Essex River (Replacement) Race: Meandering

The Essex River Race was an early casualty of pandemic restrictions in 2020, and was originally rescheduled this year from its traditional spring date to early October.  When the Cape Ann Rowing Club subsequently decided to cancel the race, I had no choice but to step up and volunteer Bill Kuklinski to step up and ask his friend Tom Lawler to propose a surfski-only replacement race to the Town of Essex.  The town approved, although they stipulated that both shenanigans and tom-foolery be kept to a bare minimum.  I congratulated myself for a job well done, only to discover that due to some woeful misunderstanding, I was now "in charge" of the event.  Fortunately, by constantly referring to it as an informal race, I was able to get by with slipshod preparations.

On paper, the 5.8 mile course is straightforward - you travel out the Essex River to where it widens into a broad estuary, proceed around Cross Island, and return back up the river.  Between sand bars, clam-rich mud flats, and homogenous expanses of marsh grass, however, most paddlers will spend the race second-guessing their navigational decisions - more often than not with good reason.  Living 5 minutes from Essex, I'm pretty familiar with the river.  And with finding myself suddenly run aground, inexplicably a hundred meters in all directions from navigable water.  In preparation for this year's race, I performed a comprehensive survey of the estuary.  We're talking reconnaissance paddles, drone overflights, side-scan sonar mappings, sedimentation modeling, etc.  I was going into the race armed with the two most powerful weapons of all: knowledge and the delusional belief that this knowledge could somehow compensate for my other deficiencies.

While Chris got the memo with the event details, Hank came prepared for an après-ski party while John was just hoping to find something to burgle.

Having suffered many such indignities in the past, Tim is giddy at the turnabout potential of a traditional caption mocking the race coordinator at the captains' meeting.  I'm pretty sure he doesn't understand how this works.

There was a disquieting buzz in air that I eventually tracked down to the growing excitement over the first ever matchup between Rob Jehn and Mike Florio.  When we last saw Mike he was peeling out of the parking lot of the Narrow River Race while the rest of us were still reacting to the start gun.  Rob, of course, has amassed a gaudy collection of victories this season in his relentless quest to drain the joy out of my life.  We had expected that local Janda Ricci-Munn, fresh off his record-setting solo performance at the Josh Billings run-paddle-bike triathlon, would also contend for the crown.  Unfortunately, he was unable to make the race due to a freak calendar malfunction.  Standouts on the women's side were Leslie Chappell and first-time New England racer Frances Hiscox.  Frances specializes in endurance paddling, having completed the California 100 and Missouri River 340 (and soon the Suwannee River 230), so the ER6 would be the equivalent of a marathoner walking from her car to the start line.

In keeping with my slapdash approach to organization, I held a cursory captains' meeting which consisted mostly of mumbling the names of past UN Secretaries General as filler.  With the 10am start approaching, we launched our boats and lined up for the starter's call.  Chris Chappell positioned himself appropriately for the initial left turn and got out to the early lead, with Rob just off his starboard side.  Mike and Jerry Madore followed in a second mini-wave, with me, Tim, and Hank Thorburn as forward-thinking third-wave excursionists.  I had sworn to go all-in at the start in an effort to get on the draft of Rob or Mike, but apparently nowadays even the most heart-felt pledges aren't worth the notarized, legally binding forms they're printed on.  Rather than kill myself catching the leaders, I limited myself to some superficial maiming and adopted a wait-and-see attitude.  Perhaps sometime within the next few years there wouldn't be such fierce competition.

I figured a few love taps might fix the GoPro glitch that's been causing it to record such awful technique.  No dice.

Happens every time.  You're just chillin' on the water with your buds...

...and all of a sudden a race breaks out.

Rob slipped by Chris on the first straightaway, while Mike and I also freed ourselves from our wave-mates to move into the 2nd and 3rd positions at the next bend.  I lunged for Mike's draft, but due to a gross miscalculation in how far he was already ahead, ended up grasping at open water 3 lengths behind him.  Rob enjoyed a similar lead over Mike at the time.  My only hope was to play to my home field advantage.  My mind racing through bathymetric charts, tidal flow diagrams, and old Family Circus comics, I plotted the optimal route to within 4 lateral inches.  While the leaders took a conservative central line, I cut inside berm-like islands, wove crazily (in the fox sense, mind you) from shore to shore, and laughed uncontrollably at Billy's hilarious malapropisms.  It perhaps goes without saying that Rob and Mike continued to separate.

Even the sure-fire ace that I had up my sleeve - staying well to the right while approaching Conomo Point to avoid the speed-killing sand bar of the more direct route - failed to have much impact.  Leaving the narrow strait between the point and Cross Island, Rob was was about 15 lengths ahead of me, with Mike a length or two behind him.  It would take a staggering navigational faux pas up ahead for me to have any hope.

What I've been referring to as Cross Island is cartographically 3 tree-covered islands (Cross, Corn, and Dilly) connected by low-lying wetlands.  To get a tide high enough to actually make the inter-island area navigable, however, the moon would have to be knocked into a perilously tight orbit.  Perhaps the map makers were just future-proofing against melting ice caps.  Lacking the patience to wait for either cataclysm, Rob and Mike decided to attempt what might be deemed a "liquid portage" between the islands.  Before reaching the end of the super-island, they cut left into a meandering channel.  I could barely contain my glee at the thought of them wandering aimlessly in the marshland while I claimed the race title and then rooted through their cars for loose change and candy.  Rob and Mike?  No, haven't seen them.  Tootsie roll?  All I had to do was keep my trap shut and let nature take its course.

Unfortunately, I wasn't confident that the paddlers behind me wouldn't witness such silent treachery.  I reluctantly called out to alert them to their mistake.  Rob and Mike quickly corrected course, having sacrificed perhaps 10 lengths to me.  I thereafter adopted the roll of the elderly nanny trying to corral a pair of rambunctious toddlers.  Since I couldn't keep up with them, the best I could manage was shouting directions and telling them to stop putting every little bit of flotsam in their mouths.

The visibility of your mistakes is one of the perils of bursting triumphant onto the scene, resplendent in full glory.  The more sensible approach is to build up a solid foundation layer of bloopers and gaffes while paddling in mid-pack obscurity.  When the better paddlers inevitably age out, get injured, adopt a new hobby, or move to Hawaii - you then use your journeyman status to back into a few victories before the next wave of athletes reminds you of your true station in life.  It's true, however, that when you have a considerable advantage in fitness and skill, you can afford a blunder or two without suffering serious consequences to your final race position.

To wit.  Rounding the northeast point of Cross Island [sic], Rob gave more than ample berth to the rocks I had warned about at the captains' meeting (somewhere between U Thant and Boutros Boutros-Ghali), then did the same for the northwest point.  However, he then continued out away from the island rather than keeping to the shore.  Mike took the more traditional line.  Thinking that perhaps Rob was heading out to deeper water to avoid the sandy shallows I had mentioned to him before the race, I held off on yelling out a corrective warning.  By the time it became clear he was freestyling an entirely different course, he was either out of earshot or self-destructively bullheaded.  Apparently he had fixated his tracking mechanism on a different cluster of houses than the one I had described as a landmark during the meeting.

I assumed that once Rob saw Mike and I paddling a couple hundred meters to his port, he would surely adjust his course.  And yet he continued to veer further to the right.  When I asked him about this after the race, Rob said that he figured Mike was only marginally more familiar with the course than he himself, and thus paid him little heed.  "But what about me?"  I asked.  Time slowed to a viscous crawl as I realized the humiliating enormity of my mistake.  I had lobbed Rob a softball which he could hardly fail to hammer into the bleachers.  And yet... he merely poked a blooper just over the shortstop's reach.  "I couldn't see you."  That was all!  Was it Rob's generosity of spirit or his lack of killer instinct that kept him from adding the coup de grâce?  "I didn't have my binoculars handy" or "Ever since the exorcism I can't spin my head around that far" or "[long pause] Who are you, again?"  In any event, I appreciate Rob letting me slink away with my dignity tattered, but at least intact enough to still cover my shriveled ego.

