Chattajack 31: Togetherness

Given enough photos, there was bound to be one that made us look good.  See other great race pics from Deb.S Action Photo.

When Mary Beth told me back in May that she wanted to paddle the Chattajack 31, my initial reaction was "Great!  I can reciprocate the dedicated support she provided me in last year's race." Fortunately, before that thought had sufficient time to bubble through my brain and rashly express itself verbally, I had already gotten Jan Lupinski to sign a single-race contract to paddle with me in a double.  We had never paddled together, neither of us owned a tandem ski, and we have fundamentally different paddling styles, but this was obviously a smarter move than schlepping all the way down to Tennessee just to watch someone else paddle.  Probably for the best that I don't have kids, right?

Once we were committed to the Chattajack, it was just a matter of trudging through an entire season (of nearly 20 races) while maintaining at least a modicum of motivation for a late-October competition.  By August I had burned through 80% of my gumption (I expect at about the halfway point of this report, you'll have pretty much the same feeling).  But Mary Beth was just hitting her stride come mid-summer.

A few years back, four-time Chattajack champion Erik Borgnes published a side-splitting satirical piece purporting to be a detailed training plan for this race.  Widely regarded as a masterpiece of absurd exaggeration and whimsy, it contains such comic gems as a five hour paddle, fully half of which consists of brutal 0.9 miles on, 0.1 miles off intervals.  With zero calorie intake!  Unfortunately, not everyone was in on the joke.

Mary Beth, as evidenced by her stone-faced demeanor while editing my race reports (not to mention the pathological eye-rolling in response to my comic antics around the house), was born without a detectable sense of humor.  As such, she failed to recognize that Erik's treatise was a parody.  Perversely, she adopted his ridiculous program as her gospel.  A religious adherence to the Word of Erik meant that by September, MB would head out for her weekly long paddle at 6am on Monday and wouldn't return until late afternoon on Thursday.  For weeks at a time, she'd eat nothing but pistachios and mustard.  She wore only corduroy and slept in a homemade sensory-deprivation tank.
Amen.

The TV in our hotel wasn't working, so we passed Friday evening the old-fashioned way.

We brought clothing and equipment for pretty much any contingency, but perhaps could have left the crampons at home.

By comparison, my Chattajack training was feeble.  Taking inspiration from the proverb about not needing to run faster than the bear, I carefully tracked Jan's fitness level throughout the season.  Blessedly, a flurry of late season travel kept him from hitting the water as often as he otherwise might.  I adjusted my sessions accordingly, aiming for that sweet spot where I was 5% better conditioned than my paddling partner.  I'd occasionally see Mary Beth out on the water, her corduroy paddling outfit zsh-zsh-zsh'ing away in swishing condemnation of my lackadaisical approach to training.

During the summer, Jan had unilaterally resolved the most significant hurdle to us paddling together by purchasing a ski equipped for such a shared endeavor - a Carbonology Blast.  It seemed wise to actually put in some bucket time together before the race.  However, paying particular attention to the adage that familiarity breeds contempt, we decided that a single hour-long session would be more than sufficient.  We met at a neutral location on the Connecticut River.  As was apt, Jan took the pole position.

Our paddle wasn't utterly disheartening, but it was clear that I had a lot to learn about paddling clean-up in a double.  My natural race cadence is around 104 strokes per minute, while Jan's is under 90 spm.  Furthermore, while Jan has a metronomic left-pause-right-pause cadence, I rush my right stroke, leading to an asymmetric left-right-pause-left-right-pause pattern.  As a result, I had a pronounced tendency to get ahead of Jan, particularly on the right side.  But how hard could it be to suppress millions of strokes worth of muscle memory for the four hour duration of the race?  I had a more pressing concern to worry about.

Even on the narrowest of skis, I'm an inveterate knuckle-whacker.  At some point during an early-season training session, I'll eventually strike the gunnel of my ski hard enough to tear the skin off the knuckles of my ring fingers.  These open wounds then persist for the remainder of the season, such that I'd embark on each subsequent paddle dreading the unavoidable, excruciating pain that the next careless mis-stroke would bring.  As you may already know, in 1591 Pope Innocent IX explicitly banned knuckle-whacking as an acceptable interrogation method of the Inquisition.  Not only were the torturers complaining that it was too cruel, they found the heretics would inevitably just double-down on their blasphemies between sobs.  Although the Blast is a narrow double, from the rear seat it felt like I was wearing a barrel.  By the end of our short paddle, I'm pretty sure I could see bone.  Fortunately, I had taped the gunnels beforehand, so there wasn't any permanent discoloration from the blood.

After spending 45 minutes trying to get the SUPs to spell out "Chattajack" marching band style in the background, I finally gave up and just took the damn picture.

I figured if you ended up needing the PFD all that badly, you probably should have been wearing it in the first place.

Arriving in Chattanooga the day before the race, we were confronted with a heavy rain that lasted through the night.  By the morning, it had tapered off to a gentle mist - just enough moisture to make it impossible to tape anything to your boat.  Temperatures would be in the 60s.  Presenting a virtually unanimous front, 97% of climatologists agree that dressing appropriately for the Chattajack is infeasible, regardless of the forecast.  I was originally going to go with a  short-sleeve top only, but Mary Beth convinced me to add some shorts to my ensemble before the cops could arrive.

There were more than 100 surfskis racing, including 20 doubles (although, disappointingly, no others in the men's Tandem Surfski class).  Nate Humberston was clearly the man to get beaten by, and an impressive roster of paddlers accepted the challenge.  My choice to repeat as silver medalist was Flavio Costa, who had been electrifying at the Lighthouse to Lighthouse race 6 weeks earlier.  Flavio would be joined by fellow top-five L2L competitors Vadim Lawrence and Chris Norman.  Relative to that race, Vadim would probably benefit from the flatter conditions and longer course.  Chris was a bit of a wildcard, but paddled the L2L with ever-increasing vigor.  Nobody was worried in the least about Ryan Petersen, mostly because he had apparently popped into existence just moments before the race started.  That's a little unfair.  Ryan had made a trial appearance in our plane of reality at the 2017 USCA Nationals in Dubuque, finishing a close second behind legend Mike Herbert before blinking back into the void.

The deceptively named Kayak class, which would start 30 minutes before the Surfski class, was in truth composed mostly of lowercase surfskis.  I assume that Epic must have included a free Chattajack registration with every V8 Pro sold in the US, because they were all there, joined by a healthy collection of wider entry-level skis.  There was no consensus on best-in-class, with Justin Schaay, Terry Smith, Morgan House, John Wellens, and Bruce Poacher each featuring as the betting favorite at various points.

 Remember when Jan and I were inseparable?  We got over that.

Jan and I watched the first wave start, then launched from the floating docks.  As we made our way upstream to join the second wave throng, I was feeling pretty optimistic.  I wasn't expecting a walk in the park, but certainly it'd be better than last year's swim in the maelstrom.  There's not much that needs to be said about the course.  You snake your way 31 miles down the river, mostly staying near the center to take advantage of the current.  Other than some weeds and suck-water near the shores, and some hapless SUPs mid-river, there are no real hazards.  We turned downstream to await the start from a conservative position outside of the bulk of surfskis and outriggers.  With the on-water bagpipes in full lament, the gun sounded to start our long ramble.

I always start slow, but it's not generally because I want to.  Perhaps figuring that gradual acceleration would promote synchronization, Jan eased us into the race so gently that it took us several minutes to catch up to a branch that happened to be floating by at the gun.  The Queen Mary departing her jetty into busy harbor traffic would seem spry in comparison.  If I provide petty criticisms of my skipper here, it's only so that my later incompetence stands out the more in contrast.  With that in mind... Jan told me 15 seconds before the start that our initial stroke would be on the right, then proceeded to do the opposite.

