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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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... |
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. |
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). |
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.
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. |
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!
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