Chattajack 31: Living by the Sword

Paddling 31 miles down the Tennessee River isn't everyone's dream, but veterans of the Chattajack 31 are relentless in trying to convince you that it should be.  The camaraderie of shared suffering!  The pre-dawn muster!  The fully-trained medical staff!  How could I resist their rabid proselytizing?  I registered in early May, not realizing that I'd then spend the better part of the next six months training for the race.  Probably should have consulted the calendar first.  Having now completed the Chattajack, I must join the chorus of advocates.  However, I might choose to highlight different factors - the clockwork organization, the fascinating people (probably at least half of the 600+ paddlers), the beautiful course, etc.  Despite being in only its 7th year, it's a can't-miss classic.

Fair warning.  An epic race deserves an epic report.  Since that was clearly out of reach, I settled for the poor man's version - an interminable report.  Remember about the shared suffering.  If you haven't finished by the 8 hour cut-off, officials will yank you out of the article.

We set off for Chattanooga on the Wednesday before the race, whiling away much of our 18-hour drive playing roadkill bingo.  Unfortunately, somehow I ended up with a card from the Australian edition.  Not only did I have to play with the antipodean sheet upside down, precious few wallabies and cassowaries had been careless enough to end their lives on the shoulder of the interstate.  With Mary Beth gleefully chalking up squares with groundhogs, porcupines, and prairie dogs (we may not have taken the most direct route), I was - as MB kept smirkingly reminding me - in serious danger of being skunked.  Finally, somewhere around the Tennessee border I recognized the tattered remains of a spotted quoll.  Rather unsportingly, I think, MB chose to use one of her discretionary challenges. Subsequent DNA analysis proved inconclusive - mainly because the lab insisted that it couldn't test a "ratty old sweater".  Amateurs.

Through a series of complicated transfers usually reserved for laundering mob money or smuggling endangered amphibians into the US, we'd be delivering a Think Uno from Massachusetts to Tennessee for mid-westerner Greg Greene.  Greg is my college roommate's wife's sister's husband's brother, so we're practically family.  He lives in Wisconsin, so we don't get together often enough to reminisce about the one person in the middle of that connective stream who we both actually know.  We managed to get the boat to Greg without mishap, although he should probably check the footwell for dwarf splayfoot salamanders.

This year she just watched, but I predict next year she'll listen too.

We pulled into Chattanooga Thursday afternoon.  Never having paddled an inland waterway south of the 40th parallel, I hit the river to recalibrate my boat.  Some WD-40 and a few well-placed hammer blows later, I was ready to get cleaned up and hit the town.  We met up with our Northeast friends, Jean Kostelich and partner Alex, for dinner, where we saw some appropriately gruesome pre-Halloween pictures of the remains of a V8 Pro that had flown off their rack on the way down.  That's something you can't unsee.  Undeterred, they simply returned home, picked up a replacement boat, and completed the trek to Tennessee.  Jean is my new hero.  Afterwards, we headed to the Chattanooga Brewing Company for a shindig hosted by convivial locals Ted "Theo" "No, Ted!" Burnell and wife Cindy.  Ted was kind enough to provide a plethora of valuable racing tips and course notes, nearly all of which evaporated with my first stroke on Saturday.  Next year, tattoos.

What are the odds that I'd come to Ted's costume party as him, and he as me?

With three previous Chattajack wins under his belt, including a record-setting sub-4 hour time last year, Erik Borgnes was the hands-on favorite to leave the younger members of the surfski field wondering when they too could finally be 53.  I, for one, look forward to my domination in 2020.  Some months before the race, Erik had expressed interest in recruiting an elite cadre of paddlers to work together as the lead pack.  I'd always wanted to be part of a cadre.  If he was willing to relax the "elite" requirement, I was in.  We haggled over a substitute qualifier, eventually settling on a non-committal "scrappy".  When Flavio Costa's name appeared on the registration list, I was worried that Erik might eject me from the cadre and revert to his original, uncompromised vision.  Fortunately, he seemed committed to an egalitarian approach - if you could hang with the group, you were sufficiently scrappy.  Based on their results from 2017, I thought perhaps Scott Cummins, Murray Hunkin, or Terry Smith might become de facto cadre members.

I was particularly looking forward to dueling with Flavio.  The last time we competed head-to-head, we were practically both in diapers (in my case, an unfortunate side-effect of an ill-advised visit to the all-you-can-eat shellfish buffet at a Sizzler).  I doubted I could keep with him in a shorter ocean race, but hoped that the long flatwater distance might allow me to grind him down.

Perhaps the most interesting race of the day would be between the power tandems of Matt Skeels & Neil Fleming, Nate Humberston & Bruce Poacher, and Morgan House & Stanton Collins.  Paddling V10 Doubles, it seemed a lock that at least one of these boats would break Nate & Bruce's all-around course record of 3:53:54, set in an Epic 18X Double.  To add a little spice to their battle, they'd be competing for overall honors against an OC-6 stacked with legendary talent.

The staging area the afternoon before the race.  Later on, we'd celebrate Chattajack Eve here - singing traditional paddler shanties and eating Moon Pies.

The race starts at the Market Street Bridge in downtown Chattanooga and winds 32 miles down the Tennessee River to finish at Hales Bar Marina in Nickajack Lake.  Hence Chattajack 31.  Perhaps market research revealed that using the actual distance would frighten off too many competitors?  Using that same line of reasoning, I suggest that they instead advertise the straight-line start-to-finish distance of 13 miles - maybe skimping on details of the 12.7 miles of portage.

Book-ended by the Chickamauga and Nickajack dams, the river current is determined solely by the sadistic whims of the Tennessee Valley Authority (ostensibly with some token concern for power generation and water level remediation).  The day prior to the race, the TVA provided a tantalizing preview of what might be.  Watching SUPs inch upstream against a terrific flow (after which, presumably, they'd mate and die), between chuckles I estimated the current at 1.5 knots.  That astonishing degree of assistance would surely... What's that?  We'll have a quarter of that on race day?  And a head wind?  And somehow the fundamental physical properties of water will be changed so that it's stickier?  Oh TVA, you old rascal.

They're fellow New Englanders, but somehow everyone in Chattanooga seemed to know Team Ide.  The Electron and the Sphinx.  That's the title of the upcoming Netflix series about their antics.

Women's champion Pam Boteler before the race.  I can't be positive, but I'm pretty sure she has a kite-boarding rig hooked up in her footwell.