Our measured tempo slowly increased over the first few minutes until we reached a comfortable cruising pace.  There were about 20 boats ahead of us at this point - single and double skis plus a few tandem outriggers - but it was obvious that we would soon overtake most of these rabbits.  By mile 1.5, we had slipped by all but the first four skis.  Nate and Flavio appeared to be exchanging pulls in the lead, with an unknown paddler keeping pace several lengths behind (the semi-mythical Ryan, as it turned out), and Vadim back another dozen lengths or so.  Thanks to occasional bursts of stroke harmony, we were slowly reeling them all in.

I knew that Jan wouldn't lead our craft by quiet example.  As he explained before the race, if a drill sergeant molly-coddled his inept recruits, they'd later be coming home from war, hopelessly intermingled, in a single pulp-filled body bag.  I'm paraphrasing, because Jan went into a shocking level of graphic detail, but you get the picture (as did I, thanks to a set of disturbing illustrations that accompanied his presentation).  On the water, I was subjected to a stream of verbal rebukes, with varying degrees of vehemence.  I should note that while a few of these were delivered with noticeable impatience and frustration, Jan remained remarkably polite with his wayward pupil.  Nevertheless, you can only hear the directives "Together!" and "Relax!" so many times without starting to take umbrage - no matter how warranted the remarks.

My only hope was that Jan would eventually realize the futility of his coaching, enter into a despondent funk, and let me single-handedly destroy our double rhythm in peace.  It took longer than I anticipated, but we eventually got there.  At this earlier point, however, he was in full disciplinary mode.  Over one stretch of the river, Jan's instruction regarding my timing was so unrelenting that, looking around, I noticed that all the paddlers within earshot had unconsciously fallen into perfect synchrony with him.  That momentary diversion of attention on my part was, of course, sufficient to throw our boat into near-catastrophic arrhythmia.

At mile 3 we picked off Vadim, who would later demonstrate his fitness and fortitude by passing Flavio and moving to within 30 seconds of "Ryan".  We moved adjacent to the three leaders in the next few minutes, but stalled there in our progress.  Having caught up with the slowest SUPs from the first wave, we fell back a half-dozen lengths while navigating through those meandering craft.  The densest concentration of paddleboards coincided with the narrowest part of the river, which made for some excitingly close encounters.  As a passenger in my vessel, I was able to watch with detached curiosity to see if we'd collide - like it was happening to someone else.  Based on his angry mutterings up front, Jan seemed a little more, uh, personally engaged.

Just shy of an hour into the race, we noticed that Nate had managed to shed Flavio.  The three leaders were running near the left bank at that point, while we were on a more fortuitous line in stronger current.  After miles of unproductive pursuit, we now swiftly moved past both Ryan and Flavio.  Only Nate separated us from my quest for the fastest time of the day.  I say "my quest" because Jan seemed to be more of the "just happy to participate" mindset before the race.  But perhaps being so close to glory would ignite his competitive fire.

Like a couple of hard-nosed thugs tailing the prosecution's key witness in the hopes of offing him in some secluded byway, Jan and I tracked stealthily behind Nate at a comfortable stalking distance for miles.  I was the rash loud-mouth - "Come on Loop-man, let's ice this rat!" and "We got him!  We got him!  Pull the trigger!"  Jan was the oh-so-cool voice of reason - "Gregory, what the hell are you talking about?"  No imagination, that guy.  Despite our furtiveness, Nate told us afterward he was well aware that we were skulking abaft (peculiar verbiage, I agree, but that's how he talks).  In any event, I spent several happy miles imagining that the combined vigor of two challengers would soon overwhelm that of the lone paddler ahead.

I can't say for sure if the deciding factor was Nate's superior skill and athleticism, or the deleterious effect that changing conditions had on my tandem paddling competence, but once he started to pull away at mile 13, any fanciful delusions of offing him to take the top overall spot were immediately dispelled.  Nate would end up finishing 8 minutes ahead of us, shattering the singles' course record and beating his closest in-class competitor by nearly a quarter of an hour.

The night before the race, participants received a safety advisory email warning us of windy conditions in the low teens, with gusts of 35 mph.  The wind had been negligible in the morning, but according to the forecast, 90 minutes after our start the shock wave of the impending front would reach us and we'd be blown clear of the river.  It wasn't quite as dramatic as that, but rounding a curve at mile 13, the conditions rapidly changed.  We'd paddled the first part of the race in glassy water, but now we were bucking a blustering headwind.  And (as Jan helpfully pointed out) most of that bucking was coming from back seat asynchrony.  The marginally rougher conditions were enough to further degrade my internal timing mechanism.

After three and a half miles of gusty winds, we rounded another bend and abruptly found ourselves back in placid conditions.  I'd like to say we took full advantage of this magical deliverance to return to semi-competent form, but the damage had been done.  Our best days were behind us, with only a gradual decline into chaos and incivility ahead.  Jan's frustration at my inability to match his tempo, combined with my frustration at his inability to drop the obviously fruitless verbal guidance ultimately led to some regrettable sharp words.  By me only, I'm embarrassed to admit.  Despite being by far the less aggrieved party.  It's proper that complaints should only be directed up the chain of command, so I'll assume that Jan only held his tongue to avoid punching down.

Despite our difficulties, we had passed the halfway point of the race in well under 2 hours.  For most of the journey thus far we had benefited from a robust current, with our average speed in the mid 8 mph range.  As we got further from the outflow of Chickamauga Dam, however, we progressively lost that boost.  A long stretch of shallows further compromised our speed.  So it was with great relief that at mile 24, we came around yet another bend to find a helpful breeze at our back.  The wind-funneling effects of the Tennessee River gorge are inscrutable, but usually in the sense of "In sweet Jesus' name, how can we be heading upwind again?"  To suddenly find the wind working in our favor - that was a truly unexpected bounty.  Except...

We soon found ourselves in legitimate downwind conditions.  With rideable waves.  That sounds great, in theory.  In practice, the next five miles were the most vexing of our race.  With zero experience together in a relatively narrow tandem, stability was a factor.  We weren't in danger of going over, but there were enough wobbles, corrective strokes, and outright braces to compromise our forward power.  Much worse, however, was the impact the downwind conditions had on our rhythm.  By necessity, Jan was varying his stroke timing and rate in response to individual waves.  My natural impulse was to do the same, as if I were in a single.  Despite knowing intellectually that I should focus solely on mirroring Jan's stroke, I kept subconsciously reading the conditions for myself and anticipating the strokes.  The result was disastrous.  By the end, I was ecstatic if I was at least anticipating on the correct side of the boat.  Not only were we missing rides, the boat was jolting back and forth like a furious rodeo bull.  And the clown in the back seat was just enraging him further.

What should have been the fastest part of the course was, for us, the slowest.  Thankfully, with a few miles to go we rounded a left bend and the wind tapered off.  We were back in mostly flat conditions.  The downwind fracas had apparently broken Jan's spirit, because he suffered through the last stretch in silent judgment of my inadequacy.  In the other half of the boat, I was feeling jubilant - partly because in a few minutes we'd have successfully completed the race, but mostly because I knew that I'd never have to paddle a double again.  In one final indignity to Jan, I let that jubilation drive my stroke during the timed sprint at the end, ensuring that the enduring image of our race together would be that of two single paddlers, surprised to find themselves somehow in the same boat (as seen here).

Mary Beth finished with gusto.  Or perhaps it was brio.  One of the Os, anyway.

We finished in 4:01:37 as the second fastest boat of the day.  That sounds pretty good, unless you happen to know that last year's best tandem time was 3:48:25 - and that was with less favorable conditions.  I feel that Jan and I probably do have a better Chattajack in us.  Where, by mutual consent, it will remain forever nascent.  Nate won the Surfski class with a time of 3:53:53, with Ryan and Vadim filling out the podium.  In the battle of the V8 Pros within the Kayak class, Justin won handily in 4:22:38, followed by Terry and Morgan.  The women's Kayak podium contained Julieta Gismodi, Kim Schulte, and Julie Mitravich.

