blunderbuss").  Although he was also suffered from debilitating disorientation pangs, Joe finished a convincing second.  Bruce took the third spot, with newcomer Nat only 30 seconds behind.  Chris came in next, followed by Dale.  Who would have guessed that the bad decision of the day wasn't paddling a V14 across unpredictable Casco Bay with barely any surfski experience, but rather doing so with a surf rudder and no weed guard?  Mary Beth was the women's champion.  For the outriggers, Marc Lessard and Andy Hall finished as the first OC-2 (third overall), Andrey Drachenko as the first OC-1 guy (fourth overall), and Carol Choi as the first OC-1 gal.

Seconds after this photo was taken, Eric unexpectedly yelled out "Grab whatever you can!"  I broke a pinky and have an impressive scar on my forehead now, but at least I got that orange.

After a picnic lunch, podium finishers in the various classes were awarded snazzy race-customized medals.  The entire field also got to choose from a swag table with items from Adventurous Joe Coffee, Vaikobi, and Epic.  Thanks to Eric and Maggie Clement for a memorable day in Maine.

Despite our best attempts to delay the inevitable, the Blackburn Challenge is almost upon us.  Good news, though.  After intense negotiations, I've managed to wring a concession from the organizers.  From now until the race, you'll be earning triple training miles every time you hit the water!

Ride the Bull: Choosing Stability

Wesley and Tim introduced the Ride the Bull race to the New England surfski circuit in 2013, filling a gaping mid-June hole in our calendar.  Positioned early enough in the season so that we don't yet have our sea legs, but requiring that we paddle almost exclusively through pathologically disturbed waters, it quickly became the race that many of us love to hate.  Or just plain hate, as Chris Chappell so eloquently conveyed in the epic curse-poem he debuted mid-race last year.  Everyone can agree, however, that once you weather 9+ miles on the Bull, your lifelong fear of cattle will have proven itself warranted.  Creepy.  Something about those billiard-ball eyes.  And dewlaps?  Ugh.

Ignoring the fact that some of us had spent the better part of the preceding week trying to memorize the twists and turns of the standard course (buoy, rock, buoy, rock, flip, buoy, flip, rock, buoy, buoy, death by sailboat), Wesley and Tim decided to mix things up for 2016.  Rather than bouncing repeatedly between Mackerel Cove and Hull Cove, we'd instead get the required bouncing skimming close by Short Point, Lion Head, and Beavertail Point on our way to the Beavertail floaty ringing thing. After Tim's bulging-eyed rant about using the proper terminology for this particular navigational aid (during the captains meeting), I figured I'd just stick with a safe, descriptive phrase.  The rest of the course would remain mostly the same as last year - we'd return the way we came, pass the start, turn on the bobbing green metal doodad near the House on the Rock, then finish in the cove where we launched.

Eric and I fight for the early lead.  I know - putting this photo so early disrupts the narrative flow.  If it wasn't first, however, when creating a link to this report in Facebook, I'd end up with the picture of Bill as the thumbnail.  And then who knows what sort of people would be clicking through... (Photo courtesy of Chun Yang)

Against my worse judgement, I decided to bring my V10 Sport.  Last year, Big Jim Hoffman had danced through the confused waters with balletic grace for the win, while I staggered drunkenly behind, occasional dunking my head (and attached parts) in a fruitless attempt to sober up.  I initially considered filling my platypus with coffee this year (you don't even want to know what that's an Australian euphemism for), but ultimately decided that a more stable boat might be a better way to avoid another PWI.  Seemed like a sound plan.  Now I found myself gazing out at a sea so still that I couldn't tell where the water stopped and my impending slow-boat defeat started.

Ride the Bull attendance ebbs and flows as paddlers lapse in and out of instituationalization from the trauma of the previous year's race.  For 2016, we had a slighter larger field than in 2015 since a few of the 2014 participants had finally managed to get their meds properly balanced.  Federal privacy laws prohibit me from disclosing specific patients or treatments, but I'll just remind you that Bob Capellini, Jan Lupinski and Eric Costanzo spent last year "at another race"...  All looked well this day, although Eric did seem a little glassy-eyed.

If you ever find yourself thinking "Gee, maybe I'll give Bill Kuklinski a ride to the race", just remember that he's got a lot of stories from his time in prison.