Having stowed our boats in the riverside staging area the night before, there was considerably less pre-race rigmarole than you'd expect for a race with nearly 500 watercraft.  Paddlers quietly outfitted their boats and selves for the upcoming expedition.  The temperature hovered around 50 with a moderate breeze from the west.  The first wave of paddleboards, kayaks, and canoes got off without a hitch (but with a ceremonial bagpiper) and it was time for the skis and OCs to get on the water.

I opted to start somewhat to the right of river center, away from the 140-boat throng that would doubtless be clamoring to swamp me in their initial zeal.  As a result, I got off the gently drifting line cleanly at the gun and managed to keep clear of virtually all traffic through the opening minutes.  As I settled into my pace, I surveyed the field.  It was easy to identify Flavio, leading all solo craft in his vibrant pink Nelo, but the rest of the cast ahead remained indistinguishable.  I was relieved to find that after the first mile, all of the OCs (with the exception of the Star-Studded Six) were safely behind me - I was worried that I might be tangling with multi-person outriggers for the whole race.  Eventually I was able to spot Erik's all-white ski in third position, chasing a blue ski with an all-Murray core.

I was already exhausted by the time the first wave finished passing the staging area.

The only other ski ahead of me was Scott, whom I'd never met but recognized from photos I had chanced to see... pinned prominently on the "Hit Wall" of our den (in the "Scott?  William?" column).  I introduced myself from alongside after catching him, neglecting to mention that I had an unhealthy obsession with finishing ahead of him.  We paddled together for a few minutes in pursuit of Erik, until I managed to open a small gap.  I eventually reached Erik (who, if I'm not mistaken, tapped his watch impatiently to indicate his frustration at my lollygagging) and Murray.  The latter relinquished his pull and I took point to track down Flavio and absorb him into the cadre.

I suspect that Flavio was already kicking back just waiting for the gang to show up, but it still took me a mile to close the gap.  When we finally merged, I eased off and slid back into the rear of our fresh diamond formation.  Despite now sitting in the lap of luxury, however, I had difficulty adapting to the easy life.  If there were a wash-riding licensing board, they'd have revoked my draft card long ago.  I can muddle through a simple single-boat stern draft, but in any other configuration the appropriate combination of position, rhythm, and stability eludes me.  I'm doubtless still getting significant benefit, but drafting too often seems like more of a chore than a respite.  Fortunately, Murray resigned from our diamond after a mile or so, meaning that my blessed turn to pull would come that much more frequently.

More than 300 boats had started in the heat before us, with the vast majority of those being SUPs.  We'd be passing virtually all of those paddlers at some point - a fact that more than one race veteran reminded me of with a shell-shocked glaze in his eyes.  Not only would we have to plot a course through the semi-random meanderings of the more inexperienced stand-up paddlers, we'd suffer through a never-ending barrage of congratulations and encouragement.  Couldn't these people see I was in no condition to acknowledge or reciprocate their heart-warming support?  I occasionally issued an appreciative grunt between wheezes, but mostly just hoped that Erik and Flavio's good-natured banter would compensate for my apparent surliness.  As to the navigation challenges, I take pride in never once yelling "Try a straight line, blockhead!"  Mostly because of the wheezing, but still...

Relinquishing the pull to one of my cohorts.

About 7 miles into the race, I finished a stint pulling and decided to power up with a gel.  I had taped a virtual magazine along my gunnel for rapid-fire access.  Although I had been drilling with just such a set-up, the unexpected discontinuation of PowerBar Gels meant that I'd be working with untested ammunition during the race.  It's a controversial stance, but I'm of the opinion that an energy gel should have at least a vaguely gel-like consistency.  I discovered that Clif Shots are at least an order of magnitude more viscous than any self-respecting gel should be.  More of an energy spackle, really.  In any event, in trying to squeeze the dry paste into my maw, I fell behind the leaders by a few costly lengths.

For whatever reason, I spent the next 3 miles trying to claw my way back to Erik and Flavio.  Yes, we know that my sprint speed is only 3% faster than my cruising speed.  And sure, we're aware that even the mild turbulence kicked up by a couple of skis 15 meters ahead can compromise my questionable V14 stability.  OK, it's also clear that a wild-eyed panic never helped anyone's stroke.  But the specific reason for my drawn-out return to the fold is unclear.  One unfortunate byproduct of my dilly-dallying was that as we passed the first spectator viewpoint at Suck Creek Boat Ramp, Mary Beth had to witness my desperate "little brother tries to keep up" act.  I could hear the mixture of disappointment and pity in her cheers.

Given my recent struggle, I wasn't optimistic about my ability to stay with the leaders once I had caught them.  But over the next few miles, I became more comfortable on the side draft and felt strong on my pulls.  Flavio no longer felt compelled to talk me through relaxation exercises.  The miles started to flow by.  Perhaps I really did belong up front with these guys!  Having watched us pass the Raccoon Mountain and Sullivan's Landing viewpoints in crisp formation, MB later reported that my sudden display of competence made her question the fundamentals of her world-view.

I had been scrupulously watching my GPS speed as we traded pulls, mostly so that when I was out front I wouldn't disgrace our clan.  With varying headwinds and tailcurrents, we spent the majority of our time in the 7.7 to 8.2 mph range.  If you're more accustomed to metric units, be a pal and just multiply by 2 to get the kph values.  For the most part, we had been trading off 10 minute pulls.  Metric folk, that's roughly 18 demiquavers.  Around mile 24, however, Flavio had a short pull at sub-average speed (1.54 tick-tocks at 85 uph).  My heart leaped.  Was this the first symptom of terminal fatigue?  We were bucking a stiff breeze in the shallower waters on the inside of a long bend, so it was impossible to make a definitive prognosis.

It's taken more than 50 years and thousands of photos, but I finally found a shot in which I don't look like a doofus.

I took the next pull.  Evidence continued to mount, as Flavio appeared to struggle on my port wash, ultimately falling back to a stern draft.  I thought perhaps he was merely trying to duck out of the wind, but as my shift up front ended and Erik slid into the lead, he told me that he thought Flavio was "done".  Glancing back, I finally noticed that the pink Nelo had dropped back a couple of lengths.  If Erik and I could keep working together, it felt like maybe we could cement the top two spots.  The fundamental flaw with this strategy, however, was that Erik had probably cemented the top spot just by showing up in Chattanooga.  His motivation for keeping me seemed pretty weak.

As he started our reduced cadre's pull, Erik repeatedly tried to relay some message to me.  I had difficulty hearing over the wind, paddle splashes, and moaning.  All I caught distinctly was "I can drop you anytime I want", delivered in an icy monotone.  I suppose it's possible that he was actually talking about our new strategy and I was just picking up the subtext, but he sure nailed the menacing intonation.