After last year's race I dissolved into a quivering blob, incapable of speech or deliberate movement for the next half-hour.  I felt much better this year.  Refreshed after a quick shave, haircut, and pedicure in Jan's well-outfitted van, I made my way to the finish dock to await Mary Beth's arrival. When I saw her round the Hales Bar Power House just a few moments after I had joined the other spectators (a half-hour sooner than she had expected), I was thankful I hadn't opted for the Lupinski Deluxe Spa Package.  Someone's gotta tell Borgnes his lunatic training plan actually works!  Mary Beth finished at 4:58:35, second in women's Surfski (and 15th overall in the class).  Sara Jordan had taken the crown some minutes earlier with a powerful showing, while Holly Hall claimed third less than a minute behind MB.

We told everyone that we had plenty of goodies in the van, but only Flavio took the bait.  Say... what ever happened to that guy?

I'm proud to say that I remain friends with Jan to this day.  I thank him for showing me the ropes, and for resisting the urge to wrap them tightly around my neck.  Thanks also to Renata for providing transportation support.  And to the dozens of Chattajack volunteers who make the race possible.  But most of all, thanks to Mary Beth.  Not for being an incredible training partner, calming influence, and all-around boon to my life (although maybe someday I'll get around to expressing my gratitude for those things), but rather for suggesting just before we launched that I lengthen my paddle to preserve my knuckles.  The race was whack free!

You can view scads of race photos from Deb.S and Rick White.

Nahant Bay Cup: Sprintacular

By shifting the Nahant Bay Cup from its traditional slot in August, director Mike McDonough imbued his race with a certain late-season wistfulness.  Although there a couple more New England races this fall, another paddling year is winding down.  Unless you happened to think back in April that it'd be a good idea to register for a 31 mile end-of-October race, in which case you have five more weeks of training to suffer through.  What I'd give to be wistful!

As a general rule, an article about an event shouldn't be longer than the actual event.  While there are allowable exceptions - it's tough to summarize the first action-packed femtosecond of the Big Bang in less than a quadrillionth of a word, for example - I'm told that a 26.5 minute surfski race doesn't qualify (despite being of comparable importance).  In short, I'll be brief.

Hurricane Humberto had passed offshore a couple of days earlier, leaving behind a significant lingering swell.  From Fisherman's Beach in Swampscott, we could see that in Nahant Bay itself the impact of the swell was negligible (outside of the well-behaved rollers sweeping into the beaches deeper in the bay).  However, from a couple of miles away we could see the waves exploding on the rocky shores of Egg Rock and East Point - waypoints along the typical open-ocean course.  Wary of losing some of the valuable 50+ demographic, Mike decided to change the race format to something more palatable to his core audience.

The calm waters of Nahant Bay belie the tempest thrashing in the hearts of the paddlers.  Except for Mary Beth.  She was pretty chill.

Unfortunately, Mike neglected to take into account the cantankerous nature of his constituency.  Rather than laying down the law on an alternative course, he opened the floor for discussion.   Some wanted to run the traditional course, others wanted to incorporate the beach surf, while a few just packed their gear and headed home.   At one point Matt Drayer was arguing for a "Last Man Standing" scheme in which we'd tightly circle Egg Rock until there was but a lone survivor.  Paddlers regularly stormed away from the debate muttering in disgust, only to rejoin the exuberant fray a few moments later.  Actually, that was mostly just Bill Kuklinski.

Eventually we settled on a lap course in front of the beach that would have us rounding a red nun at one end and a dedicated turn buoy on the other.  The plan was for Mike to drop that buoy close enough to Kings Beach that we'd be able to surf into it for that turn.  The field paddled together to the beach to reconnoiter, but lost our focus upon arriving - gleefully doing out-and-back runs on the eminently rideable waves.  Mike was probably getting increasingly aggravated at our lack of discipline in getting the race started, but that's just a guess.  Every time he'd try to get my attention I'd pretend I didn't see him and launch out after another ride.  After a half hour of frolicking, we eventually tired enough for Mike to corral the herd.

The shallow slope of the beach and the notable discrepancy in the size of the incoming sets meant the location of the surf zone varied wildly.  Mike ultimately decided to drop the buoy well outside any possible breakers, which meant that we probably wouldn't do much surfing to the turn.  It would essentially be a flatwater paddle.  We lined up for what would consist of two-and-a-half laps followed by a final spur over to Fisherman's Beach (up-back-up-back-up-side).  Mike counted us down to the start.

When I belatedly realized that I hadn't gotten a pre-race shot of Mike pointing dramatically, I took matters into my own hand.

Since the field consisted mostly of paddlers from our Tuesday night Salem League, I had a pretty good sense for the competition.  For example, it was a safe bet that Matt would try to win.  And sure enough, my prediction was spot on.  He took the immediate lead off the line, but I managed to keep on his port draft as we separated from the other paddlers.  We maintained this formation until the first turn, where we jointly demonstrated a lack of maneuverability generally seen only in monorails.

After completing the first leg to the red nun, my GPS was indicating that the race would be much shorter than we had anticipated.  By my math, it would come in around 26 furlongs.   I knew I shouldn't have bought that cheap Garmin knock-off.  The only other unit settings are angstroms, parsecs, and kilometers (the most unfathomable of them all).  At my current pace - somewhere between a trot and a canter - the whole thing would be over in less than a half-hour.

On the way back to the start buoy, I took the lead from Matt with an ease that suggested he wasn't that reluctant to yield it.  For the short-term, at least.  I suspected his long-range goals weren't as generous.  I thought I gapped him over the next few minutes, but at the buoy turn he pulled stubbornly back into view.  For the next few legs, he would never fall back more than a length or two, inevitably nosing into my periphery at each broad turn.  At the final buoy turn (with only a half-turn at the nun towards the beach remaining), Matt executed a masterful move, driving past me on the momentum of a small ride to retake the lead.

With 16 trillion angstroms (damned GPS) remaining in the race, it was now clear that the remainder of that distance would be spent in extreme discomfort.  We were both all-in for the pudding.  Not sure that's actually a saying, but you get the gist.  Matt and I paddled side-by-side toward the nun, pushing progressively harder but holding just shy of red-lining.  Matt helpfully reminded me that I would be on the outside of the final turn, gradually pushing us both wide to amplify his advantage.   Finally rounding the nun with a 0.0000209 nanoparsec (oh for Pete's sake) sprint ahead of us, I found myself behind by a half-length.

In the past, a justifiable fear of expiring has kept me from starting my final sprint too early in a race.  But if Matt was going to beat me today, at least my kinfolk would have the satisfaction of knowing that he'd feel so guilty over my demise that he couldn't truly savor the win.  I punched in the override codes to disable all safety mechanisms and set off in reckless pursuit.  Pulling alongside Matt once again, I tried to maintain a demeanor of steely-eyed determination.  Difficult to pull off with those eyes threatening to bulge free of your head, but I think he bought it.

Skirting the shallows off Lincoln House Point, we were both able to catch some small runners that were wrapping around towards the finish.  Largely by happenstance, I happened to get on a slightly more productive bump and moved a few feet ahead.  I maintained this slight lead as the waves tapered off, leaving us to fend for ourselves in flat water for the final 200 meters (having given up on the GPS, I was eyeballing it).  Perhaps not realizing that I was teetering on the verge of catastrophic system failure, Matt seemed to concede the victory.  I hit the beach a boat length ahead and stumbled across the finish line at 26:31.  In a cruel twist of fate, I had missed the record for fastest time in any New England surfski race by a mere second.  Two years earlier, Jan Lupinski had edged me out at 26:30 on a very similar course.  A proficient nemesis finds a way to antagonize you even when he's not present.