Despite enjoying only a 14 second lead over Mike at the finish, diva Rob absolutely refused to share the frame.

So let's also give the Rhode Island Ripsaw a shot of his own.

Bruce got such a good deal on fluorescent decals that he's actually affixed them inside the hull as well.

When Rob did eventually come to the conclusion that he was on the wrong path, I could hear him ratchet up his determination - even from my distant listening post.  His deviant behavior had temporarily cost him the lead, but he was resolved to integrate himself back into respectable society.  Rob sliced a diagonal line to Mike, chewing away the gap at a thrilling rate.  Within a few moments of the course adjustment, the two were paddling side-by-side at the lead.  Seeing this gripping battle unfolding ahead of me, I made an adjustment of my own - abandoning my futile goal of catching these guys in favor of keeping close enough to them to see who would emerge victorious.  Just as futile an ambition, as it turns out, but at least it kept me paddling.

That was useful, because a group of competitors had formed a raiding party behind my back.  Unwilling to sacrifice the esprit de corps they'd fostered as part of the Stone Dam Six at the previous race, Tim and Kirk Olsen recruited a new band of brothers for the Essex River.  Chris, John Mathieu, and Jerry joined the ensemble.  These 5 paddlers would finish within a minute of each other, with numerous lead changes along the way.  As at the Great Stone Dam Classic, Tim succeeded in breaking free in the final stretch, putting 30 seconds on Chris.  Kirk, John, and Jerry finished next in short order.  This cooperative-competitive grouping has proved so popular that in the face of record demand, Tim and Kirk have announced an invitation-only policy for subsequent races.  Kickbacks aren't strictly required, but it never hurts to grease the Keels of Progress (as the guys now call themselves).

From my vantage point, it was becoming increasingly difficult to tell whether Rob or Mike was in the lead.  This was mostly because there was usually at least one curve of the river blocking my view, but even when I caught the rare glimpse of the pair slipping around the next far-off corner, they were too speck-like to disambiguate.  But it was Rob who pulled ahead as the finish neared, ultimately finishing at 47:00 even to Mike's 47:14.  I came in a couple of minutes later, trying to exude a "Yeah, you guys dropped me about a mile back, so I just dogged it in after that" vibe.  For the third time, Leslie claimed the Essex women's title, with Frances taking second.  There were no doubles in the race, but in recognition of his long-time dedication to the race, let's say Bill Kuklinski would have won.  If only he hadn't have been DQ'ed for lacking a partner!  A rookie error from the least rookie-like guy not out there.

In a tender moment of reconciliation, Tim and I finally let bygone be bygones.

Thanks to Mary Beth for acting as photographer, timekeeper, and health care proxy.

You blinked and summer was over.  You didn't do half the things you planned, and the other half was a sorry mess.  Before you blink again and find the racing season also over, why not make one last effort at finding fulfillment for 2021?  Skip on over to Wesley Echol's Plum Beach Lighthouse Race on October 16.  Register at PaddleGuru.

Great Stone Dam Classic: Startled by a Turkey

When they named the Great Stone Dam Classic 10+ years ago, co-chairs Francisco Urena and Shawn Burke were taking a risk on the initial and final words.  Great and Classic.  OK, it's named after the Great Stone Dam on the Merrimack River.  And, yeah, "classic" is sometimes used as a synonym for "race".  Put both those words in the same name, though, and you're setting yourself up for false advertising lawsuits.  And yet Francisco and Shawn have batted away claim after claim.  They've got the best legal team a community-based non-profit can afford standing behind them, sure, but their defense has been that both adjectives are objectively true.  Hosted at the Abe Bashara Boathouse by the fantastic Greater Lawrence Community Boating Program, nobody wants to miss the GSDC.

We can argue about the "best" paddling race in New England until our throats are raw and one of us finally loses consciousness from blood loss, but the debate is closed on the best value in a race.  The entertainment-per-dollar ratio of the GSDC leaves all other competitions wanting (notwithstanding the divide by zero error of some).  This helps to explains why even surfskiers who usually eschew flatwater races make a pilgrimage to the Merrimack.

The course consists of two upstream loops totaling 8.2 miles.  Starting from the boathouse dock, paddlers progress 3.25 miles to round Pine Island, then return to a "No Wake" buoy just before the dock to start the shorter second loop.  Racers must then round inflatable buoys placed just off the opposing shores before returning to finish at the dock.  I've argued that a never-ending series of increasingly smaller loops should be added to the GSDC, but the race directors claim that their insurance only covers races of finite length.  So much for my vision of the Death Spiral.

My only hope was that Rob would get confused and accidentally select a SUP.

The race boasted a strong field of 30 surfskis.  Rob Jehn risked being decertified by the New Jersey Paddling Commission by attending his 6th New England race this season.  I'm not admitting to being a sore loser, but he might want to ask elsewhere for sponsors on his amnesty application should he try to emigrate.  Although he had to be the favorite, Rob would at least have some competition.  Dave Thomas of Stellar brought along a professional hitman from the West Coast and outfitted him in an SEA - The Assassin.  Ben Lawry is one of the most respected kayak instructors in the country, who - despite being younger than me - has somehow managed to train the last three generations of American paddlers.  Go ahead - ask your grandparents who honed their forward stroke.  Of course, technical proficiency doesn't necessarily translate to speed.  I was pretty sure that Ben would hold his own, though.

Local Janda Ricci-Munn would be the wild card.  Despite having taken his ski out for perhaps a half-dozen training sessions in 2021 and having a modest paddling resume, I wasn't betting against him.  Michelangelo said that the sculpture was already complete within the marble - he just had to chisel away the superfluous material.  Via his training for a fall triathlon, Janda has similarly chipped away everything from himself that's not an elite athlete.  He's lean and hungry.  Janda's sheer level of fitness makes him a threat in almost any sport - he just missed a spot on the Olympic table tennis team and placed 5th in the Kentucky Derby!  Could our David tackle the New Jersey Goliath?

That was too cutesy, right?  MB warned me that the whole Michelangelo arc was going to backfire, but I just couldn't help myself.  If you never reach for the stars, how are you going to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?  Uh-oh.  She's now threatening to move out unless I remove all this.  It's a steep price to pay, but I'm prepared to ride this metaphor to hell.

As shown here, Janda and I were virtually inseparable during the race.

Back at the 2016 running of the race, my GoPro was dropped into the Merrimack by a petulant local paddler whom may have been poked once too often in this blog.  He's always claimed that it was "semi-accidental", but the truth is still inscribed in 0s and 1s, waiting to be dredged from the river when they finally get around to straightening out the Merrimack.  I thought that Burger Kingski - to choose a random alias wholly unrelated to his real name - had finally gotten past all the innocent gibes (and the malicious slander), but when I went to snap my GoPro onto my boat, I discovered that the connector had been sabotaged.  Had I failed to notice the issue before the race... there goes $34.99 into the river (yeah, I learned my lesson about investing in top-of-the-line equipment).  Fortunately, Rob Michalec was able to hook me up with a replacement.  Based on the quantity of spare parts he had on hand, I suspect he spends a lot of time lurking on the fringes of adventure races, surreptitiously whispering "Pssst.  Need an L joint?" to competitors.  For me, at least, the first one was free.

Racers hit the water as the 11am start approached.  Like a pair of drum majors leading our parade, the lone double ski manned by Bruce Deltorchio and Ed Duggan comprised the first wave.  They refused to wear the fuzzy tall hats we all chipped in on, but their start was festive nevertheless.  All single kayaks were to take off in the second wave, one minute later.  I jockeyed for the worst possible starting position, but was distraught to find myself towards the more favorable shore when the gun went off.  Thank goodness I at least managed to remain a half-dozen boat lengths behind the line.