Despite the implied threat (slash indelible truth), I stuck with Erik until it was my turn at the front.  Finishing up my shift at around mile 26, I was starting to feel a little anemic.  I warned Erik that I was going to grab a spackle (weird look) and he graciously slowed to let me recharge.  With this tacit acknowledgement that we'd continue paddling together for at least another pull or two, I could practically feel the weight of the silver medal around my neck.  Sure, Flavio was a much better sprinter and a more accomplished rough water paddler, but I'd be finishing out the remaining miles on flat water with at least some portion on Erik's draft.  How could I not beat him?

And that's how my glorious Chattajack 26 ended - a well-earned second place finish just seconds behind Erik.

The ensuing Chattajack 5, however, started with an embarrassing debacle and went south from there.

While energetically trying to coax a Clif Shot out of its protective pouch, I lost my balance and tumbled off the ski.  Typically in this situation (and there have been enough similar instances to establish statistically reliable trends), I'd let loose with a string of obscenities so foul that they'd leave an expanding oily slick on the surface of the water.  To punctuate the sudden (I was tempted to use "unexpected", but see previous parenthetical) turn of events, I decided to concentrate my rage and frustration into a single mighty expletive, potent enough that seismic tsunami warnings were triggered off the Pacific coast.  Awkwardly scrambling aboard my treacherous craft, I watched as Erik moved on without me, perhaps with a lone tear running down his cheek.

By the time I got back to paddling, I was a dozen lengths back, with Flavio doubtless smelling blood in the water.  It quickly became apparent that catching Eric would be difficult - he had evidently taken my capsize as a signal to make his push for the finish.  More concerning, however, was the degenerating conditions.  We had encountered spells of irritating headwinds accompanied by some minor chop, but as the river turned west and widened into Nickajack Lake, some quirk of topography funneled a gale our direction.  Within a few minutes of paddling, it seemed as if an entirely different course had been spliced into our race, replete with short-period two-foot waves jacked up by the wind-against-current clash.

My pace slowed dramatically as I struggled to stay upright in a boat that had never seen conditions a quarter as hectic.  Erik had long ago pulled far enough ahead that he changed from being an aspirational target to a receding rebuke to my prowess.  As he moved further to river right, he mercifully disappeared from view in the maelstrom (cut me some slack on the embellishment - I'm about to take another swim).  Now topping out at 6 mph, I was just starting to build up a stomach-churning anxiety about getting passed by Flavio when I toppled over.  Never having imagined I'd be paddling my V14 in anything other than serene conditions, my rough water remount practice had been limited to a handful of nightmares of the "forgot about the geometry mid-term" variety.  And those had not gone well - I kept sliding off on tangents.  In real-life, however, I vaulted side-saddle into the bucket, teetered precariously there for a half-hour, then slid my legs in and restarted the upwind slog.  I was cold, demoralized, and "sitting on my hydration tube" (despite the misleading quotes, not a euphemism).  During the excitement, Flavio had passed me in spirited fashion - rocketing by along the left shore so adroitly that I was saved the bother of drumming up any reckless hope of catching him.

I managed to keep within 30 degrees of vertical through the next ten minutes of paddling, although collapse seemed imminent several times.  With two miles left, the rollicking surface of the river flattened again.  The accumulated miles and rough water had taken their toll on my strength, balance, and willpower, however.  I wasn't quite bonking, but I was definitely bonk-adjacent.  My race was over, but I still needed to finish the sucker.  It seemed like each stroke was slightly more difficult than the one before, my arms getting progressively heavier.  The final turn at the old dam building provided just enough of a morale boost to propel me through the last couple hundred meters.  I even managed a smile-adjacent grimace when Mary Beth confirmed that I had held on for a third place finish.

When Hollywood finally get around to making a movie in which an intrepid surfski paddler must rescue a bunch of orphans from the flooded ruins of a post-apocalyptic Manhattan (only to discover, tragically, that they're flesh-eating mutant orphans), they could do a lot worse than Erik.

Flavio, on the other hand, may be more suited to a rom-com in which a carefree paddler must rescue a misguided SUP lass from a life of single-bladed toil (only to discover, tragi-comically, that she's only a recreational paddler)(and also his sister)(and, in a post-credits twist, a zombie).

Erik had pulled in (yet again) as the first solo competitor 6 minutes earlier, with Flavio finishing 1:15 ahead of me.  Scott and Murray took the 4th and 5th spots.  In the women's race, Pam Boteler easily grabbed gold in one of her few surfski races this season.  Matt & Neil edged out Nate & Bruce for the tandem surfski crown, both shattering the course record, with the lead OC-6 just a few seconds behind the latter.  Click for the overall results or the division results.  Congrats to all finishers of this rewarding race.

After weathering a brief breakdown onshore (thanks to MB and Flavio for preventing me from going into the light) and getting my core temperature back into the 90s, my subconscious got busy revising memories of the last five miles to make them more palatable.  Within an hour of finishing, I had convinced myself that the race was wholly enjoyable and was eager to sign up for 2019.  The festive tent celebration that evening did nothing to dissuade me.  There were free donuts, for Pete's sake!  Let's end the report, and the season, on that happy note.

Plum Beach Lighthouse Race: End Days

The inexorable march of time has once again made fools of us all, drawing another New England paddling season to a close despite our frequent mid-race assertions that "This duck-slapping debacle is never going to end!"  Fortunately, Wesley had negotiated a one-week extension by dusting off an unused standby course in Narragansett Bay, re-christening it the Plum Beach Lighthouse Race, and tacking it onto the end of our schedule.  Some might argue that we don't need a sixth competition in the Ocean State, but those people obviously aren't planning on running for state senate or taking advantage of Rhode Island's liberal paddler-in-residence grant program.

I figured Tim was lost in a moment of quiet reflection... until he started snoring.

Any hopes that the top regional contenders would skip a race so late in the season were ill-founded.  Chris Quinn would be defending his recent Narragansett Bay win at the Jamestown Double Beaver.  Recovered from an early season back injury, Mike Florio was back from his half-year hiatus, as fit and competition-hungry as ever.  With Chris and Mike sporting the latest fashion in obscene muscle tone, the rest of us scrambled to change into loose fitting clothes.  For the comfort and range-of-motion, of course.  Well, everyone except Kurt Hatem's race-day alter ego, who wore only those ripped purple jeans he's so fond of (supplemented by some green body-paint).  I'd put those three guys up against Thanos any day of the week.  Particularly if it meant they'd be off fighting him rather than racing me.

The cast prepares for its ground-breaking presentation of Our Town.

