Like many New England paddlers, I awoke this past Saturday with an inexorable compulsion. A mysterious beckoning against which there could be no resistance. In a trance-like state of compliance, Mary Beth and I loaded a couple of skis on the car and started our migration south. Navigating by the invisible lines of the Earth's magnetic field, with the occasional assist (seems there's a anomalous vortex just outside of Providence) from Google Maps and an indignant gas station attendant ("Does this look like 2004 to you, sir?"), we finally emerged from our stupor to find ourselves at Fort Wetherill Park for the 6th episode of Ride the Bull.
John and Wesley marvel at the future magnificence of this picture. (Photo courtesy of Max Yasochka)
In addition to the regular cast of susceptible locals, the call of Rhode Island was strong enough to summon Guy Gilliland clear from Hawaii. Last seen wandering around Essex in 2016 looking fruitlessly for a true ocean race, Guy was anxious to immerse himself in the healing waters of the Atlantic. Figuratively, one assumes - the thermal shock might well kill him.
Guy wasn't the only notable exotic paddler. John Hair was bitten by the RTB bug back in 2016. He pulled through, but has since had to make the yearly drive from Rochester (NY) for his booster shot. The last time we met, John and I had duked it out for silver in the fog of Nahant Bay, so I knew I'd have to keep a close eye on him. New recruit Kurt Hatem joined us for his first surfski race, liberating himself from the FSK class to impress in a V10. We may need to send him back in undercover to extract Roger Gocking.
As has become his pre-race tradition, Ed breaks a paddle over his head to psyche himself up. Needless to say, this practice has taken its toll. (Photo courtesy of Max Yasochka)
I had concerns about Andrius Zinkevichus, racing for the first time this season. Based on recent Facebook posts from his Brača-sponsored tour of Europe, he was obviously getting in some quality flatwater training. However, it was the outlandish green Team Lithuania unitard that he wore to the race that really had me worried. You don't risk merciless Kermit-on-steroid taunts unless you're pretty confident you can hop on your boat and paddle your opponents into submission. The bulging muscles - they probably also help limit the ridicule (at least until some anonymous coward gets back to the safety of his or her computer). I just hoped that rough water would keep the Grinch from stealing the win.
The nine mile course would essentially be the same as last year's, with some minor simplifications to accommodate the fact that, collectively, we're not all that bright. From the start in West Cove, we'd proceed to Mackerel Cove, rounding a mooring buoy just beyond the rock we usually turn on (tough luck, rookies). After heading out of the cove to the next turn at buoy G7, we'd skim downwind (ish) past the House on the Rock to buoy G11 before returning to the mouth of West Cove. This we would then repeat. As a final kicker leg, we'd head from West Cove directly to G7, returning to finish in our launch bay. If Tim and Wesley can just manage to hold a steady course for a couple dozen more years, we may just get it memorized.
Given the virtual certainty of uncomfortable conditions somewhere along the route - they don't call it Lounge on the Sofa (although I would absolutely attend that race) - I opted for the V10 Sport instead of the V10. I made this decision back at home, but John had to make a game-time call between the same choices, having brought a brace of Epics. He went with the V10. Fortune favors the bold. From personal experience, I'd say it's also a favorite of Calamity, Comedy, and Comeuppance.
"Safety first, guys! Then hygiene. Let's run a clean race. [chuckles] And finally, if you have time, spiritual enlightenment." (Photo courtesy of Max Yasochka)
After a refreshingly brief captain's meeting which mostly consisted of Wesley repeating the mandatory PFD rule while looking pointedly at Chris Quinn (who was doubtless wondering where the hell Lupinski was when you needed him), we launched our fleet of 19 boats. With theatrical cries of "Hold the line! Hold the line!" (worked for me - I was getting goosebumps), Wesley counted us down to a slow rolling start. Rounding the rock at the mouth of West Cove, the early lead was captured by John, Andrius, and Wesley. Guy, Chris, Tim and I formed the next echelon, after shaking free of a hard-charging Timmy Shields. After a few minutes, Wesley fell off the pace and I managed to catch the lead drafting pair. John and I wrestled for the lead for a moment before I pulled a couple of boat lengths clear.