Misinterpreting the saying that one should never try anything new in a race, defending champ Jim figured he should try everything new.  I think he would have been fine if he had just stuck to a new boat, paddle, and PFD, but changing mustache wax... that's just craziness.  Eric likewise was violating the maxim, paddling in his new V10 GT.  From Rochester, New York, John Hair mixed it up a bit - figuring he'd try racing in the ocean for the first time.  I'm disappointed to relate that none of these game-day change-ups resulted in any humorous anecdotes involving the Coast Guard, allergic reactions, or amputated limbs.

Wesley has conducted us in quite a few rolling starts, with varying degrees of success. Our previous rehearsals had been ragged, but in the protected waters of West Cove, everyone hit their mark.  The Fenns, Epics, Stellars, Thinks, and Nelos all came in together - a glorious symphony of paddles whirling in perfect synchrony.  Alas, things went to hell after the opening few bars, as everyone starting improvising to his/her own tempo.  As usual, I hammered out a primitive beat on the side of my ski, but my attempts to restore order fell on deaf ears.  When Tim Hudyncia started scat singing, I knew it was every man for himself.

I had positioned myself on the far right side of the starting line, inadvertently setting myself up nicely for the turn coming out of the cove.  With this geometric advantage over the rest of the field, I found myself unexpectedly in third place shortly after the start.  Eric had powered out to a clean lead, with Andrius Zinkevichus in pursuit.

In the next few minutes I passed Andrius and settled alongside Eric, thinking we might hobnob a while together.  Instead, I got the silent treatment.  Treating me like the guy who sits right next to you on the otherwise empty subway car, smelling of rancid cheese (it's a medical condition), Eric studiously ignored me even as I stared continuously at his right ear from two feet away.  After a couple minutes of this, I took the hint and (muttering incoherently to myself to maintain the analogy) paddled ahead to sulk on my own.

Jan must have similarly received the cold shoulder from Eric, because I soon noticed that he had pulled into second.  Having quickly grown accustomed to solitude, I concentrated on catching every little runner I could as we approached the entrance to Mackerel Cove.  Jan was taking an extremely wide line coming around Southwest Point.  Presumably he had studied up on orbital mechanics and was planning on leveraging his centrifugal momentum to slingshot himself into the lead.  He must have miscalculated his entry angle, however, because I was able to reach the turn rock first.

Heading across Mackerel Cove we were bucking a mild headwind in fairly calm conditions.  That seemed like a recipe for losing ground to Jan - with his bulldog upwind tenacity and sleeker boat (the stylish black-and-gray color scheme alone adds a quarter knot).  Sure enough, by the time we reached the far side of the cove, Jan had drawn even well off to my left.  Once we hit Short Point, however, conditions started to pick up as the ocean swell, wind-driven waves, and boat wakes refracted off the rocky shore.  About then I started apologizing for all the terrible things I had been saying about my boat choice.

I'm kind of enthralled by how the evolving ocean surface consists of the superposition of waves of different directions, periods, and amplitudes.  If you listened to a Bach fugue and a Chopin etude at the same time, it might sound like a couple of cats walking across a piano keyboard.  But if you knew exactly which notes to selectively pay attention to, you'd start wondering which of those feline prodigies you should be booking on the Ed Sullivan Show.  I forgot to mention that this was all happening in 1962.  And that you were wearing ridiculous plaid pants.  In the unlikely event that I have a point, it may be this - even in the slop, if you can focus on the right wave train, you might be able to find something you can hum along to.

I'm obviously no expert on reading the water (for concrete evidence of this, see about half of my blog posts), but it's a lot easier to pick out the tune when you're not struggling to stay upright.  In the Sport, I was able to find small rides in the overlapping waves while maintaining some semblance of an actual stroke.  In the two miles from Short Point to the turn-around, I was able to open up perhaps a minute-and-a-half gap on Jan.  Passing him going the other way, however, I had to admit that he still looked way cooler in that boat.  Eric was perhaps another 90 seconds behind Jan, with a solid lead on the next couple of paddlers (perhaps Jim and Tim Dwyer, looking pretty blurry from their effort?).

That thing we were talking about earlier.

After the turn, the tide and swell were in our favor.  The ocean wasn't giving out free rides, but once you got up a head of steam you could occasionally jump the turnstile and catch a breather until the next station.  I kept to the outside on the way back, hoping for a tidal boost and trying to keep out of the worst of the refractory chop.  Jan told me later he closed during this span, so I'm not sure the added distance was worth it.  After turning on the rock in Mackerel Cove and rounding Southwest Point (scattering a skittish flock of sea kayakers in the process), I headed to the final turn near the House on the Rock.