As Wesley pointed out during the captain's meeting (with a little too much glee, I thought), my days atop the SurfskiRacing point series are numbered.  He graciously omitted the fact that said number is already negative.  Chris has beaten me the last three times we've raced.  And it doesn't take much extrapolation of first-year paddler Kurt's season trajectory to see that he's going to be a serious contender for next year's crown.  If Mike stays healthy, I expect he'll be crashing the podium regularly too.  I welcomed change for the first few years of my surfski career, but with the wisdom of age has come the realization that we should probably stick with rerunning the 2016 season in an endless loop.  Just in case my recommendation isn't approved by the committee, however, I sat the youngsters down and explained the changes that they'd be experiencing as they matured.  It was about as awkward as you'd imagine, but better they hear it from a creepy old-timer than learn about it on the sea.

"He just never stops talking about paddling!  Well, paddling and 15th century French composer Johannes Cesaris.  I can't take it anymore!"

In addition to seasoned paddlers and bothersome upstarts, our 18 boat field included two open-water race virgins - Sam Duffield and Forrest Horton.  With these youngsters joining us and (geez, Bill, I honestly feel terrible about this) Kuklinski a race-day scratch, I'm pretty confident our average age set a record low for New England surfski racing.  Don't get me wrong - we still collectively qualified for an AARP discount at the restaurant afterward, but at least this time we had enough sharp eyes to read the menus for us.

Wesley explained the course to us.  Starting just off the beach, we'd skirt marker G1 in the mouth of Wickford Harbor, pass outside of Fox Island, round the titular lighthouse (which, fortunately, is free-standing in the bay), and then retrace our steps back to the beach.  For a race-weary field, the relatively modest 8 mile length may have been the primary reason for attending.  Attired in such a varied array of shoulder-season outfits (ranging from shorts to drysuits, with outliers at either end) that our hypothetical spectators must have wondered if we were planning to scatter to the ends of the earth, we strode/waddled/clanged down the beach for our water start.

Wesley informed us that, regrettably, rather than racing he'd be starting on his unsupported trek to the North Pole.

We were off.  Although there were several people still technically ahead of me, after adjusting for low start expectations, I had a substantial lead a hundred meters into the race. A half-kilometer later, the handicapped and "real world" orders were brought into agreement as I passed Wesley, Tim Dwyer, and Chris Chappell to move into the actual lead.  There was some confusion as a paddler behind me shouted something about a rock pile up ahead.  I immediately started evasive maneuvers to avoid crashing into the pile, cranking the tiller (a custom innovation I've been dabbling with) hard-a-starboard.  Additional instructions from my unseen personal navigation system, conveyed now with the flagging patience usually applied to a dim-witted toddler, eventually made it clear that the rocks weren't an obstacle, but rather the base of our first turn - marker G1.

Progressing south after the turn, we gradually emerged from the wind shadow of the mainland.  Although technically on a downwind leg, the short-fetch waves were more annoying than helpful.  Occasional glances backwards revealed that Chris was hanging on my stern, with Mike several lengths behind him.  We had been warned by Wesley not to skim too close to Fox Island lest we shear off our rudders.  Although I was a good 50 meters off shore, native Narragansett paddler Chris had me second guessing whether I had provided enough clearance.  He had veered off my stern and was now shadowing me half again further from the island.  I kept waiting for the sudden grounding that would provide me with an unimpeachable excuse for losing this head-to-head, but I remained regrettably afloat [shakes fist at abstract concept of buoyancy].

Most of the way to the lighthouse, Chris remained back a couple of lengths on an outside line.  As we neared the turn, he pulled closer and threatened to pass.  Desperately wanting to be able to claim that at least I had led at the half-way point, I made sure (by signing certain dark covenants in blood) that I was the first to turn back upwind.  Shortly thereafter, however, Chris pulled alongside and nosed ahead.  Totally worth it, though.  Did you hear?  At the half-way point I was leading!

Rounding the lighthouse, we had a modest lead over Mike and Kurt.  Definitely not enough to feel safe about.  I'll be generous - both to Chris and to myself - and assume that Chris wasn't just toying with me as we paddled side-by-side back to Fox Island.  Heading into a surprisingly stiff breeze, neither of us got more than a foot or two ahead before the other would counter and pull even again.  This constant sparring certainly made the upwind slog more bearable, and probably helped to separate us from our pursuers.  At Fox Island, however, Chris landed a few unparried blows and threatened to leave me behind.  Woozy from all the blood loss (those contracts were in triplicate), I was tempted to throw in the towel, but managed instead to lunge onto his stern draft and cling there while the ref tried to separate us.

It seemed highly likely that if we stayed in this configuration until a final sprint that Chris would take the win.  I was perfectly willing to take that chance and maintain the status quo for the next couple of miles.  Why rock the boat?  Chris apparently didn't subscribe to this philosophy.   He seemed intent on shaking free of my clutch immediately.  Over the next mile, he threw in random bursts of speed, which I was just barely able to counter, thanks to his significant drafting (water and wind) disadvantage.  With a half-mile to go to the G1 marker turn, Chris finally appeared to resign himself to my original plan - beating me in the sprint after the turn.  As we slowed to a brisk canter, I felt the satisfaction of a cowboy who has just broken a wild stallion.  Until I realized that I'd soon have to dismount and race the damn horse on foot.

No surprise - as we completed our turn, Chris charged pell-mell towards the finish.  Before I could hit my own stride he had already pulled 3 boat lengths ahead.  I had held out some hope that the calm waters in the lee of Poplar Point would provide me with a slight edge.  In retrospect, I'm not quite sure why I would have entertained that notion.  For a brief moment, I thought I might be closing the gap, but it soon became clear that there was a new status quo.  I finished about 10 seconds behind Chris, yet it somehow still felt like a definitive thrashing.  Kurt pulled in a few moments later to take the final podium spot, with Mike and Tim claiming 4th and 5th positions.  Mary Beth was the top woman.  As she always is, of course, in my book (I've found that if you butter up the editor a little, she'll ease up a bit on the pun-shaming).

PaddleGuru's Clipboard App offers state-of-the-art race timing.  Probably should've sprung for the water-resistance upgrade, though.

In a fitting piece of symmetry, we jaded vets celebrated the season-ending race at the Oak Hill Tavern - the same venue that hosted our pack of wide-eyed innocents after the season-opening Narrow River Race.  Book-ending the library of New England races in this delightful manner felt so much like the inception of a time-honored tradition that I've already started pestering management to add a "Surfski Special" menu item.  They're willing to consider it if Wesley and Tim get "Oak Hill" neck tattoos and the rest of us commit to 20 years of patronage.  Done!

