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.