I often have hubristic visions of greatness early in the race. By the time we reached the first turn in Mackerel Cove, I figured that most of the field would have dropped out and headed back to their cars - too demoralized by my dominance to carry on. Rounding the turn, I scanned the cove anxiously to confirm my suspicions. Not sure if I overestimated my ability or underestimated everyone else's demoralization threshold, but it turns out that being back a half-dozen boat lengths doesn't really send anyone home crying. In addition to John (still only a few seconds back), Andrius, Chris, Wesley, Tim, Guy, and Kurt were hot on the chase. The wily fellows had turned the tables on me, as I now fought off my own wave of disheartenment. This was going to hurt.
Heading out past Kettle Bottom Rock on the way to the turn on G7, conditions got a little beamy. For the first time, I was happy to be in my Sport. And John wasn't happy to not be in his Sport. Or, perhaps, he wasn't not sad to be in his non-Sport. In any event, he first thoughtfully dropped back several lengths so I wouldn't be alarmed by his wailing, then dropped himself into the drink. Chris, probably thinking this was some kind of drill, followed suit. Having only a second-generation V12 to choose from, however, he had to content himself with not being non-unhappy, period. Both guys were quickly back on board and in pursuit, but I had a little more cushion to work with.
Is it just me, or has Timmy been about 30% more chipper than usual? (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
The run back past Fort Wetherill towards the House on the Rock was enjoyable, with some usable waves heading in the right general direction. When I got past the rock off of Bull Point, however, the conditions took an unfriendly turn. A tidal race had pitched itself in the stretch from the point to G11, converting this area into a broken seascape of standing waves, rife with unpredictable currents and swirling eddies. Superimposed on this was the added texture of wakes from a healthy stream of motorboats cutting unnecessarily close to the channel marker.
At first I tried to read the water, attempting to catch some rides, or at least to avoid the most turbulent sections. But it was an indecipherable babble. From the tone, however, I could tell it was hostile. I quickly abandoned technique and activated survival mode. You'd get a small head of steam going, only to find yourself stalled on a standing wave, abruptly turned in an unhelpful direction (with upside down being a distinct directional possibility), or translated laterally by an invisible hand. Doubtless it would be excellent practice to put in an hour or two paddling in such mayhem, but I was hoping to spend somewhat less time there during the race. Eventually I made it to the buoy, only to have to repeat the dangerous traverse going the other way. Comparing notes after the race, it seems that nobody was able to find a peaceful path through the turmoil.
Did anyone else notice a rainbow-colored splotch in the sky during the second lap? At the time, I figured that I was probably just suffering a wee bout of stroke. In Google-aided retrospect, however, it may have been cloud iridescence. Brain malfunction or atmospheric phenomenon - regardless, it was kinda cool.
I spent most of the loop back to Mackerel Cove and G7 devising a better strategy for negotiating the tidal race on my second visit. At the turns I could see that the Green Monster had separated himself from the rest of the pursuit team and was less than a minute back. Apparently the Nelo 550 was the right boat for him. All too soon I found myself once again in the bewildering waters off Bull Point.
The last 20 minutes of scheming had failed to produce an attack plan more sophisticated than "stay upright and continent". As luck would have it, though, enough water was sloshing through my bucket that I could concentrate solely on the former. By maintaining a vice-like grip on the paddle and taking the occasional tentative stroke, I slowly dragged myself to G11. Any leg drive or hip rotation was purely the accidental result of spasmodic attempts to maintain my balance. My rounding of the buoy was so sluggish and so tight that, had I the proper tools, I could have scraped off the rust and slapped on a new coat of marine paint. The trip back to Bull Point was slightly less arduous, but for a moment it appeared that my weaving cross-current path was destined to intersect with Guy's similar meanderings from the other direction.