Feels like I might have one more good race in me this season.  Since I'll be paddling in it anyway, sure hope it's the Chattajack 31.

Lighthouse to Lighthouse: Age Gap

Helmed by force-of-nature Gary Williams, the Lighthouse to Lighthouse Race is the place to be to rack up your worst finishing position of the New England season.  With significant prize money (donated by PTX Partners and Stellar Kayaks), a location that's easily accessible from much of the northeast, and a beautiful course with as many as two scenic lighthouses, the L2L consistently boasts a broader and more talented field of surfski paddlers than any other regional race.  Since 2014, the race has also served as the East Coast Surfski Championship.

Mary Beth and I inadvertently picked up Bill Kuklinski on the drive down to the race.  You never think it'll happen to you, but by the third or fourth time, maybe you should.  Banned from paddling in Connecticut after last year's unfortunate "Nutmeg this!" incident, Bill had to go to extreme measures to thwart the authorities - having his boat delivered separately across state lines by an unsuspecting chump.   Ryan Bardsley's wide-eyed naivete made him the perfect mule, but an irrational loyalty to his mechanically-challenged Volvo threatened to jeopardize the plan.  Fortunately, he managed to limp into the Norwalk Hilton parking lot before his car gave up the spöke.  Through clever re-purposing of our downwind shuttle expertise, we were able to reunite Bill and his boat on the beach.  When last we saw Ryan, he was still on the phone with Stockholm, trying to arrange a trade-in for a Saab.

The sea was indifferent that day, my friend.

The L2L typically draws at least a couple of elite paddlers to remind the rest of us what's possible in this sport.  This year, Ian Black (South Africa) and Nate Humberston (Florida) would be there to expand our horizons (which gives us a few more seconds to witness their speed).  Erik Borgnes (Wisconsin) provided a slightly more realistic template for paddling excellence - many of us could at least aspire to be roughly his age.  Many of the best northeast paddlers made it to Shady Beach as well, including guy you want to befriend on your first day in prison, Craig Impens, first-year ski paddler Bob-Rob Jehn (I never quite caught which name Robert preferred), perennial thorn-in-my-side Jan Lupinski, and terrifying robot dude from Westworld, no not the new one, the 70's movie, Chris Quinn.  I expected Matt Drayer, John Hair, Joe White, Gary Wade, Kurt Hatem, Rowan Sampson, and Tim Dwyer might also be in the hunt for the top 10.  It was going to be a day of exciting duels.

A week and a half earlier, an excited text from Matt alerted me to a race-day forecast of 25 knot winds from the East.  I'm not sure what the world's coming to when you can't have absolute faith in a meteorological prediction 10 days out, but this Orient Express scenario got derailed well before reaching the L2L.  The morning of the race, the forecast stood at easterly winds of 2 knots.  With gusts to 3!  Looking over the glassy expanse of Long Island Sound, however, even that projection seemed tempestuous in comparison.

I've included so many photos of Timmy in past reports that he's now started showing up in my blog uninvited.

As many of us unfortunates were to discover, John's changing tent would have been a lot more effective without the peek-a-boo flap.

Starting adjacent to Shady Beach, we'd round Sprite Island, pass Peck Ledge Lighthouse, skirt the shallows of Goose Island, work our way down past Copps and Sheffield Islands, turn on Greens Ledge Light and retrace our path (give or take tide-based adjustments) back to the start.  Although billed as a 14 mile race, recent cutbacks have reduced the actual length to 13.3.  Something to do with Chinese tariffs, I'm told.  Of course, a few traditionalists stubbornly padded their mileage to hit the full distance.  Mary Beth, for example, cut inside of Goose Island on the way back, realized her mistake at the lighthouse and then backtracked around the island.

As usual, Gary really nailed the captain's meeting - providing step-by-step instructions on performing an emergency field tracheotomy.  Who knew all you needed was a clean handkerchief, a disposable pen, and a hatchet?  Now that I think of it, I may have been watching a YouTube how-to video on my phone.  I'm sure Gary did a swell job, though (Goose Island cutters notwithstanding).  And if he didn't... well, I'd be prepared for any eventuality.  Well, for one eventuality, at least.

Gary's running commentary on the state of the lighthouse beacon got a little monotonous after the second hour. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Nobody had the heart to tell Wesley that his parachute was on backwards.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Before I even had time to practice my new-found skill, it was our turn to launch.  I positioned myself at the far right of the starting line - a strategy I used with some success the previous year.  This allowed me to bypass the barbarous fray of the main pack, but more importantly, it also artificially inflated the consequences of a poor start.  With the first turn marker only a half mile away, if I didn't manage to get ahead of most of the other paddlers quickly, I'd be forced to merge into a stream of unforgiving rush-hour commuters to clear the buoy choke point.  Spurred on by this incentive, I popped off the line with unaccustomed vigor.  Nate and Ian separated almost immediately from the huddled masses, with Craig, Bob, and Erik in spirited pursuit.

A couple of hundred meters from the turn buoy, I angled into the thinning herd, hoping they'd accept me as one of their own.  A snide comment from Matt before the race regarding the ripeness of my gear assured me that at least they'd already be familiar with my odor.  I pulled alongside John, who in turn was paddling abreast of Gary, Chris Q, Jan, Tim, and Nick Alshayev.  This group jostled for position as the orange marker loomed closer.  A lone voice of civility among murderous savages, John sweetly reminded us that "We're all friends here, right?"  If that were the case, you'd expect at least some of the guys would unblock me from Instagram.  Powered by a burst of righteous indignation at this imagined slight, I pulled a half-length ahead of my "buddies" and rounded the buoy with a clear conscience.  Given that the turn consisted of a 16 degree deviation from a straight line, however, arriving there in our gang's pole position didn't actually provide much of an advantage.

Roger and Scott surfed their extreme age gradient to victory. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

In any event, now only Joe separated me from the chase pack.  A few weeks earlier at the USCA Nationals, Joe never failed to provide cheerful encouragement as we passed each other at the turns.  In keeping with this supportive trend, he now complimented me on my start and urged me to move now to avoid having to play comeback later.  What game was the Ohioan playing at?  I suppose it's possible that he's just an all-around decent fellow.  Or that John's plaintive plea for sportsmanship and camaraderie had softened his heart.  But in the cut-throat, high-stakes world of the East Coast Surfski Championship, it seems most likely that Joe figured that by egging me on in my quixotic quest to break the top 5, he could catch a ride up to the pursuit team, then watch unblinkingly as I imploded and fell off the pace.  Yep.  That sounds exactly like something the Joe persona I've contrived would do.  Still... seemed like good advice.