With a helpful current, I moved along nicely on this penultimate stretch despite starting to hear various non-essential body systems shutting down (it's kind of a dying whir, with the occasional chucka-chucka-clunk).  I refused to give the finish line the satisfaction of a glance as I passed by the first time.  Of course, I did mutter a short hex and spit to both sides of my boat in the hopes that Wesley and Tim would suffer hideous boils for tacking on this last couple of miles.  In response, a boat wake raised up, slapped my GoPro to the deck, and flooded my cockpit.  Perhaps the Sea Gods aren't so much fans of the spitting.

When passing sea kayakers, for their own good it's important to sprint at 100% until you're out of sight.  Otherwise, they'll never learn.

I made the final turn around something that looked an awful like what someone (other than me) might refer to as a "green can".  Heading home, it seemed like Jan had a lock on second place, but Eric's grasp on third was threatened by a furious attack from Jim and Tim (who showed no signs of affliction yet, but these things take time).  I was pretty upset at now having to fight against the tide and wind to get (back) to the finish, but remembering my earlier lesson, spit into the boat this time. IRS audit, maybe?

Eventually I arrived back in the scuba-infested waters of Cove to the West of West Cove to take first.  Jan came in shortly after.  Eric nosed around the corner next, managing to barely hold off Jim and Tim - the three finishing within 10 seconds of one another.  Mary Beth, in a Capellini-branded V8, took the women's title.

Jan demonstrates why we put up with all the races in Rhode Island.  (Photo courtesy of Chun Yang)

Last year's winner Jim was generous in his congratulations, saying that I looked "relaxed" and "like a magnificent stallion."  And also that I "needed to learn what quotation marks mean."  Point "taken".  After swapping tales of the 9.25 mile race, pretty much everyone broke down weeping at the realization that we had only paddled 47% of a Blackburn.  For those you who have managed to repress the date of that event for the sake of your mental health... it's July 16.  A few of us retired to Spinnakers in Jamestown to drown our anxiety with well-deserved beer-and-milkshake refreshments.  I've found that nothing clears up an ice cream headache faster than a generous application of hops.

Thanks to Tim and Wesley for putting together a race that's always fun and challenging. Sorry about the voodoo, but you'll have to admit that between this and the Narrow River, you had it coming.

"I remember once, back in Sing Sing, when I shivved a guy for talking smack about my PFD..."

Our normally tight-knit gang of paddlers will be ripped asunder this coming weekend, as Eric Costanzo and Eric McNett offer competing downwind races in New Jersey and Maine.  Check the forecasts and choose your poison at PaddleGuru - the Seas It Downwinder or the Casco Bay Challenge.  For those with a paddling addiction that you should really get help for, there's also the Nashua River Race on Sunday.

Sakonnet River Race: There Are No Shortcuts

Gazing over the placid waters of the Sakonnet River, it seemed that I had been granted a reprieve.  With all of my training thus far done on flatwater, I was hardly ready to compete in any significant ocean conditions - what some traditionalist sticklers might refer to as an "actual surfski race".  I can appreciate the thrill of clutching desperately to the shattered hull of your boat as you're being swept helplessly out to sea as much as the next person, but as I fade into my twilight years, I find myself welcoming a gentler passage.

With a light wind in our face and the tide in our favor, we'd run the classic out-and-back course 6.25 miles south from McCorrie Beach down the Sakonnet to the turn-around at Third Beach.  After the turn, we'd struggle against the tidal current and the increasingly oppressive heat until - about 4 miles later - every last paddler would wonder if this stupid race would ever end and why-oh-why won't Jesse just pull ahead already and put me out of my misery?  I'm pretty sure that's what the PaddleGuru course description said, anyway.

I miss the old days, when we could just show up and race without having to first suffer through another of Wesley's Rhode Island timeshare presentations.

We'd been getting increasingly hostile letters from the National Surfski Racing Accreditation Board threatening expulsion unless we starting complying with Subsection 13.C of our licensing charter.  With Ben Pigott AWOL and Eric McNett's dermatologist laying down the law regarding further sun exposure, we've been without the requisite shirtless paddler for too many races.  I'd have stepped up to the plate, but I'm a bit self-conscious about my "Avoid the Noid" tattoo and the vestigial spiracles.  Fortunately, Matt Skeels agreed to descend from the wilds of the Adirondacks to save the day (before knowing that Personal Chafing Devices were mandatory, I'm guessing).  A flatwater specialist and newly anointed Epic Expert, Matt would be participating in his first ocean race.  Seems that you can't swing a paddle these days without hitting an Epic Expert, which has resulted in quite the payday for those of us enrolled in Fenn's generous bounty program.