Rob and Francisco - separated laterally by a few boats - vaulted out to the early lead.  I'm pretty sure an 87-year old Francisco will expire from over-exertion 15 seconds after the start of the GSDC, content in the knowledge that the entire remainder of the field will have to dodge his now derelict surfski.  Over the next few moments, Rob started to pull free along the right shore, with Ben and Janda chasing.  I took this opportunity to survey the remainder of the field from stern to stem, finally working my way past Francisco to move into 4th position on Janda's draft.  Somewhere along the way, I picked up Jon Greer.

With Rob and Ben still continuing along the shore, Janda, Jon, and I started our cut towards the opposite bank in preparation for the upcoming curve in the river.  At the time, I thought we were making a bold move, but my backward facing camera later revealed that others had broken much earlier to the left.  The various lines didn't appear to make much difference, however - there were no changes in the order.  I pulled even with Janda during the crossing, who let me lead the way upstream along the left shore.  Jon dropped off the pace shortly after.  

With Janda in tow, we chased Rob and Ben up the left shore.  I'm using "tow" figuratively here, because from what I could tell from cursory glances, Janda didn't seem exactly to be on my draft, but in some kind of no-man's-land off to one side.  And even though I was seeing him for only a fraction of a second in my periphery, his hazy blob somehow conveyed a sense of quiet ease.  I was beginning to fear that Janda might have a lot of power in reserve.

At this point, I suspect that some of you may be wondering when the damn turkey is going to make an appearance so that you can satisfy your curiosity and then bail out.  I empathize.

Rounding Pine Island required once again crossing the main current of the Merrimack.  It was Rob's turn to break early, while Ben stuck stubbornly to the left shore.  Janda and I chose a middle path, but Ben's late ferry across the channel was probably the right play.  It's too early in Rob's career to pigeonhole him as a habitual course deviator, but preliminary scouting reports have flagged him as a flight risk.  So when it appeared that Rob might try to bolt upriver to Lowell rather than turning downstream at the end of the island, we felt justified in shouting out a warning.  Whether heeding our alert or curbing his wanderlust of his own volition, he made a wide turn to head back towards the start.  Ben's deft maneuvering had perhaps cut a few seconds into Rob's lead, but the latter was clearly still in the driver's seat.  Janda moved past me halfway down Pine Island.  I jumped on his side draft as our pace quickened - the combined force of current, wind, and Janda's competitiveness now all on our side.

Kirk's always been more of a wave guy than a ripple guy.

Open water paddlers talk about catching a "paddle down" ride on a wave, but Rob managed a much rarer "paddle down" ride on Hank's draft.

When you're struggling to hold on a draft, there are some things you don't want to hear from the lead boat.  For example, "OK, I'm done with my gel break."  Or "Huh.  Hadn't realized that I was using a canoe paddle."  However, I can now tell you definitively what's at the very top of the list: "I'm going to throw in some suicide intervals."  Having never heard that term before, I didn't know exactly what it meant, but those two words together didn't exactly evoke rainbows and puppies.  I was still leafing through the index of "Fitness Training for Dummies" when the first surge of acceleration hit.  I was pulled along unwittingly on Janda's side draft for the first few seconds before realizing that if I didn't tap into my rainy day fund, I'd be unable to keep paying the exorbitant fees my body was racking up.  After a few moments of eternity, I heard my cohort say "Another one".  I hadn't even realized that the first interval was over - perhaps not surprising given that I could no longer read my GPS speed through the tears.  Through an aggressive program of deficit spending, I was able to stick with Janda, although I dropped from side to stern draft.  I was so deep in oxygen debt that in preparation for the next "Another one", I hallucinated a sympathetic bystander with a leather strap saying "Here.  Bite down on this."  It didn't help.  When the next interval rolled around, the pain was too much.  I tapped out.

I had suspected from the beginning that Janda had unilaterally roped me into a suicide pact, but he ultimately didn't hold up his end of the bargain.  I was dead and buried, but he was very much alive.  He would continue his masochistic intervals, although I suspect having deprived him of the sadistic component, it was no longer quite so satisfying.  Although he decreased the advantage held by Rob and Ben, the three would end up in the same order established within the first minute of the race, with scarcely more than a minute separating the podium finishers.

Thanks in part to the turbo boost provided by drafting Janda, with nearly half the race still left I felt secure in my 4th place position.  Upon finishing the first loop and starting upstream again for the second, I got my first glimpse of the drama that was unfolding amongst the 5th to 10th place paddlers.  Even with conditions conducive to drafting, we very seldom see more than 2 or 3 paddlers together at a late stage in the race - there aren't usually enough competitors to end up with a large group with comparable abilities.  But with less than 2 miles left on the Merrimack, here were Tim Dwyer, John Redos, Kirk Olsen, Wesley Echols, Tim Hacket, and Jon Greer within 30 seconds of one another.  These paddlers, who have since taken to calling themselves the Stone Dam Six, were together for virtually the entire race.

Much like Bigfoot, photos of the actual Stone Dam Six tend to be blurry and of questionable veracity.

For the complete story of the Stone Dam Six, you'll have to read the forthcoming 3 volume history, which advance reviews have called "sorta like Little Women, but with guys and paddles" and "completely unnecessary".  They've also penned a Manifesto, but that's mostly just Flat Earth theories and gluten-free recipes.  Here's the gist of the SDS race.  After Jon's brief stint accompanying Janda and me, he was absorbed into the collective.  He stayed in the lead around Pine Island to the Route 93 bridge, after which Tim D took command of the fleet.  John soon joined him in the lead, despite paddling a V9 amongst much faster boats.  The formation of the Six stayed fairly constant for the remainder of the first loop, with Kirk, Wesley, Tim H, and Jon following the leaders.  After a navigational blunder at the start of the second loop, however, the SDS descended into chaos.  Leads changed.  Tempers flared.  Shivs were drawn.  When the spray had finally settled, Tim D emerged victorious, followed by Kirk, Tim H, John, Wesley, and Jon.  Vive le Six!

JoAnn and Andrea duked it out in the closest finish of the day.

I keep seeing photos of people smiling during a race, but the best I can hope for is a look somewhere between "grim determination" and "severe intestinal discomfort".

As noted above, the actual winners of the men's competition were Rob, Ben, and Janda.  The women's race came down to a finish line sprint between Andrea Vogl (in a K1 trainer) and JoAnn Hanowski (in a ski), with Andrea just nosing out the victory.  Leslie Chappell took the 3rd overall spot, with Loukia Lili taking 4th (as the 3rd ski).  Bruce & Ed swept the tandem podium, and then stood alone on the spotless top step.

As we've come to expect from the GSDC, a veritable army of enthusiastic volunteers (Thanks all!) ensured that everything ran smoothly, including the post-race festivities.  Unsurprisingly, the air was abuzz with the thrilling exploits of the Stone Dam Six.  The buzz was coming exclusively from their own mouths, but they made sure to circulate for maximum narrative penetration.  I'm sure the rest of us will continue hearing about it ad nauseam, but take heart - after a year or two, the fog of time will enable all of us to proudly claim we were one of the Six.  Start prepping your wondrous tales of derring-do!

The Stone Dam Six, prior to you Photoshopping yourself in.

Months ago I confidently predicted that I'd beat Rob at the GSDC.  I might want to remember this photo before opening my big mouth next time.

The Essex River Race has just been cancelled, but locals assure me that there will be a substitute race on October 2 somewhere in the vicinity - perhaps even on the same course.  We'll be broadcasting the latest news on UHF channel 31 ("Surfski Tonight", every other Tuesday, 2am), but if you can't find your antenna, maybe just check on social media.  For those looking further into the future, there's the Seneca Monster on October 10 in central NY (which last year featured a crackerjack match-up between Matt Skeels, Ed Joy, and Jim Mallory) and the Plum Beach Lighthouse Race on October 16 in Narragansett Bay (which last year featured a humiliatingly lopsided match-up between Nate Humberston and myself).

