Battles of the Bay: Sean vs Us vs Jan

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.