As usual, during the captain's meeting I lingered just out of earshot so that I could plead ignorance after cutting the course or violating some other for-squares-only "rule".  Presumably fearing a repeat of my Narrow River performance, Wesley tried to corner me one-on-one afterwards to verify that I could identify the correct turn marker, but I barricaded myself in the port-a-potty until the threat had cleared.  To those of you forced to relieve themselves in a bucket while the outhouse was in use, you're just lucky I hadn't started my GoPro.

For Tim, race day invariably starts out with breathing exercises and Kegels.

Because Mary Beth didn't accompany me to the race (something about "needing some time away from those people"), I brought down a discreet quiver of boats.  With flat conditions at the starting line and an innocuous forecast for light winds, however, it took only modest prodding from mischievous cohorts to convince me that the V14 was the right boat for the day.  Against the likes of Jesse Lishchuk, Eric Costanzo, Matt Nunnally, Matt Drayer, and our newest Matt, I could use every theoretical advantage.
 
Soon 22 boats were molded into starting formation by Wesley, who wasted no time in setting us off via a rolling start.  While I had expected Jesse to surge immediately out in front of the pack, it was Matt Skeels who seized an immediate and commanding lead - apparently attempting to complete a 12.5 mile course in a thousand meters.  Over the next few minutes, I worked my way by Wesley, Bruce Deltorchio, and Chris Chappell until I was in clear water.

Chris, remember when time froze for everyone but us, and I wanted to change everybody's feather angles and rudder alignments, but you argued that rather than taking advantage of the mysterious space-time anomaly for personal gain, we should use the opportunity to clean up the beach or some such goody two-shoes crap, and then we compromised and shaved "Epic Rulz!" into the back of Wesley's head?  That was wild.

While Matt was forging his own path in the steely waters to the right, I looked left to see what appeared to be the entire remaining field strung out in a neat line chasing Jesse.  He was pushing the pace, and they craved what he was selling.  I could identify Eric Costanzo, Matt Drayer, and Matt Nunnally behind Jesse, but the remaining row of paddlers merged into a kaleidoscope of colors, boats, and paddles.  I angled over to join the parade, slotting myself cleanly behind Jesse.  I wasn't exactly sure if a "Thanks, Eric!" or a "Sorry, Eric!" was called for after taking his place, so I settled for the "Eric?  Never heard of him." approach.

You'd have thought Jesse would have been tuckered out from hauling so many paddlers, but he kept steaming ahead at a blistering pace.  I soon fell back a boat length or so, but managed to decouple myself from Eric.  Matt was flagging up ahead.  I initially wasn't sure if he was surrendering or trying to catch a ride, but given how spryly he jumped on my wash as we reached him a few minutes later, it seemed like he had plenty of fight left in him.

Betsy had to swap in a wide-angle lens to capture the commanding lead that Matt Skeels took in the opening seconds. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols and SurfskiRacing.com)

After another quarter-mile of agonizingly slow gains, I finally managed to close the gap on Jesse and get back on his draft.  I was just getting snuggled into my bucket in preparation for a cozy Lishchuk-powered ride to the turn-around, when Jesse eased up for a moment.  I wasn't sure if he was grabbing a drink or urging me to take a pull, but since I didn't want Matt to pass, I took the lead with only a single put-upon sigh.

On the shoulder of the outgoing tide, we were pushing well over 8 mph, even with a breeze in our faces.  Matt soon dropped off, doubtless to attend to his worsening abrasions.  Over the next few miles, Jesse and I swapped pulls a couple of times.

As we progressed closer to the mouth of the Sakonnet, the "utterly benign" conditions of the start steadily deteriorated until we were eventually confronted with "extremely mild" conditions - a very light head-on chop.  Unfortunately, I've only been "mill pond" certified in the V14 (plus a recently added "with ducks (no geese)" supplement).  Although I wasn't in danger of swimming - beyond the baseline probability I assume whenever I get in a ski, naturally - I could feel the power draining out of my stroke.  Would the first 3 or 4 miles of flatwater speed be enough to justify my boat choice?  Or would the better rough-water paddlers (that is to say, most of the field) make me pay?