Shortly after Matt and I finished, the age-before-beauty tandem team of Bill and Mary Beth pulled in to take the third overall spot, with Kirk Olsen pocketing the solo bronze.  Afterwards, we finished a delightful day with a lunch spread supplied by Carol and Mike.  Many thanks to the McDonoughs and to timer Bill Baumann.

We're down to our final two ocean races of the season, so make 'em count.  In Maine on October 5 we have the Glicker Downwinder (register at PaddleGuru).  And on October 19 is Rhode Island's Plum Beach Lighthouse Race (register at PaddleGuru).  See you there.  And there.

Lighthouse to Lighthouse: Stocked Sound

In what has become something of a yearly ritual, Gary Williams summoned paddlers and rowers of all stripes to Shady Beach with promises of wealth and glory.  Such is the Shangri-la allure of the Lighthouse to Lighthouse Race that we keep returning, even though what actually awaits most of us is blisters and humiliation.  That's life in a nutshell, right?  We're not exactly off to a rollicking start here, but I guarantee that things will get better... before inevitably ending in suffering.  In that spirit, read on!

A side note.  In response to a number of readers questioning the veracity of my reports, I decided to employ a professional fact checker.  Rather than making changes in response to hypothetical errors, I figured the doubters would find it illuminating to see just how scrupulously to the truth I hew.  Therefore, in the rare instances of petty deviations from reality, I'll just include the fact checker's (FC) comments as provided.  [FC: No actual fact checker reviewed this document.]  Good one, fact checker!  This site doesn't support emojis in reports, but I'm sure a winky was intended there.  [FC: Red X emoji, accompanied by game show buzzer sound.]

I've suggested to Gary numerous times that he drop the "East Coast Surfski Championship" subtitle to the L2L in favor of something with a little less talent-drawing pizzazz - perhaps "Just Another Race" or, better yet, "Featuring Toxic Algal Blooms!" [FC: Unlikely, since Gary has long since blocked the author from all social media platforms, changed his phone number, and now shuttles between a series of safe houses.]  Nevertheless, the unfortunate moniker persists.  As a result, the L2L consistently assembles the most talented pool of paddlers east of the Gorge.  For those provincials used to racing primarily against the local New England crowd (with an acceptable level of bleed-over from the greater metro NYC area), the increase in competition is downright disheartening.

Before the race, Austin exudes an air of relaxed competence.

Timmy and Mark... maybe not so much.

After a three year absence, Austin Kieffer was once again penciled in to annihilate the field.  [FC: A pen was used.]  There was some debate over how to fill the remaining podium spots, however, so in truly barbaric fashion, the paddlers were thrown onto the water to let natural selection takes its course.  I had my money on Floridian Flavio Costa for silver, mostly because of all the cool tattoos.  I wasn't ruling out Canadian Vadim Lawrence or Unfortunate Rob Jehn (hey, that's what I got when I googled "What do you call someone from New Jersey?") though, so was forced to spread my trifecta bets around.  [FC: While not strictly false, cheap shots at the Garden State would be beneath most authors.]  I tried to drum up some wagers on me reaching the podium (in the hopes of then cutting a deal with the bookies to take a dive - perhaps literally), but my faked man-in-the-crowd cries of "What about Lesher?  He's looking strong!" were met with little more than a smattering of good-natured chuckles.  [FC: Technically, gales of derisive laughter.]  Well, I thought, the best response to this borderline indifference [FC: Ridicule.] will be to get out there and finish a strong 7th.

I'm sure most of you know the course by now, but to prevent readers from missing a turn and being summarily disqualified, I'll recap.  We'll start off of Shady Beach, round Sprite Island, cruise past Peck Ledge Lighthouse, go around Goose Island, and head towards Copps Island.  By this point in the narrative, you'll probably just want to skip ahead a couple dozen paragraphs to find out who won the doubles race, but I'll have already told you (Max Yasochka and Andrius Zinkevichus), so you'll need to push on past Sheffield Island, round Greens Ledge Light, then plow back through everything in reverse.  You may find it easier to read in a mirror held perpendicular to your screen.  The good news is that the 14 mile race generally comes in at around 13.3 miles, so you'll finish 5% sooner than you expected.  With mild wind making for a particularly fast race, you'll be out of here in no time. [FC: And yet you'll be surprised by how often you check the clock during that non-existent span.]

While you might not describe the audience as "rapt", or even "pretending to pay attention", you can't deny Gary's presence on the picnic table.

After a brief but surprisingly expletive-laden captain's meeting (couldn't get my darned PFD zipper unstuck), the HPK class hit the water, circling anxiously while the other waves were given their shot.  Eventually, the surfskis took the stage.  When you find yourself being consistently out-sprinted by three-quarters of the field at the start (including that one guy you just cannot believe is ahead you) [FC: "man, woman, or child" would be more accurate than "guy".], you continue to do the exact same thing for 5 years, then do start-specific training for 3 years to no discernible benefit, and finally accept that you're a worthless slug undeserving of love or respect.  Having now embraced my gastropod status, at least I'm able to adopt the compensatory strategy of positioning myself at the extreme end of the starting line.  The first couple of minutes are just as demoralizing, but at least you're free from the contemptuous paddle spray of your superiors.  And less likely to be involved in the kind of right-of-way squabbles that have soured my relationships with any number of elderly paddlers.

A quick roll call satisfied, we were counted down to the start.  Given that Austin is hands-down the best American ski paddler (and I wouldn't hesitate to say the same thing of Pat Dolan, had he been at the L2L instead), his immediate and commanding lead was unsurprising.  Flavio made a plucky effort to hold on Austin's stern off the line, but moxie will only get you so far.  Say 150 meters, tops.  A long line of indistinguishable competitors strung out behind Flavio.  The course angles obliquely around an orange buoy after an initial straight-away of perhaps a quarter-mile.  Although my pre-race objective had been to reach that turn in the top five whatever the cost, I'm nothing if not irresolute.  If circumstances demanded that I recalibrate my short-term ambition, so be it.  Let's go with top ten by the turn, shall we?  Inching by Kurt Hatem while passing the buoy, I swelled with pride at achieving my updated goal. [FC: This may be more editorial suggestion than fact, but the author might consider using the phrase "pathetic capitulation" when referring to this revision.]

I'm not sure what went wrong in this particular instance, but 90% of the time this kind of maneuver yields a hilarious pratfall.

It took me another couple minutes to get clear of Ronald Zavala, after which a mere 7 paddlers separated me from a glorious (but distant) second place to Austin.  You may be confused because above I highlighted three competitors to beat (Flavio, Vadim, and Rob), yet there were more than double that yet ahead of me.  I was similarly flummoxed.  My ego had once again punk'd me, using a time-tested combination of arrogance and ignorance to inflate my expectations.  I recognized a couple of the paddlers ahead from previous races (Paul Facteau and Ed Joy), but two other were unknown to me (as it turned out, Chris Norman and Phill Lloyd).  At Peck Ledge Lighthouse, Austin was well ahead of everyone, with Flavio and Vadim in fruitless pursuit.  The remaining paddlers were lined single-file behind their stalwart locomotive, Rob.

Frustrated at the immutable three length gap that separated me from the back of the Jehn train [FC: And, apparently, ignorant of the definition of "immutable".], I took a wide turn around the shallows of Goose Island to position myself outside of the pack.  Perhaps I'd get a boost from paddling in undisturbed water.  Or maybe a little extra help from the incoming tide surging into the Sound.  Or, as a remote possibility, I'd pretty much remain exactly the same distance behind Rob.  Against all odds, it turns out... that last one.  Although my tactic was futile, I did manage to move up the hierarchy as first Chris, then Ed, lost the draft and dropped off.  For the next couple of miles, I paced Rob, Phill, and Paul from 50 meters outside and several lengths back.

