Battle of the Bay: The Other Half

A key component of Rhode Island's virus mitigation plan has been restricting surfski races to one per month.  The legislature was thrilled that in addition to drastically reducing COVID transmission, this mandate has resulted in improved water quality, 70% fewer stabbings, and the virtual eradication of chlamydia.  For July, Tim Dwyer was cleared to run the Battle of the Bay.  Traditionally, this race is held in conjunction with instructional sessions by a Rice brother.  The opportunity to race against an international champion has always been a drawing carb (I beg of you, don't judge me by my worst pun).  For the first time ever, we'd have to soldier on without a top tier athlete.  In fact, we'd forego the first six or seven tiers.

Since the last Battle of the Bay, Tim had inexplicably passed the rigorous screening required to live within the private community on Goat Island - just a stone's throw from downtown Newport.  As could be read in the distrustful eyes of the other inhabitants, however, his acceptance among them was provisional at best.  Lest any undesirable associates of Tim slip into the compound, racers were subjected to extraordinary security measures at the front gate.  I couldn't argue with the logic behind the background check or extensive blood work, but was the hernia test really necessary?  I'm pretty sure that itself a COVID transmission vector.  Fortunately, the guard gave me a clean bill of health, stamped our papers, and ushered us into the inner sanctum.

Tim's all-garlic diet is tailor-made for social distancing.

A solid crew of a dozen or so paddlers assembled at the gazebo on the southern tip of the island.  I think.  I've been practicing extreme social distancing and forgot my glasses, so from 60 feet away it was difficult to make out individuals.  I spent a good twenty minutes talking with Jan Lupinski before realizing he was actually a fire hydrant.  Jan had registered for the last two races, but "got up too late" to make either.  Ever the softy, in actuality he probably just didn't have the stomach to bear my sobbing lamentations from behind him.  I expected my toughest competition would come from Tim and Kurt Hatem.  Tim had finished barely a half minute behind me at our only other race this season.  And as race chairman, he might well wield his absolute authority to assess arbitrary time penalties, capriciously DQ paddlers, or have rivals keel-hauled.  I wasn't sure of Kurt's fitness level, at least until he paddled nonchalantly into the venue from some undisclosed location over the horizon.  If nothing else, his mind game was impeccable.

We'd be paddling a two-lap triangular course totaling 6.1 miles.  This would be the sixth new course in the 7 year history of the race - sixth-and-a-half if you count Jan's free-form route improvisation from 2016 (taking Newport's rich jazz history to heart, evidently).  From the southern tip of Goat Island, we'd head northwest to bell buoy R12, where we'd turn east and head to the northern tip of Goat Island, finishing the lap by passing through the GI Tract (as the inner harbor is called, or at least, should be).  With a light breeze forecast, the only significant waves we'd likely see would be from boats.  Of course, given Narragansett maritime traffic, that's like telling someone there's no need to worry about killer bees... what with all the murder hornets around.  We'd also need some luck to avoid those swarms of sailboats that spontaneously appear in flash mob regattas.

Before every race Mary Beth and I like to get advice from our magic katydid, Cletus.

We told Tim that there was no need to set up accommodations for out-of-town paddlers, but he insisted that cashing in his 401k and selling a kidney was "no problem at all".

After a brief captain's meeting, we assembled on the water, and Tim counted us down to an orderly start.

Like an airline pilot prepping for take-off, I go through a pre-race equipment checklist before throttling up.  I can hear what you're thinking: "Then how come you always neglect to disengage the brakes first?"  Funny.  The brakes are off, smart ass, but you don't just drop the clutch on a finely calibrated transmission like this.  Anyway, the list.  Paddle at 214.5 cm and feathered to 60 degrees?  Check.  Footplate locked in place?  Check.  Pogies installed?  Check (hmm... might need to make some seasonal list adjustments).  Hydration system properly secured and positioned?  Hold on, let me... 3 ... just ... 2 ... put ... 1 ... uh-oh ... Go!  I'm not a big in-race drinker (which perhaps explains why the paramedics always have so much trouble finding a uncollapsed vein for the intravenous saline drip afterwards), but I like to take a few slugs before getting started.  If the water tube isn't readily available during the race, that's acceptable.  Not acceptable - a loose tube draped over my upper arm where every stroke sends it flying through a jaunty arc.  Although it would occasionally settle into a semi-stable position over my shoulder, the flapping tube was a repeated source of irritation.  It does liven up my GoPro video a little, I'll admit.