Between the Run of the Charles and this race, Jesse and I have spent a lot of time together.  Like an old married couple, we sometimes argue about how much to tip the waiter or whether Angela Lansbury is still alive, but mostly we sit together in rueful silence.  I haven't really figured out why he keeps me around.  Am I an insurance policy to help him stay ahead of third-party threats by helping with the pulls?  A pathfinder guiding him through unfamiliar waters?  A gentle reminder of his own mortality?  In any event, I appreciate the prestige lent by my sidekick status.

As we approached Third Beach, Jesse and I pulled even so that we could discuss which among the endless field (well, three) of white-and-blue mooring buoys was our turn-around target.  Fortunately, I had watched the landmark movie posted by Wesley earlier in the week, and recognized #114 from its searing portrayal of loneliness therein.  Once we had made the turn, Jesse and I decided on a trial separation.  I wasn't optimistic about our chances of reconciling before the finish.  At some point during the first leg, Matt Nunnally and Eric had passed Matt Skeels, and were now scarcely a couple of minutes back.

With the outgoing tide pushing at least a half-mile per hour against us, you could increase your speed by hugging the shoreline on the way back to McCorrie Point.  However, if you religiously tucked into every cove and bay, the extra distance would chew up any advantage in velocity, and a stray rock might just do the same to your hull.  Jesse seemed determined to take the straight line home, while I spent the first few miles of the return trip weaving indecisively in an attempt to stumble into the optimal groove.  With the sun on our backs and without a cooling headwind, I was starting to feel like a nomad wandering aimlessly in the desert..

Eventually I found a sweet spot, much closer to the shore than I had anticipated.  My GPS finally stopped showing sarcastic speeds like "Nope" and "N/A", although it continued to insist that my heart rate was "Critical".  And don't get me started on the foolishness it was showing for my elapsed distance.  On the positive side, I seemed to be pacing Jesse - pulling even as I slid along the coast in each cove, then dropping back a few lengths when I had to emerge to round a point.

With the with-the-wind heat building to levels capable of melting the sturdiest mettle (or, at least, mine), McCorrie Point couldn't come soon enough.  Jesse and I were abreast of one another, roughly 50 meters apart.  I would have to angle out and around the point, while he would have to slant in towards the finish.  It would be impossible to out-sprint him on equal terms, but perhaps if I could shorten my distance by... (soft scratching sounds)... cutting tightly... (loud crunch)... around the... (heart-rending scrape)... point... (gentle whisper of waves lapping against grounded boat).  Seeing the shallow bar looming, I had tried to lean my rudder out of harm's way, but in water only a few inches deep, the hull itself was hitting bottom.

Jesse won this race not by finishing before every other paddler, but by... no wait, I'm wrong - that is how he won it. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols and SurfskiRacing.com)

Further from shore, Jesse skirted the shallows and headed to an easy victory as I awkwardly tried to free my ski.  Let's be clear.  He absolutely would have won even had my shortcut proven navigable, but as long as I studiously avoid rereading this sentence in the future, I can misremember how only a sandbar stood between me and victory on the Sakonnet.  With the help of a marine salvage team, I did manage to free my boat (a few scratches worse for wear) and take silver.  Matt Nunnally came in less than 2 minutes later to fill out the top 3, with Eric only a few seconds behind.  Despite having virtually no ocean experience, Matt Skeels took 5th place by an easy margin.  Joe, Matt Drayer, Tim Dwyer, Kirk Olsen, and Wesley rounded out the top 10 men, while Leslie Chappell took the top women's spot.  Special commendations were awarded to Bob Capellini and Steve DelGaudio for assisting a paddler in discomfort.

I don't recall much of the post-race festivities.  I'm told there was pizza (best in the state, allegedly, although keep in mind that's also what they say of Narragansett Beer) and a raucous sing-along around the bonfire, but I was too wiped out to join in the revelries.  I just crawled under my car and whimpered.  Thanks to Wesley and Betsy for throwing another great Sakonnet Race.

You couldn't ask for a better bunch of folks.  I've tried, but turns out this is about as good as we can get with our credit rating.  (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols and SurfskiRacing.com)

Like that dream where you keep running and running but never get anywhere (and also, your fingers are snakes), we'll be back in Rhode Island on June 18th for the Ride the Bull race.  Register today at PaddleGuru.  It's free, but if you're interested in putting some money down, betting has already started on how many times I'll be swimming.