Somewhere adjacent to Sheffield Island, Paul fell three or four lengths behind Rob and Phill.  I  had tangled with Paul once before.  In the 2017 race, he graciously cramped up in the final half-mile to grant me my only top five L2L finish.  Paul is an inland paddler with impeccable flatwater credentials, but very limited ocean experience.  Interesting fact - because his land-locked status prevents him from eating enough krill, Paul takes dietary supplements to maintain his healthy pinkish-orange skin tone.  [FC: Er... I'm not sure where to even start with this one.]  Given that I wasn't making up any ground on him via conventional means, I put in a VHF call to my fisherman friend Scotty D to see if he could unlevel the playing field with some targeted wakes from his 38' trawler. [FC: Scott "Scotty" DiFranco strenuously denies involvement, but wants to know when to expect those tenderloins the author promised.]  Sure enough, I soon saw Paul bobbing beside his boat.  After ascertaining that he was OK and reminding him to "krill up" while he had the chance, I moved off in pursuit of the leaders.  Although I'd get glimpses of Paul behind me over the next few miles, the sea had grown wobbly enough that I didn't feel the need to radio in additional surgical strikes from Scotty.

Rounding Greens Ledge Light, Rob and Phill were perhaps 15 lengths ahead.  Vadim had fallen off the pace a bit and was in danger of being caught by these two.  Rob and Vadim had finished within seconds of one another a couple of months earlier at the Blackburn, scarcely a minute behind me.  [FC: True, but a shameless and gratuitous aside.  Let's hope the author gets his comeuppance.]  Now heading back towards the start, I traded pleasantries with those approaching paddlers still on the way to the lighthouse.  My buddies would say "Good job!" or "Keep it going!", and I'd reply "Urggh." or "Would it have killed you to have 'accidentally' collided with one of the lead boats?"  So-called buddies.

All of our speeds had dropped as a modest tide was now pushing us back.  I wasn't losing ground to Rob and Phill, but neither was I gai... Whoosh!  What the hell is happening?  The sudden appearance of an unknown bearded competitor steaming past at an improbable speed threw me into muddled confusion.  I hadn't reduced my effort appreciably, so how could someone paddling this powerfully have possibly been behind me for 9 miles?  The answer, as it turns out, is that Chris hadn't been feeling that well during the first half of the race, but had - unfortunately - since recovered.  With a biblical vengeance.

I can't be sure if it was meant as a courtesy or a taunting challenge, but Chris had passed close enough to me that hopping on his draft was a simple matter of pivoting a few degrees to the right and increasing my power output by about 75%.  I quickly took a tally.  Renewed focus on technique was good for maybe 3%, my cardiovascular system was willing to pitch in 6%, and sheer grit promised no actual power gain, but after some haggling conceded to do everything in its power to maintain bowel control.  So, 9% and some degree of continence confidence.  Not quite enough for a steady-state draft off of Chris, but I got in a solid 30 seconds before my grit finally gave out, explosively. [FC: This gig does not pay well enough.]

After prying himself free from my anemic grip, Chris' relentless pace slackened enough that he was able to linger just out of reach.   I waffled for the next ten minutes about whether to mount a Pyrrhic interval in an effort to catch him, after which the decision was mercifully taken out of my hands.  By the time we reached the end of Sheffield Island, Chris had left in pursuit of greener paddlers.  Having lost my chance to hitch a ride up to Rob and Phill, I resigned myself to just worrying about being caught from behind.  I was sure that Matt Drayer - my nemesis from our weekly Salem League races - had been hunting me down for miles.  And if Paul's genetic instincts ever kicked in, there's no telling what heights he might reach while working against the current.   The terror of being overtaken provided enough impetus to keep me within a minute of the pack ahead - close enough that I could maintain the fantasy that with just another lap or two, I would have caught them.

As foretold in all the reputable augury guides, Austin secured the gold medal with a time of 1:41:09.  [FC: Entrails Weekly actually had him in third, but a junior shaman is currently under investigation for goat tampering.]  Flavio was a convincing second.  Vadim's mid-race lull didn't cost him, as a strong finishing drive propelled him to the final podium spot.  Although Chris caught Phill in the final stretch, Rob held on to claim fourth.  Rounding out the top ten were me, Matt, Paul, and Ed.  On the women's side, the top three were Rory Bohm, newcomer Alessia Faverio, and Mary Beth.  In the SS20+ class, the winners were John Redos (edging out John Costello in a reverse of their Blackburn finish) and Pam Boteler.  You already know about Max and Andrius in the double, but how about the age-category-defying duo of septuagenarian Roger Gocking and teen Scott Visser finishing less than a minute behind?

A half-dozen kind (but obviously delusional) people asked me after the race if I had taken second.  What?!?  Where were you when I was trying to drum up bets before the race?  In any event, after seeing the crest-fallen expressions on the first couple of questioners' faces when confronted with the awful truth, I started telling folks that I would have placed much higher had I not contracted a bad case of lupus midway through the race.  That seemed to put everyone at ease.

Thanks in part to equal prize money for women and men, the L2L boasts the best female surfski attendance in the northeast.

Thanks to all the volunteers who made the race safe, fun, and possible.  And to the sponsors - PTX Partners, WomenCAN International, Ocean Paddlesports East, and many more -  who underwrote the prize money and helped defray other costs.  And, of course, all praise and honor to Gary, keeper of the sacred flame of competition.  It's a true measure of the man that late in the afternoon, despite an exhausting day of aggressive bustling, Gary sat with a few lingering paddlers and asked us how he could improve the race for 2020.  He listened intently as I suggested some minor changes, then slapped me hard in the face for having the temerity to question his authority.  He's tough, but fair. [FC: Although the author did show me a pronounced hand print on his cheek, several others have stepped forward to take credit.]

The Nahant Bay Cup is usually held in late August, but after testing temperature, alkalinity, and magnesium chloride levels earlier in the summer, Mike McDonough decided that the bay would need a little more time to season.  He's pleased to announce that it will be fully matured and ready for paddlers by race-time this Saturday (9/21).  No need to pre-register - just show up at Fisherman's Beach in Swampscott between 8:00 and 9:30 for a 10 o'clock start.

Blackburn Challenge: Springbok'ed

As a surfski race, many people find the Blackburn Challenge aggravating.  There's seldom any significant downwind, but there's always confused chop.  It's nearly 20 miles long.  At various points you'll have to contend with suck water, weeds, aggressive tidal currents, heavy traffic, fishing lines, lobstermen hauling traps, and a heart-breaking final turn that clearly reveals the finish... still nearly 2 miles away.  Despite all this, it's the most popular race in New England.  Partly because we're hidebound traditionalists who'd still probably be riding buggies if all the whip manufacturers hadn't been driven out of business by unscrupulous horseless carriage companies, but mainly because no other race can offer its combination of variety, scope, and beauty.

For the past couple of years, the Gorge Downwind Championship has conflicted with the Blackburn.  Although they weren't technically held on the same day, you'd essentially have to charter a private jet to Logan Airport immediately after competing on the Columbia, where your race-ravaged body could then be medevac-ed to Gloucester just in time for a 20 mile coup de grâce.  This year, however, the stars aligned to offset the dates of the two races.  Oceanographer and all-around spoilsport Chris Sherwood insists that it was actually the sun-earth-moon alignment that shifted the favorable Blackburn tides a week earlier.  Given that Chris summarily rejects all portents, omens, and auguries out of some misguided allegiance to "scientific principles", however, I think we can agree that he'll soon be struck dead by Zeus.  At least, that's what his horoscope says.  If you also happen to be a Pisces, might want to avoid going outside for a few weeks.