Oh yeah.  Almost forgot.

We keep some of our boats in our basement, which has a walkout sliding glass door.  After arriving home, I went downstairs to unlock that door.  You have to pay attention down there, or you risk taking a surfski bow to the face or a Concept2 rower to the foot.  I'm halfway to the door when I finally look in its direction, only to be confronted by a terrible dark horror topped with a violent streak of red, peering directly in at me from 6 feet away.  As anyone with an acute sense of self-preservation would, lacking anyone to instinctively push forward as a sacrifice, I let out a mighty defensive scream while jolting myself backwards so violently that my brain was left hovering several feet in front of me.  I'd have a splitting headache for the next hour, but at least I showed MB that with a little help from some double-glazed glass, I'm up to the task of defending us from marauding turkeys.

Blackburn Challenge: Mixed Blessings

While the Olympic athletes of the world held their collective breath to see if they'd be allowed to compete in Tokyo this year, Northeast paddlers similarly awaited news of the Blackburn Challenge.  Of course, there was one critical difference:  In our case, half the field was praying for deliverance from the three-hour sufferfest.  The City of Gloucester was understandably hesitant to permit a large race on her shores, especially given the degree of virus uncertainty at the time of initial planning.  The Cape Ann Rowing Club, on the other hand, was eager to resuscitate a 30-some year tradition of grim torment.  Through a series of extended negotiations - I'm imagining something on par with that of a nuclear arms reduction treaty, both in terms of scope and significance - Gloucester and CARC reached an agreement.  The compromise involved a raft of new restrictions: fewer participants, no first-time racers, no official timing, no after-party, no rafts, etc.  And then, in a last-minute twist, the race was rescheduled from mid July to early August.  Despite all of this, the call of the Blackburn proved irresistible.

The 19.5 mile course is easy to describe.  You paddle out the Annisquam River (actually a tidal estuary), then follow the coast of Cape Ann all the way around into Gloucester Harbor, finishing at the wooden structure known as the Greasy Pole.  You'll pass 5 lighthouses and innumerable miles (don't let the 19.5 fool you) of scenic shoreline, but you'll probably be in a head-down semi-conscious state of exhaustion for most of that trip, so try to pay particular attention to the first half-hour.  One of the fascinating features of the Blackburn is how the conditions vary as you progress around Cape Ann.  You get a little bit of everything: against the tide; against the wind and tide; against the homicidal boaters and wind and tide.  On this day, we'd be defending ourselves against a particularly virulent strain of tide.  On the positive side, the southeast wind would only be in the 7-10 knot range and the Boater Danger Rating wasn't expected to exceed Orange ("Seek immediate cover").

The late change of date and the added restrictions gave the field more of a local feel than usual.  It was a farm-to-table kind of event, stocked primarily with home-grown New England talent, but peppered with a few zesty competitors shipped in fresh from NJ and NY.  Chief among these, of course, was Rob Jehn.  Within a very short span, Rob has established himself as the alpha open-water paddler of the Northeast.  Sure, he might in turn bow to an international-caliber athlete like Sean Brennan, but you can't criticize the leader of the wolf pack just because he succumbs to a grizzly.  It's apples and demi-gods.  Other imports included John Costello and John Hair, who had both driven me hard at the Toms River Race a couple of weeks ago.  However, I figured my fiercest competition would come from a paddler born-and-bred not 5 miles from the starting line - Matt Drayer.  Beating Rob would be an "out-and-out fluke".  Beating Matt would fall somewhere between "in a blue moon" and "when pigs fly".  In the doubles field, out-of-towners Erin and Alan Lamb would face off against locals (and first-time tandem paddlers) Ryan Bardsley and Bernie Romanowski.

In these pre-race moments of quiet anticipation, it's impossible to imagine that just a few hours in the future, you'll be speculating on how much you can sell all your boats for.

Mr. Drayer and I have faced off in our Tuesday night league in Salem Sound a dozen times a season for the past 9 years, so we're now on a first-name basis.  Despite technically being his sensei (The League has some fascinating traditions), Matt's been breathing down my neck that entire time.  Which more and more often has involved a special apparatus of tubes and bellows that redirect his exhalations backwards.  Over the last couple of months, however, Matt has evolved to a new level.  He's started calling me "Grasshopper".  Fortunately, that means I'm no longer in his crosshairs.  He's out for bigger prey.  If I could be the remora to his shark, maybe I could slip by him unnoticed while he was picking Rob's splintered boat from his teeth.  To the extent that I had a strategy, it was to glue myself on Matt's stern, hoping that he could in turn keep a firm grip on Rob.

Wesley Echols had coordinated a mass start for the surfski field, after which we'd time ourselves.  We arranged ourselves in the customary Blackburn fashion, and Wesley counted us down to the start.  Earlier in the week, I had spent a half-hour on a pond in my ICF boat, joyfully pretending that I was in an Olympics 200m K1 sprint.  No matter how many times I tried, I was still finishing several seconds behind the slowest heat finisher in Tokyo (a dynamic young lady paddling for Algeria).  But perhaps this practice had honed my starting skills, because I leapt off the line smartly and was jockeying for a choice position behind Matt and Rob within the first 30 seconds.

John H apparently had the same goal.  He had the line on Matt's stern, but I was a quarter boat length ahead.  If we were walking together on the sidewalk and I suddenly shoved John into traffic, I probably wouldn't be getting any more Christmas cards from him.  What some sticklers might consider manslaughter in everyday life, in racing seems pardonable.  Acceptable, even.  In fact, let's go with inevitable.  Which is how John found himself on the outside, looking in.  Or rather, on the starboard side, looking over.  I was now safely ensconced behind Matt.  John told me after the race that I was probably his "best friend in the whole world" (he'd had a few IPAs), so all was apparently forgiven.

Intrigued by what he saw in the background of this pre-race selfie, John zoomed in and took another for blackmail purposes.  (photo courtesy of John Hair).

Sometimes I suspect that I'm not quite as cool as I think I am.  (photo courtesy of John Hair)

With John H, John C, and the two doubles fanned out behind, Rob led us up the Annisquam against a rapidly increasing tidal current.  I had hoped that Matt and I could use our local knowledge of the winding Annisquam to sneak by Rob, but it's a little tough to be furtive in fluorescent clothing on a narrow waterway.  Particularly when the opposing general has enough excess power and stamina that he can afford to stop, turn-around, stand up in his ski, and survey the battlefield.  Early on I attempted a few surprise attacks from the flanks, but Rob quickly identified and neutralized the threat.  Although Matt was initially smack on Rob's stern, he soon fell back a couple of lengths before locking in at that position.  I remained tight on Matt's draft.  In this configuration, we began to separate from the rest of the field.  I had little sense of what was happening behind our lead group (other than being utterly convinced that they would reappear beside me at any moment), but from GoPro footage and first-hand accounts, I gather that the two doubles, John H, and John C formed the primary chase pack, with a secondary pack composed of Tim Dwyer, Tim Hacket, and Nate Day.  Rob led the field out of the river and started down the coast towards Halibut Point.  Mercifully, once we cleared Annisquam Light, we had a respite from the tide.

About 5 miles into the race, let's say that my conscience finally got the better of me.  I had remained affixed to Matt's stern for 97% of this time.  And drafting his side wake for the other 3%.  With only 15 miles to go, it seemed a virtual certainty that I could maintain this position until passing him in a final sprint.  Matt had trained too hard to be beaten in such an underhanded way.  Don't put too much credence in those naysayers that claim that "by definition" you can't actually exceed your maximum heart rate.  I had been doing just that for the last 30 seconds - would another 2 hours kill me?  So I did the noble thing.  Like Jack slipping silently off that door in the North Atlantic, sacrificing himself so that Rose could survive, I slid off of Matt's stern.  There was a little more strangled gasping than you'd like for a nice clean simile, but I think we can agree that the eerie physical similarities between me and a young DiCaprio more than compensate for that deficiency. 

