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.
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.