Nefarious Joe earned his newly coined nickname.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

A quarter-mile later, we caught the paddlers ahead.  Bob was pulling, with Erik on his left flank and Craig on his right.  I settled in behind Craig, figuring that after a moment of rest I could slide forward into the sweet spot of a diamond formation behind Bob.  However, I couldn't get comfortable enough on Craig's stern draft to relax my effort.  In retrospect, the wakes from the other members of the trio were probably harshing my mellow - I should have immediately either moved into the diamond or shifted to Craig's starboard draft.  Instead, I grew increasingly frustrated at how much effort it was costing to keep up with the trio.  I took some solace in the fact that Joe had finally fallen off my draft, although the appearance of an Epic prow in my periphery (Chris Q?  Gary?  Kurt?) soon wrenched away that short-lived consolation.

Craig and I had been rehearsing our respective roles for years, so I was caught off guard when he decided to improvise.  In the standard production, he takes the early lead in the pairing, relinquishes it reluctantly after a couple of miles, lets me get a reasonable distance ahead, then slowly reels me back in during the back half of the race.  To keep the audience guessing, we draw straws beforehand to see if he'll catch me or not.  But by this point, Craig had long ago missed his exit cue and was continuing to showboat shamelessly.  Try as I might to get him back on script, he refused to yield the stage.

After clearing Goose Island, Erik broke from the pack to forge a future for himself on an outside line - presumably searching for a little more tidal current.  I took this as my cue to also fly solo in clean water, setting up shop halfway between Erik and the others.  Demonstrating an admirable (but unwise) degree of dedication, my mystery drafter stuck with me.  After a mile or so with little change in our relative positions but a significant change in my heart rate, I swung back to draft Bob and Craig.  I held on for perhaps another mile before gently slipping off of Craig's stern wash.  I had been officially demoted to a supporting role in our latest performance.

I soon discovered the identity of my long-time companion.  Chris Q had thrashed me soundly several weeks earlier at the abbreviated JDB race.  Ever since then, Tim Dwyer has taken a perverse glee in telling me how haphazard his young protege's training has been.  As Tim is constantly reminding me, Chris puts in long hours with the family business, lifeguards, and has two young children, leaving him little time to paddle.  And yet here he was, threatening to once again... hold on, someone at the door.  I'm back.  Singing telegram courtesy of Tim.  The Mighty Quinn.  Real original.

When asked why he insists on paddling in the nude, Chris responded that he "didn't want to waste all that shaving."  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Erik eventually rejoined Bob and Craig, the three of them gradually separating themselves from Chris and me.  By the time we reached the end of Sheffield Island, the trio were perhaps 20 lengths ahead.  They appeared to be splintering, with Erik taking a surprising inside line and Craig pulling ahead of Bob.  The mile between the tip of the island and the turn-around at Greens Ledge Light was inexplicably lumpy.  The faint easterly breeze that had previously been providing us with some wee runners hardly seemed up to the task of firing up the frothing mayhem that lay before us.  OK, so perhaps there was no froth (excepting the stuff bubbling out of my mouth) and "faint commotion" may be a more accurate descriptor than "mayhem".  But the fact remains - the conditions seemed incompatible with the virtual absence of wind.  For the first time of the day, I was glad I was safely ensconced in a V10 rather than balancing precariously on my V14.

On the way to the lighthouse, Chris (who was now ahead) and I gained significant ground on Bob, who finally appeared to be flagging.  Erik returned from his exploratory mission, rounding the lighthouse slightly ahead of Craig.  As Chris and I turned for the voyage home, it seemed inevitable that we'd catch Bob.  We were getting closer and closer until... we weren't.  I don't know if it was getting out of that wobbly stretch or if Bob tapped into a reserve power source, but our gains of the last fifteen minutes were quickly reversed.  This latest setback was a real kick to the morale.  I had been leading Chris since shortly after the lighthouse, but now he pulled ahead for the last time.

Was I the only one concerned by how excited Tim was about his new ski? (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

The remainder of the race was uneventful.  I refused on principle to follow the ridiculous shore-hugging line that Craig, Bob, and Erik pursued among the islands to duck out of the tide.  That doubtless set me a few more seconds back, but at least I maintained my Euclidean integrity.  My initial goal of keeping Chris within a stone's throw gradually relaxed to the point that I'd be ecstatic if he stayed within 3-iron range - and, believe me, I'm a champion club hurler.  In the end, Chris finished about a minute ahead of me to take 6th place.

Nate wraps up his 14 mile clinic with flair. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Up at the front, Nate had beaten Ian for the championship, with Erik in third.  Bob made a strong final push to challenge Craig for 4th, but fell 20 seconds short.  After Chris and me, Kurt Hatem (continuing to impress in his first season), Matt, and Gary rounded out the top 10.  On the women's side, newcomer Melissa Meyer outlasted Leslie Chappell for the win, while Mary Beth eventually discovered the correct course by trial-and-error navigation to finish 3rd.  Roger Gocking and Scott Visser took the doubles crown, while the SS20+ titles were landed by John Costello and Jean Kostelich.  Ian and Mary Beth took the Stellar-sponsored hot spots.  Congrats to all the worthy finishers!  And also (as joke convention compels me to add) to Bill (sorry, buddy - seems like a lousy thing to do to the guy who's served admirably as the target of so many digs)!

While none of the local men landed a spot on the podium, Bay Staters swept the women's awards.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

While I realize that 7th place is nothing to sneeze at given the depth of the field, I couldn't help but seethe in self-loathing while stuffing burgers and dogs in my froth-hole after the race.  Why, oh why, couldn't I just shave 20 years from my age?  Actually, better go with 30.  At least then I'd probably be off singing along to Enya or playing D&D rather than being beaten at a dumb kayak race.  Maybe next year.

Many thanks to Gary and his team of dedicated volunteers.  You guys threw yet another humdinger!

Next up is the Glicker Downwinder on October 6.  Register at PaddleGuru.  Hope to see you there.  That is, if you're there, I hope that - unlike last year - I can actually see you.

Nahant Bay Cup: Leveled

If you're a New England paddler and you don't have a signed excuse from your doctor or your congressman, you're pretty much self-obligated to attend Mike McDonough's Nahant Bay Cup - the final regional race before Labor Day rolls in and puts the kibosh on summer.  Despite missing a few regulars (still waiting on those notes, guys), a healthy crew of 18 paddlers made the arduous trek to Fisherman's Beach in Swampscott - a town so notoriously difficult to get to that it wasn't actually discovered until 1973.  And yet, somehow, parking is still a problem.  I spent a good chunk of the mandatory pre-race socialization period talking with first-time participant Peter Lacoste.  Try as I might to maneuver the conversation in this direction, I just couldn't get the Australian expat to say something funny about a dingo.  Maybe next time.