Rob was gradually widening his lead on Matt, and now the latter on me.  Reaching Halibut Point after about an hour of paddling, I suspected that someone was playing a trick on me.  Where were the confused waves that prowled these environs even on the calmest days?  The wailing of the damned, dashed on the rocks?  The lucrative bounty of salvageable flotsam?  Instead of all this, the surface of the ocean became increasingly smooth as I rounded the point and progressed into Sandy Bay.  Unaccountably, given the winds from the opposite direction, a continuous series of glassy waves arose - modest in size, but significant enough to gently nudge me towards Straitsmouth Gap.  Despite the nurturing sea, I was having trouble finding motivation - the continuing advance of Rob and Matt ahead was sapping my resolve.  Until...

In their double, Ryan & Bernie were akin to newborn giraffes.  When you first see them, they're just a pile of uncoordinated knees and necks, covered in foul-smelling goo.  But mere moments later, in defiance of all logic, they're wobbling to an upright posture.  And then almost immediately they're taking their first tentative strokes.  There's a brief period of playful exuberance as they experiment with their newfound balance and agility.  And finally, having mastered locomotion and with precocious poise, they sail by me in Sandy Bay with a loping gait.  I felt privileged to have witnessed this accelerated life cycle, and also more than a little pissed off that these long-limbed bastards were passing me.  Fortunately, I was able to channel that anger into a spirited (but futile) attempt to keep pace with the duo.  At least they had put enough air in my sails to whisk me from the mental doldrums.

Reaching the halfway point at Straitsmouth Gap, we started to clear the lee of Cape Ann.  Within a span of fifty feet, the formerly glossy surface of the sea was replaced by choppy nubbles.  Making our way around the rocky headlands over the next couple of miles, the southwest wind, the tide, and refracted waves colluded to throw paddlers off their rhythm, and in a few instances, their boats.  The culmination of the aquatic malevolence occurred while passing between Lands End and Milk Island, where I alarmed myself by pausing to have a gel.  Had I not narrowly averted a capsize from this foolhardy move, I'd likely still be untangling myself from a viper's nest of hydration tubes and bungee cords.  As it happened, however, I survived the misjudgment and wobbled through the last of confused waters to reach more predictable (but still unfriendly) conditions.

I continued to track Ryan & Bernie via the former's fluorescent yellow PFD and Matt via his vibrant orange torso (it's a genetic thing).  They were plying an outer line, presumably trying to escape any coastal currents.  Their approach seemed so extreme, however, that I eventually began to wonder if they were trying to reach international waters - perhaps to restock whatever pharmaceutical aids were propelling them.  I couldn't take any cues from Rob's line, since his more muted ensemble (and huge lead) rendered him invisible.  This was just as well, since a post-race analysis of his GPS track revealed that he had been engaging in "evasive maneuvers" to throw off pursuers.  He finished without being torpedoed, but logged almost a quarter mile more total distance than direct-line competitors.

Rob Jehn: The man, the myth, the posable action figure (coming soon!).  (photo courtesy of Andy Knight)

Finding the occasional erratic wave heading diagonally shoreward, I decided to take an inner line that would have me making landfall much earlier than Matt.  My hope was that by hugging the coast I could both avoid the tide and perhaps find some rides from refracted waves.  The long open water crossing from Milk Island to the Back Shore had some of the earmark elements of a slog - wind and tide against you, choppy conditions, destination never getting closer - but the gods of mischief didn't seem to have their hearts in it.  I watched from afar as Ryan & Bernie passed Matt and receded over the horizon.  Amazingly, I seemed to be gaining on the latter as I finally approached landfall.  Perhaps he had hit a wall?  

Sure enough, I eventually pulled even with Matt.  As I chatted with him about the race and the latest developments in the Scottish independence movement (Alba gu bràth!), I came to the gradual realization that my conversation partner was not Matt, but some other person entirely.  In fact, this shameless imposter wasn't even in a surfski!  Apparently, my target acquisition software had errantly swapped one distant orange-shirted racer for another during the past half-hour.  Should the algorithm have picked up on the fact that the new target was rowing rather than paddling?  Probably, but given the general state of oxygen deprivation within the CPU, serious system faults were to be expected.  Scanning the zones far ahead, I reacquired Matt (Omega 23, Sector F) and nonchalantly sidled past non-Matt.  Mar sin leat, old friend.

I soon had the opportunity to beta test my coast-hugging strategy within a highly realistic environment.  I could almost feel the crash of the waves on the rocks and taste the salt spray.  I was able to find some decent rides on refracted waves, but I also had to contend with stretches of disorderly churn and make some sudden course corrections to avoid rock-bearing holes that yawned opened in front of me.  All in all, I'd characterize the experiment as a wash.  When I reached the breakwater protecting the harbor, Matt maintained a half Dog Bar lead.  I was tempted to continue close to the quarried rocks, but fear of being snagged by a camouflaged fisherman kept me a cast away.

For a small extra fee, racers were provided with an emotional support animal at the finish.  Unfortunately, nobody seems to have gotten a picture of me and my llama.  (photo courtesy of Andy Knight)

Finally entering Gloucester Harbor, I now had the pleasure of feeling the wind at my back, with attendant waves heading in my general direction - roughly 30 degrees to starboard of the straight line to the finish.  The prudent paddler would partake of a few brief rides at a sitting before primly correcting his course, engraving a delicate zig-zag course on the water.  Imagine, if you will, you're a young debutante at an elegant garden party, urged by your genteel hostess to have another macaron.  You demur.  "Oh no, I couldn't possibly..." Next thing you know, security is roughly escorting you off the grounds as you struggle to choke down the dozen treats you've jammed into your pie-hole.  You barely have time to appreciate the fact that the ornamental pond boasts actual live flamingos before you find yourself wildly off-course to the right, in danger of crashing into Ten Pound Island.  Fortunately, I don't think anybody heard my cry of "You can keep your wreteched sweets!" as I sheepishly corrected my line, vowing to never again fall prey to the siren song of wayward waves.

I could make out Matt a quarter mile ahead, paddling towards the finish with something less than fevered zeal.  Like me, he appeared to have accepted his lot in life (or at least the race) and was now resigned to grinding through the remainder of the workday.  Rob completed the course in 2:50:15, while Matt and I clocked in at 2:55:31 and 2:58:05, respectively.  In the ongoing battle to decide who gets to keep the name, John H again clipped John C late in the race.  Down 0-3 this season, Costello should probably start fishing around for a new moniker.  I'd suggest something unique like Ezekiel or Ha'penny to decrease the chance that he'll have to refile all that paperwork again in 2022.  Tim D similarly moved by Tim H and Nate in the final leg of the race.  Hackett is also in a big hole at 1-4, but since "Hack" is a pretty cool nickname, he may just opt to go with that.  Mary Beth claimed her second Blackburn crown in the woman's field, making her that much more difficult to live with.  The double of Ryan & Bernie came tantalizing close to catching Rob, finishing slightly over 2 minutes behind for the second fastest overall time of the day.  The Lambs took the silver spot for doubles, just missing the 3:00 mark for the fifth best time.  Only 4 boats broke that goal, making this one of the slowest Blackburns in the last 20 years - the relentless tidal currents and choppy conditions exacted their toll.

The podium.  In an effort to make Matt look more exhausted than me, I had just told him that I had lost a contact. (photo courtesy of Andy Knight)

Thanks to the many CARC volunteers, with special gratitude to Chris Chappell, who recorded impressively official unofficial times for the entire field.  And congrats to the North Shore locals, who helmed 3 of the fastest 4 boats of the day.  Maybe if there's an asteroid strike or supervolcano eruption between now and the next Blackburn, we can put one of our own on the top step!