I got off to a good start, managing to keep Tim, Wesley, and Kurt abeam - as long as we stretch the definition to include even the minutest degree of overlap.  Plus maybe a few feet of gimme.  By halfway through the first leg, I had pulled into a tenuous lead.  As expected, there was a fair amount of boat chop in the Bay.  Occasionally a wake would line up in the direction you were heading, but roughly 90% of those potential rides would be contaminated by suspiciously coincidental counter-wakes.  I don't yet have enough concrete evidence to bring a class action suit against the power boaters of Rhode Island, but all the signs point to vast conspiracy to piss me off.  Huh.  Now that I think about it, there seem to be an abundance of such malicious players in my life.

As a good will gesture, I like to position my hydration tube so that anyone passing can take a quick sip.

Dave and his boat were well-primed for the race.  I can't wait to see the finished paint job.

I reached the first turn at clanging R12 several lengths ahead of Tim, followed in turn by Wesley, Kurt, and Forrest Horton.  I was pleasantly surprised to find a nice wave train heading my way back towards Goat Island, but quickly revised that opinion after discovering that I was being whisked along at all of 4 mph.  The fickle tide (someone should really try to nail down a schedule) had established a field of standing waves between the buoy and nearby Rose Island.  After a few moments of comical teetering, I managed to wallow myself out the other side and continue on back towards Newport.

Plunging into the north end of the GI Tract, I threw enough of a glance back to see that Tim and Kurt were in pursuit.  Not right on my tail, but close enough to qualify as nettlesome.  With the modest breeze now blocked by Goat Island, I realized just how warm the day was growing.  I couldn't wait to be expelled out the bottom end of the Tract back into the open Bay.  Starting the second lap, I was surprised at how much choppier it had gotten in the half-hour since the start.  Apparently once word of a paddle race got out, the locals wasted no time in mobilizing every craft in the motor pool.

The course was liberally spattered with moored and docked mega-yachts.  Despite his status as a recent immigrant to Newport, I assumed that Tim had applied his unique charms to provide us with access to these mobile comfort stations during the race.  A few palms greased, some tactical flattery, and perhaps a dash of casual blackmail and voila - we've got a half-dozen convenient sites to grab Gatorade, replenish our caviar stocks, and set up offshore account (to hide our race earnings).  There must have been some kind of misunderstanding, however, because when I tried to clamber onto the dive platform of one of the floating palaces for a quick pedicure, I was repeatedly beaten back by two nattily attired goons wielding riding crops.  When I saw one of them grabbing for a polo mallet, I decided I could live with unkempt feet.  Based on the fresh bouquet of orchids festooning Wesley's boat and Mary Beth's newly exfoliated skin after the race, it seems that other racers had better luck.

By the way, if Tim tries that greased palm trick with you, don't fall for it.  He's just trying to throw off your stroke.

At the second turn on R12, I saw that Kurt had broken away from Tim and was perhaps a minute or so behind.  Since our last visit, the tide had doubled down on the standing wave field.  I staggered drunkenly through without losing a man, but the harrowing experience compelled me to add a "Not suitable for younger viewers" tag to my YouTube video.  The remainder of the race was relatively uneventful, although by the end the pervasive smell of cooked flesh was making me ravenous.  I finished about a minute and a half ahead of Kurt, with Tim seizing the final podium step 30 seconds later.  Mary Beth took the women's crown (and sixth overall), with Robin Francis finishing second.

While Tim and Wesley laugh it up, Forrest quietly plots his revenge.  (Photo courtesy of Igor Yeremeev)

The new course was judged a worthy addition to the growing Battle of the Bay anthology, although that may just be the relaxing after-race bay-side gazebo-hang talking.  Many thanks to Tim for welcoming us to his exclusive enclave.

Through some odd tidal anomaly, you'll find that if you launch your ski anywhere in northeast coastal waters, within a week it'll be sucked into Narragansett Bay.  Since you'll be in Rhode Island anyway, why not race the Jamestown Double Beaver on August 8?  Please preregister at PaddleGuru so that Tim knows how many personalized race bonnets to make.  With the cancellation of the Nahant Bay Cup, this is the last ocean race in New England until late-September.  With that in mind, Jan would appreciate it if everyone would give him a 3:30 a.m. wake-up call on the 8th.