Mike soon called us together for the skippers meeting, leading off with a heartfelt dedication of the race to Jim Gilligan - a beloved local paddler and all-around class act who passed away unexpectedly a couple of weeks earlier.  One of my favorite memories of Jim is of him excitedly explaining how he was going to resolve stability issues with his new Huki S1-X by fitting 20 pounds of shaped lead weights into the footwell. That may make him sound like less than a serious paddler, but this is the same competitor who broke 3 hours in the Blackburn paddling a Mako XT just a few years back.

Jim Gilligan at the finish of the 2011 Nahant Bay Cup.

Although Mike often adjusts the course to accommodate the conditions, this year we'd be running the "classic" course (well, maybe "neoclassic" would be more appropriate) for the first time since 2015.  We'd cross Nahant Bay to turn on a red buoy shortly past East Point, skim across the mouth of the bay outside of Egg Rock, round Off Rock, skirt Dread Ledge, and return to Fisherman's beach for an onshore finish - a total of 9.5 miles.  The initial leg would be into a moderate headwind, the second leg would be a mild downwind (The Disappointment of the Out-and-Back Paddler - good title for an autobiography), and the final leg would include a grab-bag of conditions and a hull-tearing reef.  Of course, it wouldn't be the Nahant Bay Cup if these directions weren't relayed by Mike exclusively via a pantomime of dramatic gesticulations.

Everyone thinks he's an expert...

...but there's only one true master.

Before the race, Mike had proudly showed off an antique brass contraption consisting of a pump and a trumpet-like bell.  Needless to say, I was appalled.  Having read my Harry Potter (to the, uh, orphans), I recognize a Soul Snatcher when I see one.  As Mike made to demonstrate the ghastly apparatus by plunging down the handle, I sprang into action.  Fortunately, it turned out to be an old starting horn for yacht races.  Mary Beth, grown accustomed to my inexplicable behavior over the years, didn't blink at having been thrust in front of me just as the horn sounded.  Which is good, since it allowed me to quickly check her eyes.  Whew.  Soul intact.

I knew that Jan Lupinski couldn't pass up a chance to defend his Nahant Bay crown.  After getting off to a good start this season over an admittedly under-trained Jan, we've split our last four head-to-heads.  We're so familiar with each other's strengths and weaknesses that there's barely a reason to actually race one another.  Given details on the course and conditions, we just plug the numbers into the Leshpinksi Algorithm and voila... no need to actually suffer.  Of course the head-to-head outcome doesn't indicate the overall champion of the race, but as long as I beat Jan on paper, I'm okay with taking a DNS.  However, the particular circumstances of this race led to inconclusive results - the flummoxed algorithm just kept spitting out Toto lyrics.  Looks like we'd have to settle this the old-fashioned way.  Now imagine Jan saying "on the water" and me saying "coin flip" at the same time.  Masochist.

Honoring the long-standing nautical traditions of Swampscott, the Nahant Bay Cup is the only race on the New England calendar that still features live semaphore translation.

I didn't have the heart to tell Mike, but the starting horn was something of a disappointment.  Based on his quarter-effort demo, I figured the full-throated roar of the horn might have the more pious residents of Swampscott doing some last-minute rapture prep.  Instead, I found myself waiting for someone to excuse themselves as the modest toot wafted over the starting area.  By the time I realized my mistake (pardon me, by the way), Jan, Andrius Zinkevichus, and Chris Chappell had jumped out to an early lead.  With Matt Drayer in tow, I chased after them through the mooring field, barely dodging a number of deceptively stationary boats.  A few minutes into the race, Jan separated himself from the (fraternal) twin 550s of Andrius and Chris.  Shortly after, I passed Team Nelo.  They slid over and joined Matt, but the trio never quite managed to catch my draft.  Over the next couple of minutes, I approached to within a couple lengths of Jan.  Not wanting to spook him (or, possibly, not able to close the final 40 feet), I hung back in this position.

About two miles into the race, I was startled by a abrupt shift in balance as my footplate slipped a notch on the left side.  This had happened once before in our Tuesday night Salem League, so I wasn't overly alarmed after recovering from the initial surprise.  The skewed footplate made it slightly more difficult to turn left, but nothing I couldn't compensate for.  I continued shadowing Jan, staying back a few lengths in the hopes that he'd forget about me and decide to take a nap.  Entering the more confused waters around East Point, Jan stayed further out while I kept closer to the rocks hoping to find some reflected waves heading my way.  Traffic was light in that direction, and few were keen on picking up a malodorous hitchhiker, but I did manage to close to within a length of Jan by the time we reached the buoy.  My gains were short-lived.  Jan's lead sprang back to three lengths almost immediately after we both had swung our noses downwind, then continued to stretch as he more effectively exploited the small runners.  I saw Matt, Andrius, and Chris make the turn perhaps a minute behind me, but was unable to identify the subsequent paddlers.

Although I hadn't initially been too concerned about my footplate, in the downwind leg it became an annoyance.  More importantly, it was a minor mechanical issue, the resolution of which I could pin extraordinary and unwarranted expectations on.  Surely the slight compromise in my steering was the only reason Jan was pulling inexorably away!  Although you don't need tools to adjust the Epic footplate, I'd had some expletive-laden difficulties in the past getting the mechanism to slide freely after disengaging the spring-loaded detentes.  Even standing on dry land with the boat in a sling, it's 50/50 whether I'll manage to stay upright while making the adjustment.  Remarkably, I managed to shift the plate back into position with just a quick tug.  I was underway again almost immediately.  However, if there were benefits to be reaped from this repair, they weren't immediately apparent.  Over the next couple of miles, Jan continued to increase his lead.  In contradiction of the algorithm output, turns out it wasn't gonna take a lot to drag me away from him.

You certainly wouldn't characterize the downwind conditions as "ripping" - or even "mildly entertaining" - but we were being helped along by a steady stream of wavelets from a selection of directions.  You had to work for each little bump though.  Although the temperature was only in the 70s, the interval-like efforts and the lack of apparent wind combined to make the trip to Off Rock increasingly uncomfortable.  Additionally, the sea had that glassy sheen that adds a good ten degrees to the perceived temperature.  I hypothesize this is because the smooth parabolic concavities focus the sun directly on your head from every conceivable angle, but that just might be the ravings of a man suffering from wave-concentrated solar energy brain damage.  It was difficult to maintain a commitment to chasing down Jan, but having built up a head of steam, I didn't want to waste it.