With other concerns occupying me, I hadn't got a good read on how close the competition was at the turn. Heading out to the final run around G7, I passed Mary Beth going the opposite direction on her second lap. She relayed some back-handed good news - "Despite your slouch and that atrocious stroke, you have a 30 length lead." I'm a pretty unreliable narrator, so there was no need to take the criticism to heart. But that also meant I had to question MB's estimate of my lead. I decided that it was prudent to start my final sprint immediately. That lasted a full 15 seconds, after which I transitioned smoothly from "sprint" to "wheeze", where I remained for the last mile of the race.
Strong finishes by Chris and John. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
Shortly after I finished, Andrius coasted in, looking disquietingly jolly after such a tough race. I'm not sure I want to live in a world where this is what he can do after a few weeks of training strictly on flatwater. Yeah... probably I still do. But check back after he beats me in our next race. Chris nabbed the final podium spot, with John in talkative tight pursuit. Tim took fifth. Kurt was awarded the "Uh-oh, this guy is going to be trouble" award after finishing sixth in his first ski race. Watching him pull in, I couldn't help but be struck by the uncanny similarities to my first race. Capsizing an S1-R fifty meters from the L2L finish to derisive gales of laughter from shore... Eerie. Mary Beth took the women's crown.
We had ridden the bucking Bull, but once again failed to break the sucker. Fortunately, nearly all the injuries sustained were superficial - even for those four pour souls unceremoniously ejected from the course. Ever optimistic, we'll be back next year to again make questionable boat decisions.
Andrius is just a purple Cadillac shy of being a late 70's pimp. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
There are two races coming up on June 30. In the Casco Bay Challenge, you'll paddle (endlessly, if you're not careful) among the beautiful isles of Maine as you cross the 17 miles from South Portland to Merepoint. It has the potential to be the longest US downwind race outside of Hawaii, but will the weather cooperate? For those who remain quarantined in Rhode Island with an infectious case of surfski fever, why not check out the Narragansett Bay Regatta? If you're old enough to remember the Jamestown Counter Revolution in those multiple years when it wasn't (in Jamestown... or a revolution), you'll be familiar with the course.
Unless you wanted to spend the entire month of August in Rhode Island making up for missed credits, attending the Sakonnet River Race was a must to keep on pace to make quota. Now in its 11th year, this Echols-branded event always attracts a rowdy band of paddlers anxious to throw off the shackles of flatwater and mix it up... in a partially-protected ocean inlet. You don't want to jump in over your head.
I car-pooled down to the race with newcomer Ryan Bardsley. I'd previously made the trip with fellow old hands Bruce Deltorchio and Bill Kuklinski. Although I tried to steer this year's drive-time conversation to Metamucil, hip replacement, and DNRs, Ryan kept bringing us back around to concerns of the younger generation. Touch-tone phones. Corduroy. Mumenshanz. Man, did I feel ancient. I don't yet know Ryan well enough to feel comfortable gently mocking him the way I might Bill (as a random example). So let's just say he has some surprising views on on human-goat hybridization.
Wesley's insistence on maintaining a "minimum safe distance" seemed odd until we got a whiff of one another after the race.
A win at the Sakonnet has proven... elusive. For the past six years I've finished in second place - beaten by a veritable Who's Who of non-me paddlers. Dostal, Lishchuk, Lupinski, Markin, and Costa. Not a single one of those me. Over the years I've called in a bunch of favors to have the champions transferred out of the area, enrolled in college, infected with the hantavirus, etc. But someone else always seems to step up. And, of course, Jan is cockroach-like in his tendency to appear, alive and kicking, despite having a polonium-laced serum injected into his thorax. This might be my year, however. Since Jan had just returned from his stint as nauseous race commentator on Borys' chase boat at the Molokai, with any luck he'd still be reeling from jet lag, sea-sickness, and acute radiation poisoning.
I had some grave concerns about Chris Quinn. It's always the guys that are quiet, even-keeled, and ridiculously fit that give you problems. My only solace was that he'd be in a second-gen V12 rather than his habitual V14 - perhaps a slight disadvantage given the baby-butt sea conditions. And there was Matt Drayer, who has been religiously following a before-work training schedule that has him making his daily devotion before monks have even hit their snooze buttons for the first time. Chris Chappell has also been doing hard time on the water this year, and with flat conditions might just try to break out on the Sakonnet.