This is what happens when your parents pooh-pooh those warnings about toxic mercury levels in herring.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

As always, the Blackburn field was intimidating.  It's been close to 20 years since the Blackburn trophy has been hoisted by a New Englander, and not just because years of inbreeding has made us too feeble for hoisting.  Nor because there isn't literally a trophy.  Although we dodged some of the traditional villains this year - no Craig Impens, Erik Borgnes, or Eric Mims - there's apparently an endless stream of alien dastards waiting to swoop in and steal our thunder.  This year, world-class South African paddler Ian Black seemed a lock to whisk the title clean off the continent.  I infiltrated his paddling clinic the Thursday before the race in order to probe for weaknesses, but after only five minutes he insisted that I stop poking him randomly with my paddle.  Although I was unable to identify his Achilles heel, I can confirm that it's not literally his heel - nor left elbow, neck, or stomach.  To make matters worse, South African expat Bruce Poacher (who himself would be paddling a double with Eric Costanzo) had his brother Ross bubble-wrapped, crated up, and shipped from Durban to Gloucester.

Sensing US paddlers were in a weak position, Canada and Mexico decided to jointly execute a pincer move to finish us off.  The invasion was on.  I wasn't personally familiar with Toronto native Vadim Lawrence, but I knew that he had hung tough with Borgnes at a race in Montreal last year.  Vadim would be joined by perennial Canadian threats Jack Van Dorp and Brian Heath, the latter still clinging to his old West Side Boat racing kayak like an ailing medieval peasant to his leeches (and vice versa).  From the south, young Mexican flatwater paddler Ronald Zavala would be making his Blackburn debut.

Back before the invention of the paddle, we were all doing this.  [Shudder]

And of course, not all threats were international.  The protective bio-electric barrier that usually keeps the indigenous New Jersey population contained ("for their own good") apparently malfunctioned long enough for Robert Jehn to slip through.  Even closer to home, Matt Drayer has been nipping at my heels this entire season - a particularly impressive feat since more than once he's had to twist around backwards in his cockpit to do so.  And hailing from a mere 8,342 feet from the starting line, rabid newcomer Janda Ricci-Munn was the local's local everyone had their eye on.  A few weeks earlier I had delusions that this might be my year to win the Blackburn.  Clearly my pipe dream needed recalibration.  Cracking the top 5 seemed vaguely doable, but only after a vigorous round of self-affirmation exercises.

After a brisk captain's meeting at Gloucester High School, the racers found their way onto the water.  With a mild incoming tide, we'd be fighting the current in the Annisquam River before getting some temporary relief in the open ocean.  By the time we finished, however, an outgoing tide would be pushing against us.  The forecast was for light northerly winds, but not enough to provide much downwind action on the long stretch along the east coast of Cape Ann.  After nearly a dozen heats of other craft had been launched on their journey, the surfskis finally nosed up to the starting line.

Nobody really knows how these things get started, but before I had a chance to gird my loins for the upcoming engagement (terrible chafing issues, you know), I found myself amidst the mayhem.  And then, within the first few seconds, increasingly abaft the mayhem.  While this might have been a safer vantage point to watch the unrolling skirmish at the front, I needed to join the melee.  Rather than diving in head-first with paddle flying (often a literal analogy, in my case) I took a cue from Jack Van Dorp, who was creeping ninja-like along the shore, out of the tidal current.  My rear-facing GoPro later showed that locals Matt and Janda quickly followed suit.

Ian Black was leading a furious charge up the middle of the channel, with Rob, Vadim, Ross, and a few others in tow.  A half-mile into the race, the course veers to the right while a long dead-end arm of the estuary stretches alluringly in front of you.  Having myself been enticed down the wrong path back in my larval sea kayak days (oh, such fond memories of pupation!), I knew how easy it was to lead yourself astray.  Watching the leaders veer from the optimal path I was treading the fine line between "exploiting local knowledge" and "being a weasel".  With Jack by my side near the riverbank, however, I felt that between us we could likely shoulder the shameful burden of remaining silent.  I'm on the fence about misery, but trickery definitely loves company.

Unfortunately, Ian noticed the error of his way before heading too far afield and corrected his course to intercept ours.  Of course, as the star paddler of the race, he brought his entire entourage with him.  When Jack and I merged with the main group a quarter mile later we were just a skosh shy of the leaders.  At this point Ross was pulling, with Ian on a port draft and Rob flared out further to the left.  Everyone else had fallen at least a length behind.  I pulled onto Ross' starboard draft, any lingering compunction about our clandestine corner-cutting quickly washed away by the salty spray from his paddle.

As Ross' right hand man, I felt obligated to whisper sage advice into his ear.  He probably welcomed my suggestions concerning course adjustments given his unfamiliarity with the area, but I'm not convinced he appreciated the spiritual guidance (nobody seems to honor Baal these days) or random grooming tips (why not try pure lye to remove that pesky epidermis?).  Having had enough of my counsel after a few minutes, Ross dropped back for some peace and quiet while I took the pull for our inseparable gang of peers.

I'm not sure for exactly how long I spent basking in glory while leading the Blackburn, but it was precisely from 8:01.41 to 15:04.25 into the race - perhaps someone handy with a slide-rule and calipers can figure out the elapsed time for me.  At first, the euphoria related to pulling Ian Black muddled my thoughts (conveniently discarding the logical conclusion that he was just using me as a pathfinder through uncharted territory), but over time, suffering and fatigue gradually took over responsibility for scrambling my brainwaves.  I was intent on staying out front for as long as possible, but through the haze of growing anguish I remembered the sing-song adage concerning exertion: "When your heart rate hits four digits, you'll soon be dead, cold and rigid."  Although curious to see what would happen to my Garmin display after rolling past 999 bpm, I decided it might be wiser to let someone else take a pull.

While that move may have kept me alive for another 24 years, 7 months, and 10 days (give or take), it came at a bitter cost.  Ian tried to take point, but I denied him this opportunity by sliding clean off  his wake - just barely catching onto Ross' rear draft on my way back.  With the mouth of the Annisquam now clearly in sight and our well-formed triangle in tatters, Ian decided to go it alone, leaving Ross and his plus one to fend for ourselves.  Fortunately, we had dropped Rob and the pursuit pack by this point, buying some time to formulate a new attack plan.

The secondary market for photos of Blackburn photographers is surprisingly robust.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

If I'm on a draft and I'm operating at any level less than a white-knuckled terror of falling off, I become inexplicably convinced that the puller is dogging it up front.  After a few minutes of such lollygagging from Ross, I couldn't take it any more.  At any moment the guys behind would certainly catch us!  I moved smoothly ahead of Ross with a few powerful strokes (let's call it 150), then relaxed into a new pace just a notch or two below his former clip.  Sure, we were technically going slower than before, but based on the labored breathing and intermittent groans I heard from the new puller, I was satisfied that nobody was slacking off.

I paddled out of the Annisquam with Ross in tow, while Ian steadily increased his lead ahead.  I've been referring to Ross by name for clarity in this report, but as these events unfolded, I actually thought I was sparring with Vadim.  I had met both men briefly during registration, but somehow got them mixed up once we were on the water.  I knew Vadim came from a flatwater background, so I figured that once we were in proper open water conditions, I'd have an opportunity to show off my superior rough water skills.  Rather than quibble about this wildly overstated characterization of my ocean paddling abilities, let's just accept the questionable premise so that we can then agree that subsequently taking a 30 minute pull wasn't a bone-headed blunder, but a brilliant piece of strategy.  Even though it wasn't particularly rough, surely Vadim would stumble at some point and fall off my draft.