Given that Jan's guidance software has been glitchy for as long as anyone can remember, I couldn't tell if his meandering up ahead was due to imperfect targeting or if he was aggressively chasing off-angle runners.  In any event, it felt like I was able to staunch the bleeding by taking a more direct line towards Off Rock.  Perhaps a minute before I reached it, Jan rounded the rocky island with what seemed a generous berth.  In an attempt to shave his lead, I risked shaving my rudder by gingerly feeling my way around the shallow verge.  I made it around unscathed, but not for lack of trying.  Somewhere in the world, a glacier gave its life to provide me with those 2 extra inches of clearance.

We had approximately a half-mile of forward quartering seas before reaching Dread Ledge and heading back into Nahant Bay.  This deep into the race I figured that I had the flatwater speed advantage over Jan, but the conditions were slightly too confused for me to hammer efficiently.  I could still flail sloppily, however.  Rounding the ledge with a mile of paddling left, I was back perhaps a half minute.  With only relatively smooth water separating us from the finish, that old devil, optimism, started whispering in my ear that with enough pain, I could take this.  Like a sucker, I bought a jar of this snake oil.  Turns out it was half-empty.  Jan ran up the beach to beat me by 13 seconds.  Matt rolled in a few moments later to take third.  As additional paddlers completed the course, we gathered to anxiously await everyone's favorite Swampscott spectacle - Francisco's jubilant drum-major-on-speed high-stepping dash across the finish.  He didn't disappoint.  Mary Beth took the women's title, although with considerably less panache.

Nobody knew who this was, but he kept asking if anyone had seen his pony.

Kind of a stickler for safety, Mike insisted that we wait until every single paddler was accounted for before allowing us to dig into a spread of watermelon pizza salad and cookies.  Maybe he should worry a little less about boats being lost at sea and a little more about missing punctuation.  Once we had sorted out the comma fiasco, the food really improved.  After the medals were awarded, Dave Grainger was rightfully knighted into the Order of the Bad Ass in a solemn ceremony.  Mike was a little wild with the non-dubbing paddle blade, but fortunately all wounds were superficial.  As an OBA, Dave is entitled to use whatever-the-hell honorific he chooses.  I'd probably go with Overlord Grainger, but it's his call.  For Ryan Bardsley's quick rise to prominence (and unfortunate propensity for standing behind Mike during dubs), he was fitted with the Helmet of Promise.  Don't let it go to your head, Ryan - Bill Kuklinski held this traveling trophy before you, and, quite frankly, we're still waiting for him to blossom.  Thanks to Mike, Carol, and assorted other family members for a superb day.

The champs, the Bad Ass, and that guy with a helmet.

Summer may finally be burning itself out, but the New England surfski season isn't taking the hint.  Even though it's on the placid Merrimack River, the Great Stone Dam Classic has become one of the largest ski races in the northeast.  It's also now a part of the SurfskiRacing point series.  That's on Sunday, September 9.  You'll then be primed for the East Coast Surfski Championships at the Lighthouse to Lighthouse the following weekend (September 15).  Register at PaddleGuru.

Battle of the Bay: O'ertaken

Once again, the Battle of the Bay fell within the mandatory blog blackout period following the Gorge Downwind Champs.  However, I'm assured that the Committee often turns a blind eye to brief race summaries provided that they "portray surfski paddlers in a positive light" and avoid ancillary alliteration.  Hardly seems worth writing anything under those conditions, but here goes.

While last year's race was hastily reorganized to a rip-roaring downwinder, with modest wind conditions we'd be reverting to a course similar to 2016's.  You may recall this as the route so distasteful to Jan Lupinski that he instead created his own alternative course, persisting for two laps even when it became obvious that nobody was following his lead.  From the dock of the Conanicut Yacht Club, we'd head out around buoy G11 near the House on the Rock, retreat up the bay to a stanchion of the Newport Bridge, return to G11, and finish back at the Yacht Club.  Assuming no detours, this would be about 6.25 miles.

Wesley really took Sean's recommendation to "keep his arms up" to heart.

I knew it.  They're pod people!

Attracted, no doubt, by the prospect of humiliating post-race novelty costumes, Sean Rice once again joined the Battle of the Bay.  To help cover his expenses, he also scheduled a few clinics and private lessons in Jamestown.  As in previous years, Sean would provide us with a sizable head start, then blow by us mid-course as if we were moored.

After the first wave start, Chris Laughlin and Jan quickly took the lead on an inside line.  Hoping to catch some of the outgoing tide, I stayed further out initially, but quickly revised my tactics and angled over to join the leaders.  By the time I caught them, Jan and Chris had switched places (but, showing little imagination, had remained in their own boats).  I pulled onto Jan's side wash, then slid back to his stern as Chris dropped off the pace.  We remained in this stable configuration, bucking a moderate headwind, until arriving at G11.

I had assumed that Jan would pull away during the subsequent downwind leg, but surprisingly I was able to maintain contact as we both enjoyed some decent runners heading toward the Newport Bridge.  With our speed matching that of the wind, the warmth and humidity of the day became increasingly apparent.  I was just starting to build an unhealthy dread of having to duel Jan for the remainder of the race in these muggy conditions when I unexpectedly caught and passed him.  At first I figured that I must have surged ahead on a fluke run, but as I continued downwind to the turn-around abutment, I realized that Jan had fallen well back.  As it would turn out, he had imploded in the heat.

Presenting a strong finish requires perfect synchrony with the photographer.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Sad Jan makes me question the existence of God.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

I spent the remainder of the race awaiting to be passed by the one-man second wave.  Of course, I wasn't disappointed.  With a half-mile to go, I spotted Sean overtaking me on an outside line.  He would ultimately beat me by 8 minutes in what was for him only a 45 minute race.  So I still have a little room for improvement.  Jan would finish third with hard-charging Kurt Hatem (who had overtaken a heat-flagging Chris on the final leg).  Mary Beth nabbed the top women's spot.

Despite years of studying their ways, Greg could never truly pass as human.

The remainder of the day was spent grabbing lunch at Spinnaker's, watching boats from the cliffs of Fort Wetherill (hold on a second - is that Kurt doing out-and-backs after racing in the morning and then attending Sean's afternoon clinic?), and enjoying a lively group dinner at Tim's.  The next day we'd again get schooled by Sean, this time in his all-day clinic.  Thanks to Tim and Alyce for hosting the festivities and to Sean for slumming it with us in good cheer.

I still can't paddle worth a damn, but my rotator cuff was miraculously healed.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)