I may have discovered the source of the navigational problems we seem to face at every race...
With the possibility of thunderstorms moving through later in the day, Wesley took the precaution of modifying the course to keep us in a more contained area closer to McCorrie Point. That way the authorities could more easily skim us collectively from the surface like dynamited fish. Instead of heading to the mouth of the bay, we'd head south 3.5 miles to Black Point, return 3.1 miles back in the direction of the start, return down to Black Point, then finish up back on the beach. To break up the typical Where's Waldo monotony of turning on a specific mooring buoy within a field of indistinguishable alternatives, the northern turn would be on a lone moored motorboat. I was tempted to dart out before the race and cut his fuel line to prevent a mid-race escape, but figured the resulting sea of flames might make it just as difficult to find the turn.
The day promised to be hot and humid. When you find yourself in a cold-water/greenhouse-air situation, it's always challenging to choose the right apparel. We told Ryan that paddling in a scuba suit under these conditions was overkill, but he just winked and adjusted his regulator. The rest of us were still shedding clothes as we boarded our craft for the start.
By implicit mutual consent, the field eased off the line with Jenga-worthy deliberation and cautiousness. With little wind and growing mugginess, there was a legitimate danger of total collapse if you charged pell-mell out of the gate on your 13.2 mile trek. By encouraging drafting, the glassy water further helped hold the field together. I had a typical mid-pack start, but at least the collegial spirit of the field helped allay my usual apprehensions about my languor. Jan and Chris C took the early lead, but remained within hailing distance should we need to recall them. A minute into the race, Matt sprinted by me and headed out to join the scouting party. His ease in overtaking me was a tad worrisome, but I figured he'd burn through his youthful zest pretty quickly.
I'm starting to suspect that Olga is sweet on Max. In any event, I've discovered the sure-fire way to feature in her photos is to stick close to him. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
Over the next few minutes I overtook a drafting clump of pursuers, gradually slipping past Wesley, Max Yasochka, Tim Dwyer, Chris Laughlin, and Chris Q. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to make a clean escape. I got a little too close and ended up with a Quinn stuck on my port draft. A fading Chris C angled over and latched onto the other side. Jan and Matt were working independently four or five lengths ahead on different lines.
I tried various maneuvers and intervals to shake off my drafters. Chris C fell for a head feint to the right and dropped off, but Chris Q remained a thorn at my side. Finally, I managed a short sprint that brushed him back to my stern wake. From there it was a simple matter of bursting a few superfluous blood vessels in my head and neck to drop Chris completely. I was hoping for a "blown out of the airlock" kind of separation, but had to settle for a gentler "lost grip on the module hatch" departure. As Chris drifted lazily back, I concentrated on catching Matt, who seemed to be on the more direct line to Black Point.
A few minutes into the race, Matt had a four boat lead on me. I had since been whittling that down. It took me twenty minutes to cover the 100 foot gap - a whopping closing speed of 0.05 mph. A garden snail can't even manage 0.03 mph, so I think you'll agree I was putting the hammer down. By the time I slid onto Matt's draft at around mile 3, Jan had fallen back a few lengths, where he was joined by Chris in the chase.
Typical show-off Canadians. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
Approaching Black Point, I started to get nervous about identifying the proper turning buoy. I wouldn't exactly say that I had tuned out during the captains meeting, but I did keep picking up an NPR program on silkworms (nature's tailors!). Matt and I began a discussion on the relative merits of the various choices, finally settling on a spiffy white-and-blue job 150 meters ahead. We were feeling pretty good about this decision when indistinct shouts from behind cracked our veneer of confidence. The four lead boats stopped paddling to assess the situation, ultimately deciding to follow our hearts rather than the incoherent ravings of some lunatic. Turns out it was Wesley, frantically directing us to the buoy we were in fact heading for (although from his angle, he couldn't tell that). So following the ravings would have gotten us to the same place.