Approaching Halibut Point 3.5 miles later, I finally conceded that I wasn't going to drop Vadim, and eased back to let him take a turn pulling.  As he passed by, I had a horrible epiphany regarding his identity.  I'd have loved to see the look on my face when I realized that Vadim was actually Ross, but I just can't bring myself to check out that segment of my video.  Given the South African waters he habitually paddles in, Ross must have regarded our mild seas with a sneer of contempt.  I should note here that the real Vadim would finish only a minute behind me, despite conditions that would eventually get notably lumpier.  Clearly my assumptions about his ocean skills were off base.

After bonding over a shared appreciation for early Hapsburg Dynasty tapestries and the comic strip Blondie, Bruce and Eric became a powerhouse double pair.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

Leslie captured one of the last moments during the race that Ross and I could actually be seen in the same frame.  Next time maybe she'll bring her fish-eye lens. (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

Vadim and Rob, on the other hand, couldn't be separated even using Photoshop.  (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

Hoping that Ross was as much of a stand-up guy as brother Bruce (I'm not above using retroactive ass-kissing to influence results), I jumped on his wash and nestled in for my turn on the dole.  Perhaps we could work together over the next 90 minutes to lock down second and third places.  Keeping the good name of Poacher alive, Ross made no attempt to drop me.  You can imagine my surprise, then, when a few minutes later I blinked and suddenly found myself four length back.  I figured alien technology was advanced, but never imagined they'd mastered teleportation.  It took me the better part of fifteen minutes to get back on the draft, but then, poof, he's four lengths ahead again.  After a couple of additional yo-yo iterations, I finally discovered that Ross' so-called "teleportation" was nothing more than a parlor trick.  A sleight-of-paddle.  The charlatan was just exploiting minuscule runners to scoot briskly ahead of me.

Once I was onto Ross' game, I figured it would be a simple matter of copying his every move.  Turns out, not that simple.  Apparently there's some skill involved.  I started slipping further back from the downwind magician.  When I noticed a lobster boat angling across our path, dragging behind it undulating mounds of water, I knew the end was nigh.  Ross deftly hopped on the diagonal wake as I struggled in vain to match his proficiency, sliding sloppily back through successive peaks in the wave train.  Within a matter of seconds, what had been a half-dozen length deficit expanded to ten, fifteen, twenty lengths.  All I could do now was resolve to throwing increasingly paranoid glances over my shoulder for the next 8 miles in the hopes of maintaining third place.  It was with great satisfaction that the following week I watched Ross finish an impressive 27th at The Gorge against a world-class field.  A sound beating from such a paddler still hurts, but at least I can show the scars proudly to my kids.  Well... to someone's kids.  Just before I'm taken away in cuffs.

With nearly half the race left to go and the tide increasingly turning against us, there was no shortage of drudgery remaining.  As we approached Eastern Point, the character of the water changed.  What had previously been good-natured ribbing gradually escalated, progressing through name-calling, wedgies, and lunch-money shakedowns.  Certainly not the kind of crimes-against-humanity we've been subjected to in Blackburns past, but unacceptable bullying behavior nevertheless.  I kept searching for the runners that would free me from this abusive relationship, but in the end I just had to weather the harassment until I reached the relative safety of Gloucester Harbor.  Based on the fact that Ross added another minute to his lead during this same span, he'd doubtless characterize the environment as more "nurturing" than "hostile".  When you live in a country where each year more than half the population is eaten by either lions or great whites, you see things with a different perspective.

Andrius and Max had to wait twenty minutes for the schooner Adventure to get into position, but the Blackburn 2020 Marketing Committee thanks them.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

Best finish of the day - John Costello holding off John Redos.  Worst finish of the day - that third helping of mac-and-cheese I had at the after-party.  (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

While their adamant refusal to paddle a double ski should technically disqualify them from appearing in this report, I had to make an exception to showcase the perfect synchrony between Rick Silverman, Phil Sachs, and Mike Sachs (not pictured).  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs).

The final two-mile stretch to the greasy pole is a crapshoot as far as boat traffic is concerned.  You might throw a 7 or 11 and escape scot-free, or you might have to endure a constant stream of dice bouncing painfully off your melon.  I managed to break even on the trip, scoring a few lucky rides and only having to slow down once to avoid being rolled over by a working boat.  During my paddle across the harbor I searched anxiously (or, perhaps, eagerly) for the splintered remnants of Ross' ski, but he rode his winning streak all the way to the finish, beating me by nearly two minutes.  Ian had completed his race 9 minutes before Ross, clocking in at 2:31:29 - the sixth fastest ski time ever recorded, in not particularly favorable conditions.

Scarcely a minute after I finished, Rob and Vadim sprinted in within seconds of one another, with Jake and Matt restaging this last-minute dogfight a minute later.  Melissa Meyer added another gold medal to her season's heap in the women's race.  The SS20+ class win came down to a photo finish between John Costello and John Redos, with the former taking the crown.  In doubles, Eric and Bruce won handily, slotting themselves between Ian and Ross in the overall standings so that South Africans could claim the three fastest ski times of the day.

Despite starting out together in a double, Robin somehow finished a full half-hour before Mary Beth arrived.

I was feeling proud of my Blackburn performance.  I was outgunned by two phenomenal paddlers, but had held off the rest of a talented field to secure a podium finish (he says, conveniently omitting the fact that several of the usual suspects were absent).  Hooray for me!  Hubris has a distinct odor, but somehow through the post-race bouquet of sunscreen and beer, I never noticed it.  So when the Fates wheeled me into the OR for ego reduction surgery only five days later at the Gorge, it came as quite a shock.  As wave after wave of skis passed me, my groggy protestations that "I am a good paddler, I am." seemed more and more ludicrous.  Nothing like a 114th place finish to remind you that there's still a bit of work to be done.

Bruce, Ian, and some American guy.

Because I was so slow to get this report ready, we're now lazily adrift in the race doldrums of August.  For those desperate enough to motor inland in search of competition, the USCA Marathon Nationals in Warren, PA will offer a respite from August 8 to 11.  MB and I will be there.  For the ocean purists, start rationing your provisions - you'll need them to last until Mike McDonough's Nahant Bay Cup, tentatively scheduled for August 31.  Watch SurfskiRacing and Facebook for details.

Check out many more spectacular race photos from Mike Sachs, Leslie Chappell, and Olga Sydorenko.  Also, there are great race reports from Ian Black, Melissa Meyer, and Wesley Echols.

Jamestown Double Beaver: Gnawing Fear

The Jamestown Double Beaver has had a bumpy ride over the past few years as race director Tim Dwyer - suffering delusions of downwind grandeur - monkeyed with the established course.  In fact, 2015 and 2018 were utterly bereft of beavers.  I'm not saying deviation from tradition caused last year's lightning storm, but I did hear rumblings to that effect from several lightly-singed paddlers.  Just as earth's gravity will eventually divert some wayward asteroid to a collision that spells our fiery doom, the weight of tradition was bound to eventually swing us back to the standard Double Beaver route.  Fiery doom might be implausible in this case, but we've all seen Jan Lupinski get into nuttier scrapes on the water.

This year we'd be racing the lite version of the classic course - a 10 mile out-and-back that would take us from Conanicut Yacht Club, past the House on the Rock, around Bull Point, and across open water to the turn-around at the bell buoy off Beavertail Point.  With a 10 knot wind from the southwest, we'd have an upwind-downwind situation on the long stretch between Bull Point and the buoy.  Doubtless the winner would be determined within that expanse.

Although new to the sport, Melissa has already perfected the subtle art of psyching out your opponents via a last-minute rudder change.

Fearing impending bad weather, Tim assembles the hard-top canopy for his ski.

