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.
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