I rounded the buoy just ahead of Matt, with Jan and Chris perhaps another 4 lengths back. There was still a lot of confused yammering going on, but a lot of that may have been me chastising myself for making such a wide, lazy turn. We'd spend the next few miles heading back into the wind. Although later in the day we'd get slapped around by its aggressive bluster, at this point the gentle caress of the breeze soothed our blistered skin. Or, in Ryan's case, cooled the gooey contents of his wetsuit back to a mostly-solid state.
The 3 mile trip back to the upwind turn-around was relatively uneventful once I'd retroactively edited out all of the terror-filled glances over my shoulder to see who would soon be overtaking me. I'd installed a Geiger counter app on my phone prior to the race, so at least I'd have some warning if Jan was sneaking up on me. I never saw anyone distinctly (because, remember, I didn't look) and the headwind helpfully swept away any scent of impending doom, so (to the syncopated clicks of intermittent cosmic rays) I began to think perhaps I would finally break my runner-up hex. The subsequent downwind leg back to Black Point scorched away that hope, along with all others.
I had about a 35 second lead over Matt at the upwind turn (which, remarkably, was still attached and afloat). Chris lagged behind him by a few lengths, with Jan a half-dozen more back. With the wind now surgically tuned to match my exact speed, I could finally appreciate the full swelter of the day. Despite shedding a half-dozen pounds in my cockpit sauna, I felt increasingly leaden as the miles to the next turn trickled by. My target pace was slipping so often that I was forced to switch over to target deceleration. Some quick calculations (and they say you never use calculus in real life...) indicated that I'd actually be going backwards by the time I reached Black Point. I must have integrated incorrectly, though, because I actually had some residual velocity as we approached the turn.
Blinded by sweat and tears, heat blasted, and mentally exhausted from all the math, I was finally about to round the buoy when... again with the yelling from behind. Given that he was only a few lengths behind at this point, Matt could have used his inside voice, but he must have sensed that my befuddled mind was only capable of responding to intense stimuli. The fact that I was now paddling canoe-style and yelling out "hut" on side changes probably tipped him off that I needed some hand-holding. In any event, he managed to redirect me to the correct buoy.
I was still in the lead, but watched Matt and Chris take the turn together - now only 20 seconds back. Given my depleted state, I was done for. Noting that Jan had dropped off the pursuit, I dreamed that I might salvage a third place finish from the charred wreckage. Amazingly, however, it turns out that everyone else was also suffering on that past leg. And that my seemingly debilitating fatigue was as much mental as physical. It took only a few minutes of wind-in-the-face therapy to reinvigorate my hopes for a win.
While Chris prepared a hasty exit to avoid the press throng, I graciously stuck around to provide an hour-long Q&A session (mostly A, now that I think of it) with my deck camera. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
My upwind execution was sloppy, but the glee of being freed from the downwind kiln powered me back towards McCorrie Point. About halfway home, I noticed one of the two chase boats back about a dozen lengths on an inside line. He didn't seem to be gaining, which allowed me to concentrate 100% of my anxiety on the guy I couldn't see. I hate that guy. With a mile to go, a mischievous squall descended on the Sakonnet. With an almost perfectly head-on wind, however, negotiating this final obstacle was more annoying than challenging.
I reached the line a half-minute ahead of Chris, with Matt taking third shortly after that. Jan and Tim completed the top 5, with Leslie Chappell paddling away with the women's title. After rehydrating (I'd forgotten my IV saline drip so I had to do things the old-fashioned way - guzzling seawater), we headed up the road to the Echols' house for the after-party. Once you fought your way through the crowd of surfski pilgrims genuflecting towards The Garage, it was a pretty good spread. Many thanks to Wesley and Betsy for a great day. And a special thanks to guest lecturer Jan, who gave a sobering scared-straight presentation on the perils of the Molokai. Or, at least, the perils of being on a chase boat there.
You know the angel/devil that pops up to provide advice in cartoons? Apparently that's a real thing. Minus the costumes.
Due to popular demand, we're all booked for a reunion tour in Rhode Island on June 16th for Ride the Bull. Poring over navigational charts, tide tables, and unholy grimoires, Wesley and Tim are already hard at work summoning the latest incarnation of the cruelest course in New England. Please preregister at PaddleGuru.