Toms River Paddle Race: Express Lane

(photo courtesy of  Mike Goodman)

Given the rich trove of surfski races within two hours of my home, I've been loath to venture outside of my regional comfort zone.  Sure, there have been the odd trips to alien waters, but these events have been "National" in character - The Gorge, Chattajack 31, US Surfski Championships, etc.  That is to say, big enough that a lousy relative performance would be lost in the noise.  Given the continuing influx of paddlers willing to make the arduous trek to New England from exotic locales, however, I felt obligated to reciprocate.  New Jersey's Toms River Paddle Race seemed like the natural choice.  Recently reinvigorated by director Melinda Edward (Schlehlein), this open water race promised the most impressive field of surfski paddlers in any East Coast competition this year.

The race portion of Toms River is mostly a broad tidal estuary that opens into Barnegat Bay.  Our out-and-back course would start near Mathis Plaza in the town of Toms River and take us 3.5 miles to where Dixon Creek enters the bay, turning on a inflatable marker to head back home.  Although the course starts and ends in relatively protected waters, conditions can get increasingly challenging as the estuary opens up and weekend boat traffic increases.

There's no rational explanation for why New Jersey is churning out so many top tier paddlers, although perhaps a desire to avoid the ever-present traffic explains their attraction to the sea.  Local surfskiers include Sean Brennan, Rob Jehn, Craig Impens, and Eric Costanzo, to name a few.  As if this wasn't a potent enough brew, they spiked the punch by enticing Ukrainian flatwater standout Andrii Monastyrskyi to resettle in the Garden State.  All of these paddlers were registered, although Craig and Eric would be sharing a boat.  After heated debate, they settled on using a double.  In a beautiful coincidence of timing, two outstanding Florida-based paddlers also happened to be in New Jersey.  Nate Humberston is one of the fastest all-around American paddlers, having represented the US at the World Championships.  Flavio Costa is best known (to me, at least) as someone who once was someone I could occasionally beat.  He might have been injured, though.

Based on past results, the buzz was around the Sean vs Nate vs Andrii contest.  I was guessing that Flavio, Rob, and the Eric-Craig double would be tight on their tails.  Given Rob's recent ascendency to the Next Level, I figured I'd spend most of my race tangling with the Triple-J threat - John Costello (another local), John Hair, and Jan Lupinski.  I've generally gotten the better of the Johns in the past, but the gap has been steadily closing as I get older and they auction off the dwindling remnants of their souls.  With all his recent travel, I didn't know how fit Jan would be.  He was recently disqualified from the Ocean Racing World Championships in the Canary Islands when stodgy officials determined that his cutting-edge boat-free technique violated pretty much all of the ICF rules.  Undeterred, he's currently petitioning to add a "surf bobbing" class to next year's race.  Formidable tandem paddlers Erin and Alan Lamb also figured to compete in our tier.

Roughly 40% the surfskis were disqualified due to illegal "cantilevered flotation attachments".  Just as well, though, since those competitors also coincidentally forgot half their paddles.

It started out with smiles and playful taunts.  It ended up with us bailing Nate and Flavio out of the pokey.

Those of us not confident enough to paddle their fastest boat in all conditions often suffer from crippling anxiety about which surfski to bring for the conditions.  Several forecasts were indicating 15 to 20 knot cross-winds, with substantially stronger gusts.  Playing it safe, I brought my V10 Sport.  In retrospect, I perhaps shouldn't have paid quite so much attention to the notoriously unreliable posts on the social networking app Tweather.

A few years back I started working on my own app that would tell which boat you should choose for a race.  I quickly became bogged down in simulating the myriad interactions between different boat, paddler, and condition parameters - tide, wind, hull shape, stroke rate, water salinity, cholesterol levels, etc.  To simplify matters, I transitioned to a multivariant temporal loop approach - you'd simultaneously race each of your boats in a different timeline, and "then" choose the best result.  As a bonus, you'd get really adept at winning lotteries.  Things looked quite promising, but it turns out that even the most powerful cellphones lack tachyon dynamometers and fall just shy of being able to provide the 1.21 gigawatts necessary to contort the fabric of space-time.  Plus if more than one competitor used the app, there was a 30% chance that the universe would implode.

I eventually settled on a more practical app that tells you which boat you should have chosen for a race.  Just before the start of the event, you enter 12 carefully chosen parameters.  The app then randomly selects one of the boats you left at home.  If you upgrade to the Pro version, it'll also loudly announce "You brought the wrong boat!"  Kinda wish now that I would've used the original prototype to decide if this whole tangent was worth it.  In any event, the app was undeniably correct this day.  The more extreme winds never materialized, meaning that the I brought much more stability than needed.  As it turned out, however, this poor boat choice had zero impact on my finish placement.

On the Friday prior to the race, Melinda had hosted a professional Zoom-based captain's meeting that resembled a Ted Talk more than an improvised PTA meeting - the vibe I'm more accustomed to.  So on race day we were able to proceed directly to the launch, where we underwent a brief screening for the required safety equipment.  The screener told me that the hard hat and fire extinguisher weren't strictly necessary, but clearly he wasn't familiar with my track record.

John H and I decided that lining up to the right would give us a shorter path to the first gentle bend of the river.  Almost everyone seemed to have a different opinion, but we pride ourselves as rebels who will stick to a hastily-contrived doctrine even if that means sacrificing valuable drafting opportunities.  A whistle soon signaled the start.  Andrii established an immediate lead, with Nate, Sean, and Flavio on his draft.  Eric-Craig and Rob were close on their heels.  After holding fast to a right-wing ideology for a solid 30 seconds, John and I abandoned our dogma and united with the leftists, joining them in a rousing chorus of L'Internationale.  John C was heroically pulling at the front of our collective, with Jan, the Lambs, John H, and myself on various drafts.  You might at first assume that we would rotate leaders in the spirit of contribution to our shared struggle, but... from each according to their ability, to each according to their need.  The drafters judged that John C had the ability and we the need.

Alas, our cohesion couldn't last forever.  John H and Jan had second thoughts about their commitment to the cause and veered off to pursue independent paths.  John C and I eventually had some ideological differences about the party line and similarly formed our own factions.  I kept the Lambs in the brokered settlement, but soon realized that they were wolves in sheep's clothing.  If I let them hang on too long, Erin and Alan would doubtless turn on me.  I made several unsuccessful attempts to shake them before finally breaking free.  I was now paddling roughly abreast of John C, who was 20 meters or so closer to shore.  I could see John H slightly off the pace, maybe 50 meters further out than me.

By this point, the leaders had broken into two groups.  Nate, Sean, and Andrii were at the front, with Flavio, Rob, and Eric/Craig now in pursuit.  However, when Andrii veered off-course on a passing boat wake, Nate and Sean wasted no time in dropping their aw-shucks, please-and-thank-you, why-no-I'm-not-a-dead-eyed-killer off-water facades.  Smelling the blood in the water, they thrashed forward with a merciless series of shared intervals, leaving behind the bloated carcass of Andrii awash in a trail of no-longer-needed hyphens (minus a few the ne'er-do-wells hung onto).  I don't know if the light chop and boat wakes were getting to him, or if he just decided to relinquish his powers to see what it was like to live as a mortal, but Andrii slowed dramatically and was passed by the second group.

Just before the halfway point Nate and Sean had finally managed to drop the jet ski. (photo courtesy of  Mike Goodman)

A half mile before reaching Long Point, where we'd angle north for a half-mile of downwind, I merged with John C.  After catching my breath on his stern draft for what I'd estimate to be no more than 15 seconds, I pulled alongside.  I figured our brief downwind would be my best chance to break free.  We caught Andrii (by all appearances paddling at about 10% capacity) just as we reached the point.  The lighter-than-expected wind wasn't exactly providing rip-roaring rides, but I managed to convince myself that I was milking each wave, leaving John wallowing in my spray.  Empirical evidence had convinced him otherwise, however.  Seeing John less than a half-dozen boat lengths at the turn, I was reluctantly forced to concede the point.