The top five competitors from the Ride the Bull race two weeks earlier would be reprising their roles in this race.  I just hoped that everyone would stick to the script.  I didn't want any of these guys improvising their way into top billing.  There could only be one star (which, coincidentally, was also the consensus of the reviewers of my ill-advised second grade talent show solo rendition of "Ebony and Ivory" - a production that one critic quipped "set back race relations by 88 years").  In retrospect, however, I'm not sure that I should have taken the opportunity during the captain's meeting to introduce Jan, Chris Quinn, Chris Laughlin, and Tim Dwyer as my "supporting cast".  That's the kind of thing that got Caesar into trouble.  Mary Beth, on the other hand, was hoping for a major rewrite in which RTB champ Melissa Meyer's role would be reduced to a bit part.

Without Wesley at the race, we milled about for a good 45 minutes off the Yacht Club pier before eventually realizing that someone else would have to count us down to the start.  Although Tim modestly downplays his abilities in this regard, once he figured out that he had been inadvertently waiting for his heart rate to get to 0, he showed a real flair for marking off seconds.  With Tim's enthusiastic kick-off, we were on our way.

While Kurt may look intimidating, inside he's just a great big teddy bear operating a complicated series of levers and pulleys.  Quite possibly with diabolical intent.

My strategy - and I use the word in a sense so loose that it's likely to slip right off - was to paddle hard and pray that nobody else could do better.  Also, I sacrificed a farm animal.  Not in person, but via one of those Give A Goat/Take a Goat charity programs.  His name was Señor Bumpers.  They sent me some charred entrails from the burnt offering as a keepsake, but given the ultimate result of the race, I think eating them with some pasta might not have gone over well with the gods.

With a solid start that had me convinced that I was the victim of some inscrutable prank, I quickly found myself alone in the lead.  True, Chris L was running parallel to me on an outside line, but I was pretty sure he'd soon fall back to join the others, tittering about my upcoming humorous comeuppance.  He was clearly just a decoy to set me at ease.  As expected, when our lines converged near the House on the Rocks, he joined his fellow rascals behind me.

Rounding Bull Point, we were faced with that make-or-break 3.5 mile upwind stretch to the turn-around buoy.  Fortunately, we had a modest outbound current to help bear the slogging load.  I put my head down as far as was possible (best not to see exactly how far you have left) and started the long trek.  I still wasn't sure what the trailing band of merry pranksters had in store for me, but I'd try to have the last laugh by just staying out front.

You know how you'll be walking alone through the woods and you'll have the sensation that someone is following you, but you don't want to look back to check because you've been experiencing severe vertigo when you twist your neck and you're afraid if you do look back you'll lose your balance and fall sideways into some brambles, but then you eventually get so weirded out that you do look back and you see a completely shaved shirtless guy 20 feet behind, chasing you while wielding a bizarre whirling truncheon of some sort?  So you can empathize with my terror.

My pursuer, of course, was a demented Chris Q.  And based on my impression of a vague Polish shape behind him, he had brought Jan along for support.  As we made our way towards Beavertail Light, I periodically checked back to make sure I was still using the correct pronoun to indicate our progress.  Always, oui.  The waves had been generally head-on over the initial couple miles of the upwind haul, but the conditions became more confused the nearer we approached to the rocky shore of Beavertail Point.  The random undulations generated by the reflected waves were manageable, but every so often they'd be supplemented by boat wakes that somehow warped the space-time continuum to add a tricky 4th dimensional displacement to the mix.  At one particularly sketchy point, I remembered being inside out next Tuesday.

The agitated waters off the point had one positive effect - they disengaged Chris and Jan from my tail.  Given the relentless pace I was maintaining, it seemed safe to believe that without the largess of my draft, the pair would immediately drop by the wayside.  In fact, be swept by the wayside.  Inexplicably, they instead surged to pull even going into the buoy turn.  I briefly entertained the notion that my pace was actually somewhat shy of relentless (maybe just "dogged" or "unforgiving"?), but my ego quickly swatted down that absurd hypothesis.  Chris and Jan were defying logic, end of story.

After bashing into the waves for the last half-hour, I was looking forward to the inevitable downwind paradise.  It wasn't quite the nirvana I had hoped for, but then again, I can't say I've really put in the soul-scrubbing necessary to prepare myself for the ultimate reward.  Nevertheless, there were plenty of good rides available provided that you were willing to work for them.  Over the next couple of miles, the the three of us traded leads while weaving amongst each other chasing bumps.  Jan eventually asserted himself as the alpha surfer, slowly widening his lead as he hopped on runners that Chris and I missed.  For a while it looked as if Chris might also outdistance me on this leg, but with a half-mile left before Bull Point, he started to flag and I was able to pass him.

Entering the protected 1.5 mile finishing stretch, Jan had a lead of perhaps a dozen lengths.
Hoping to whittle this down to nothing before he even realized I was closing, I honed my technique to as sharp an edge as it would take (I'd estimate halfway between butter knife and wooden spoon) and started carving ragged strokes through the bay.  I tried to hide my progress behind moored boats so as to not alarm the skittish leader, but when I got to within a few lengths, Jan must have spotted me.  Or perhaps heard my death rattle (dammit - I should have paid that extra $15 for the sonic dampener).  In any event, he picked up his pace.  For the last half mile, I had no real hope of catching Jan, but by sacrificing a few million neurons to oxygen deprivation I was able to maintain a credibly threatening pursuit.  No reason why we shouldn't both suffer.

Jan finished several lengths ahead, hopefully cursing me for pushing needlessly through the finish.  Chris Q pulled in a few moments later to take third.  As at the Battle of the Bay, Chris L and Tim rounded out the top five.  Melissa looked strong in taking the women's title (in the eighth overall spot), with Mary Beth in second.

The top paddlers were awarded beautiful prints of the eponymous lighthouse of the race.  I'm going to hang mine in my bedroom so that when I awake from nightmares of rougher years off Beavertail Point, I can keep screaming for a few extra seconds.  Raffle prizes included spiffy Y Knot hats (produced by Alyce and Gaelyn) and sandwiches.  Everyone went home with something.  Bob Wright's new hobby is apparently finding odds-and-ends in his basement and converting them into elaborate trophies.  I don't think that's actually a thing, but if it'll finally keep him out of the cock-fighting dens of Woonsocket, more power to him.  By correctly predicting his race time, Kurt Hatem was the first to benefit from Bob's newfound passion.

Bob's a whiz when it comes to working on all things mechanical, but complained that he was having a hell of a time figuring out his new microwave.

To the victor go the spoils.  Afterwards, a tearful Jan confessed that all he really wanted was for certain insensitive clods to stop poking fun at his hilarious accent.  I may have added the "hilarious".  If he had actually said "hilarious" - just imagine how funny that would have sounded!  Say it in your head now.  See?

Coming up on July 6th is Eric McNett's Casco Bay Challenge.  In a continuing tradition, four participants will be randomly selected to get hopelessly lost.  Don't miss out on that chance to finally see Nova Scotia!  Register at PaddleGuru.  If the current forecast holds, it should be a cracker downwind blast.  And if you don't already have July 13th circled on your calendar, that's presumably because you haven't actually used (or even seen) a real calendar since 2004.  Of course, that's the date of New England's greatest aquatic suffer-fest, the Blackburn Challenge.  Registration closes on Wednesday, July 10th at noon.

One last item.  Who amongst us couldn't use a tune-up on our paddling technique?  Or, in some instances, a complete tear-down and rebuild?  Ian Black, a world-class South African paddler sponsored by Stellar, will be giving a two-hour surfski clinic at 4pm on July 11th - just in time for the Blackburn.  Cost is $50.  Contact Michael Duffield (father of Sam) of Newbury Kayak for registration and additional details (newburykayak@gmail.com, 978-465-0312).

I've just been reminded by my editor that with the Blackburn Challenge approaching, it's time to start tapering.  As such, I should maintain blog intensity, but reduce volume dramatically.  Oops.