The return trip started mostly into the wind, swinging to a port quarter wind once we rounded Long Point.  With an incoming tide, it made sense to make for the channel.  I glanced back occasionally, using local John C's relative position as a gauge for my line.  I appeared to be prying open a little space between us, but I could also see John H, the Lambs, and Andrii in pursuit.  Apparently a pretty good battle was brewing amongst them until a large yacht wake tipped the balance.  And John C.  Despite a fast remount, the others took advantage of his upheaval to move ahead.

Sean and Nate enjoy that magical bonding time between finishing a hard-fought battle with a worthy competitor and once again being forced to rub elbows with the huddled masses. (photo courtesy of Mariano Elrick)

As I made continued my way up Toms River, naturally I was periodically monitoring my pursuers.  I could no longer see Rob, Flavio, and Eric-Craig up ahead, a fact I attributed to the winding estuary, despite the galling lack of any actual curves.  With just under a mile left, I judged that Andrii (in his recognizable red boat) was well over a minute behind - more than enough margin to secure my current 5th place position among the singles.  At seven-eighths of a mile, I figured he was perhaps a minute back.  At three-quarters of a mile, I started to panic.  By this point, I was really regretting that bloated carcass metaphor I had so blithely concocted earlier.  Apparently he took some umbrage.  Every hysterical glance over my shoulder revealed that Andrii had somehow jumped another half-dozen lengths closer.  It was like leafing through one of those animated flip books, but with 90% of the pages torn out.  And a lot more menace than whimsy.  Fortunately, before Andrii had the chance to reach maximum warp, the finish line intervened to save me.

Nate and Sean had both blistered through the course in less than 55 minutes, with Nate taking the crown by about 20 seconds.  In the 8 minutes longer it took me to finish, they had managed to once again camouflage their genuine natures beneath hail-fellow-well-met veneers, greeting me with their customary terrestrial bonhomie.  Of course, Flavio (3rd) and Rob (4th) had also completed the course well before me, posting times just under 57 minutes in the closest finish of the race.  Given that a couple of months ago I had been a mere half-minute behind Rob at the longer Sakonnet Race, the 5 extra minutes he put on me in NJ has left my faith in a benevolent deity shaken.  The women's race had an exciting finish, with Steph Schell and Mary Beth battling the entire course before Steph seized the lead for good.  Loukia Lili rounded out the podium.  The double of Craig & Eric battled with the singles of Flavio & Rob for much of the race, finishing about 15 seconds behind (5th overall).  Erin & Alan had a strong race as the second double (8th overall), finishing just ahead of John H and John C.

Paddler X asked that he not be identified.  His dominating sprint performance, distinctive accent, and Ukrainian name really gives him away though.

John was getting restless after the race, so we gave him an arts & crafts project to keep him occupied.

The day wasn't quite over.  Melinda had appended a knock-out sprint tournament to the race.  Sean and John C prepared the brackets and set up a 100 meter course in the protected canal adjacent to Huddy Park.  I found myself paired against Andrii in the first round of the sprints, swapping my V10 Sport for a Stellar SEA generously loaned to me by Dave Thomas.  Given that Andrii had recently put up a top five time at the 200m US Olympic team trials (as a guest international competitor), my only hope was that he would break a tie rod and crash into the canal embankment.  Sure enough, Andrii's starting strokes seemed more like a Special Attack from a fighting videogame (Windmill of Death?  Whirring Doom?) than anything an actual human could muster.  After accelerating through the first 25 meters he shut it down and popped his drag chute.  I had anticipated a fair fight, but hadn't taken into account my ingrained deviousness.  As he all-but-coasted toward the finish, I burst a few blood vessels trying catch him by surprise.  Of course, this didn't work, but if you only saw the last 10 meters of the race, it looked sorta close.  As expected, Andrii went on to win the tournament, with Alan (now in a K-1) making short work of his opponents before succumbing to the inevitable.  On the women's side, Steph and Mary Beth repeated their 1-2 finish.

The Toms River Race promised to be the most exciting of the season, and it delivered with a great field and a series of crackerjack head-to-head matches.  Many thanks to Melinda and her crew for ushering the race into an exciting new era.  She promises that next year she'll apply her considerable logistics acumen to taming the metro-area congestion.  For a more fact-based account of the race, check out Melinda's report.

She was too polite to say anything, but Melinda was disappointed that everybody else ignored the "casual elegance" dress code.

Steph, Mary Beth, and Loukia were gracious enough to pose for a podium picture.  The prima donna men demanded an appearance fee and 30% of any downstream revenues. 

Next up is the New England Marathon Paddlesport Championships in Hinsdale, NH on Sunday, August 1.  This is a 12 mile flatwater jaunt on the Connecticut River.  And, of course, the weekend after that is the Blackburn Challenge.  Although there won't be any official timing this year, Wesley Echols is organizing an informal time-yourself start at 8:00am for all surfskiers (see here for details).

Sakonnet Surfski Race: Head Start

The newly rechristened Sakonnet Surfski Race is the prescribed venue for New England paddlers to ease into the open water season.  It's much like the fable in which a frog won't notice he's being boiled alive if you slowly raise the temperature.  The Sakonnet is a skinny bay that might be called a "loch" or "fjord" in another land, or a "river" in the deranged mind of some 17th century cartographer.  In any event, the shore's never too far away.  And if the wind is from the south, like it was for the 14th running of Wesley Echol's classic race, in a worst-case scenario you'll eventually wash up on a sandy beach, complete with several seaside dining options.  Which is nice for the EMTs.

We'd be running a slightly modified version of the 2020 course.  From Island Park Beach, we'd chug 4.5 miles south to Sandy Point, where we'd turn 90 degrees counterclockwise around a mooring buoy, pointing us towards a red nun further away from shore.  Reaching this buoy, we'd turn another 90 degrees and head back to the start.  With a southerly breeze stiffening over the course of the race, we'd pay our dues during the first leg.  For those wise enough to set aside some reserve funds for the second half, the all-you-can-eat downwind buffet would be open.  The rest would be given a complimentary packet of oyster crackers and left to fend for themselves.

It's taken John years of trial and error to get just the right amount of tequila in his "margarition" (TM) system.

We didn't want Rob to feel bad, so we all told him it could happen to anyone.

When they arrived, the cops told us that someone had reported that "some creep was hanging out taking pictures".  They let me listen to the 911 call at the station.  Not cool, MB.

The field was popping with talent.  Despite the Sakonnet not being a loop course, standout NJ paddler Sean Brennan might well lap the field.  People think of Sean as enigmatic and brooding, so they're always surprised to find that he's actually mysterious and meditative.  Plus kinda goofy.  Since fellow Garden Stater Rob Jehn developed an unfortunate taste for New England glory, we've been unable to keep the pest away.  It's like if Brood X crawled out of the ground every 3 weeks.  The Three Johns (Hair, Costello, and Redos) brought their show (mostly puppetry, but also some mime work) on the road from Points West.  Local contenders included South African Gary Shaw (paradoxically), Matt Drayer, and Tim Dwyer, among others.  I expected we'd have a particularly dynamic race in which downwind specialists might zoom by less adept surfers who had made the mistake of getting to the red nun first.  With scores of Miller's Runs under his belt, Gary would be a huge threat on the downwind leg, regardless of how much of a head start he might spot me.  From past experience, I knew that I couldn't ignore Matt or Tim either.

Wesley walked us through the course at the captains meeting, stopping only when the water got over his head.  We'd have to figure it out ourselves past that point.  The 23 boat field soon lined up off the beach - faster paddlers stacked to the right - and was counted down to the start.  Sean roadrunnered off the line, leaving the rest of us in a cloud of mist.  I got out to one of my better starts, but was still unable to match Rob's initial sprint.  Gary managed to grab onto Rob's draft, but dropped off after a short while.  Unsurprisingly, John C, Chris Chappell, and Matt were also in the mix.  I was feeling strong, however, and managed to transition into 3rd position within the first couple minutes.  The field quickly began to string out as we pushed upwind.

This is why you should never talk politics at the captains meeting.  For every Kirk and Jeff on your side, there's an Andy and John left seething.

The last anyone saw of Sean.

Occasionally in a movie or TV show featuring a genius protagonist in dire straits, their problem-solving thought process will be dynamically superimposed on the screen - the complex series of glowing equations and diagrams needed to calculate, say, the trajectory of a thrice-ricocheted bullet into the forehead of Inspector Blanchard (don't feel bad, he was a double agent).  I had that kind of deal going as I tried to figure out whether it made sense to pull shoreward to tuck into the lee of McCorrie Point.  Except that my illegible computations were done in crayon, relied almost exclusively upon astrology, and included a pretty good drawing of a doggie.  My conclusions were muddled, but at least I now knew that it was an inauspicious day to start a new business venture.  Lacking any navigational insights, I decided the safest bet would be to average the straight line and shore-hugging paths.  Only in this way could I definitively eliminate the advantages of either.

It seems that roughly half the field followed the path of compromise, while the more stalwart paddlers (including both Sean and Rob) blasted straight from the start towards Sandy Point.  The general consensus among the faint-hearted was that while we may have been shielded from some waves, low-lying McCorrie Point did little to protect us from the headwind.  Once we had passed McCorrie, however, the westward curve of the shore afforded us more shelter (particularly from waves) on the way to the turn at Sandy Point.  Maybe.

As forecast, the wind was gradually increasing its intensity.  My GPS was dutifully recording the meteorological slow front as it passed through, dropping from 7 mph at the start to 5.5 mph (let's say) with a mile left to the turn.  I pulled up my mental whiteboard again to calculate if I'd actually be going backwards before reaching Sandy Point, but got sidetracked adding a doghouse for Mr. Flappers.  By this time, Sean was no longer visible.  Presumably he had completed his transition to pure energy.  Rob was clearly ahead of me, but the extent of his 15 boat length lead wasn't apparent until we converged for the turn.  I glanced back as I turned away from the shore, but didn't see anyone.  There were doubtless paddlers not too far behind me, but I didn't have the stomach to look too closely.

No special comment.  It's just nice to see a full field of paddlers again. (photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Wesley had assured us that after we turned 90 degrees clockwise at Sandy Point, we'd be pointed directly at the red nun that marked our next turn.  "You can't miss it" - his exact words, I believe.  You know how when a scientist is trying to convey how incredibly powerful the Hubble telescope is, they'll say something like "If it were in San Francisco, it could read the year on a penny in Philadelphia".  With de-orbiting costs what they are, seems like it'd be more cost-effective to just call up the guy holding the coin in Philly and ask him the year.  In any event, you see where I'm going with this.  The buoy was eminently miss-able, even if you happened to have a 2.4 meter parabolic primary mirror mounted on your boat (make sure you opt for the high volume ski - those things are heavier than you'd think).

I couldn't know if Rob had spotted the buoy or not, but he seemed to be paddling in a direction other than 90 degrees around the turn.  I never seem to have a protractor handy when needed, so I'll just estimate his angle more in the vicinity of 45 degrees.  Using Rob's heading as a cue, I adjusted my search grid.  After several unsuccessful scans, I finally spotted a tiny red dot that I'd characterize as "way the hell out" in the middle of the bay.   In Wesley's defense, he had said that the buoy was 0.3 miles from the turn, but how am I supposed to know exactly how miniscule a small navigational buoy would appear from more than a quarter mile away?  I mean other than the 15 years of ocean paddling experience.  Plus it was actually 0.4 miles.

After paddling directly upwind for the last 45 minutes, it took a few minutes to adjust to the quartering conditions we had to traverse to reach the turn buoy.  The waves looked promising for the downwind leg, however, so I didn't begrudge being tossed around a little.  I reached the turn still 15 lengths behind Rob.  This time I was able to spot 3 or 4 pursuers a couple minutes back.  Although I couldn't positively identify the individual paddlers, the ominous Terminator drumbeat was echoing in my head.  Gary's eyes were likely starting to glow at the prospect of hunting me down.  Wouldn't be surprised if Matt and Tim D weren't also feeling the blood lust.

For the first mile or so, the downwind runs were excellent.  I figured as long as I didn't miss a single runner and consistently linked each launching wave into at least a dozen more, I stood a fair chance (say 12%) of managing a podium finish.  Rob and I again took different lines - his ludicrously far to the left (from my perspective) and mine ludicrously far to the right (from his and my GPS track's perspective).  We quickly diverged to the degree that it became impossible to gauge relative progress.  Not having any reliable data on our relative downwind competence, I instinctively figured my superior skills were allowing me to catch and pass Rob.  This relieved me of some of the Gary-induced anxiety, since I'd still claim bronze even if overtaken by the South African menace.

As we progressed deeper into the bay, some combination of changes related to wind, tides, seabed topology, and Venus (it's in retrograde, after all) conspired to degrade the downwind conditions.  There were still plenty of rideable waves, but they lacked punch.  Although disappointing at the time, this probably played to my advantage.  Of course, I hadn't actually been working the conditions any better than Rob.  But, according to eye witness accounts from Matt and John H, Gary had been putting on a downwind clinic.  After the turn at the nun, he had quickly passed them, working diagonal lines to wring every ounce of potential from the waves.  But with the smaller conditions limiting the liquid energy available, and Gary feeling a little underconditioned himself, his comeback effort fell short.

With a mile to go, I reassessed my situation vis-a-vis Rob.  In good conscience, I could no longer maintain the delusion that I was catching him.  "Limit the damage" became my new mantra.  Not the most aspirational of mantras, perhaps, but given how drained I was feeling, I think I deserve some credit for not just going with "Screw it".  Rob finished 25 seconds ahead - damage that would have otherwise been 2 or 3 seconds less limited.  Sean had won the race, of course, but had the grace not to remind us that he was finishing while Rob and I were still in diapers.  Gary claimed the 4th position, but the highlight of the race came shortly after - Matt and John H surfing to the line on the same wave, with Matt nosing in just ahead.  A few moments later, Tim D. managed to get nearly his entire head in before John C and Tim Hacket.  Mary Beth claimed the women's title, in part due to her almost pathological adherence to navigational guidelines.

Maybe just a little less booze next time, John. (photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Given that Leslie wasn't even in the race, she finished surprisingly well.  (photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

The post-race debrief continued on the beach for quite some time before migrating to Flo's Drive In, just a short walk away.  I must have had one too many stuffed quahogs, because I found myself trash-talking Rob.  Despite the fact that he's beaten me 5 of the 6 times we've raced, I made the assertion that under certain conditions (flat water, him in V12, me in V14) that I'd "wipe the course with him".  When making such an outrageous claim, it's a good idea to ensure that it can never actually be authenticated.  Unfortunately, the exact conditions of the challenge will be satisfied when we meet in September at the Great Stone Dam Classic.  Oops.  Yet another in a long series of mollusk-induced blunders.  Doubtless, Rob will spend his summer training for this meeting.  I, on the other hand, will spend my summer crawling through the underbrush in an attempt to contract Lyme disease.

Thanks to Wesley for an extremely satisfying race.  Having tuned our ocean skills at the Sakonnet, we're now ready to be thrown into the atonal waters of the Ride the Bull race on June 26th.  The race is free, but you must preregister at PaddleGuru.