After taking off a couple of years to "find itself", the Essex River Race ultimately returned to the North Shore of Massachusetts with a renewed sense of purpose. Locals would be forgiven for believing that this purpose was to snarl Saturday morning traffic, but the true purpose is to bring together competitors in an orgy of paddling and rowing enthusiasm. Which, now that I see it in writing, might be the actual reason that the upstanding citizens of Essex are so disgusted with us.
The 5.8 mile course entails a tour of the inner zone of the Essex River estuary. From the start in town, competitors follow the winding tidal river until it widens into an open expanse (of either water or marsh, depending on the tide), then circumnavigate Cross Island and return back up the river. The surfski wave would start shortly after high tide, meaning that we'd have unfettered access to many questionably effective shortcuts usually safely above sea level. Temperatures were in the high 70s, with a light to moderate breeze from the south.
In 2021 a group of paddlers held the unsanctioned Essex River (Replacement) Race on the standard course, which Rob Jehn won despite paddling a circuitous route perhaps best described as a "search grid". Needless to say, he was embarrassed to finally discover that he himself was the lost paddler. Rob made the trip from New Jersey to maintain his cock-of-the-walk status. As the last winner of the real Essex River Race in 2019, however, I strutted and preened before the match (resplendent in fluorescent plumage) to let Rob know that he was there as the imminent usurper, not the inevitable defender. We'd be competing in a field comprised of 15 single skis. Although several of those paddlers could also contend for the gold, I was most worried about Ben Randall. We don't see this talented downriver paddler from Maine in our parts very often - what with the hassle of the tourist visa and all the inoculations - but he always puts up a good fight after clearing quarantine.
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| I thought at first maybe the guys had sighted a green-winged teal, but it turns out they had actually just spotted a much rarer red-decked nelo. |
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| Probably the best feature of a surfski is that it seldom requires 13 people to launch. |
I had more than my usual motivation to do well. Prior to the race, but after an unfortunate incident which involved accidentally leaving the toaster timer set to "bagel", Mary Beth had told me not to bother coming home after the race if I didn't win. Actually, she didn't include the conditional part of that statement, but I think it was implied.
The Essex River Race is open to virtually any human-powered watercraft. For nearly an hour before the surfski start, wave after wave of more expendable boat classes (if you take offense at that characterization, cannon fodder, get your own blog) were sent out to soften up the course for us. By the time it was our turn, the tide had literally turned. Fourteen skis jockeyed for starting position, while I absent-mindedly let myself drift into whatever hemmed-in trash compactor site the currents took me - the doofus kid in left field picking wildflowers. The start siren sounded. Fortunately, by mugging Andrew Metz in the first few seconds, I was able to swipe a path to open water. He's probably fine.
Jerry Madore, paddling a snazzy Nelo 550 so new that the gelcoat wasn't fully set (not that I tested it by drawing obscene figures with my finger), shot into the lead like an excited toddler capitalizing on his burgeoning coordination. An opening gambit like this usually ends with either hospitalization or maritime rescue, but Jerry managed to hold form for a solid top-five finish. Hank Thorburn and Tim Dwyer chased him along the bank of the opening left-hand bend, while Rob and Ben swung wide. I squeezed Tim a little too tightly from the right around that first curve, which elicited a gentle reminder that although we're pals in real life, he would not hesitate to "end you right now" if I didn't give him some breathing room. You don't want to mess with a guy who paddles with Woody and Buzz figurines lashed in his cockpit, so I gave him more leeway as I moved by.
By the time I maneuvered fully past my murderous chum, Rob had pulled slightly ahead of me, with Ben in tow on his right draft. Jerry had initially opened up a two boat length gap on the field, but had burned through a couple of quarts of high-octane adrenaline and was now in desperate need of some apple sauce and Cheerios. Rob started to pass Jerry on the right, but after my recent upbraiding I was skittish about trying to shoehorn between the two on Rob's left draft. I instead passed wide to port, which I can retroactively pretend was actually a smart tactical decision since it theoretically gave me an advantage approaching the next bend in the river.
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| I hadn't seen this many people in one place since my late cousin Victor's super-spreader themed barbecue. |
After converging, I found myself back on Rob's left draft, with Ben latched on my stern. We continued in this fashion, dodging the oncoming rowers who - having started so long before our wave - were laboring through the final leg of their races and therefore well past giving a damn about maritime regulations. Ben dropped off the draft at some point, although by doing so silently he selfishly neglected to provide any ego-boosting sustenance for the remaining miles. In the future, Ben, I suggest shouting (in a strangled manner befitting your exhausted condition, naturally) something along the lines of "Alas! I founder! I must capitulate to your Herculean might and fortitude!" Feel free to tweak the verbiage. Hearing this would have been a real shot in the arm. I would, of course, have conveniently ignored the fact that Rob had done the lion's share of the work.
I was paddling in my native waters (which should give you some idea of just how hard I was working). Ostensibly, this would provide me with a navigational advantage. I'd thoughtfully remind Rob of this periodically by suggesting minor course corrections. I've found that steering from a draft position is seldom appreciated, but it's just not my nature to keep unsolicited, unreliable advice to myself. To the extent that he heeded my guidance, I didn't lead/follow him into any trouble. Which perhaps gave him a false sense of confidence (in me, that is) when I veered behind him to cut right towards Conomo Point as the Essex River widened. After following my lead (but, paradoxically, through absolutely no fault of my own), we both suddenly found ourselves in what a duck might consider navigable waters, but a goose definitely would not. Shallow water alerts rang in our ears, although I quickly silenced them by closing my mouth.
Rob managed to avoid disturbing the delicate intertidal seabed by artfully heeling his boat to one side to lift his rudder clear. While I admired his ecological sensitivity, I opted for a bull-in-a-china-shop strategy - leaving a sad trail of uprooted eelgrass and disoriented clams in my wake. We both came to a virtual stop, but only one of us also managed to make a bold metaphorical statement about mankind's callous indifference to nature. The point having been made, I plowed my way back to deeper water. Rob soon rejoined me. With an inexplicable holier-than-thou attitude, if I'm not mistaken.
We resumed our customary drafting arrangement, but I could tell that Rob's commitment to this relationship was flagging. Shortly thereafter he started straying off my preferred line, despite continued exhortations from behind. Hoping that perhaps he just needed some time to come to his senses, I gave Rob some lateral space. He apparently misinterpreted the directional bounds of his newfound freedom, instead insisting on also adding longitudinal distance between us. By the time we passed Conomo Point and rounded the bottom of Cross Island, he was two lengths ahead. When we cleared the top of the island several minutes later, Rob had extended his lead to a half-dozen lengths.
Heading back towards the river mouth along the shore of the island, we were now crossing a broad expanse of sandy-bottomed water only a few feet deep. Recalling from the Narrow River Race that my V14 was better in shallows than Rob's 560 (or, to be more precise, "sucked less"), I redoubled my efforts to close the gap in this stretch. It was calm enough that the progressively smaller transverse waves trailing obediently behind Rob were clearly visible. Starting from the 6th wake back, I managed to climb forward to the 2nd wake before my progress stalled back in deeper water. In an attempt to make further gains I tried varying my technique. Faster cadence. Exaggerated hip rotation. Samba syncopation. Having sowed my wild oats exploring these deviant paddling techniques, I discovered I was back home on good ole wake #6.
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| Sam's a solid paddler and a good guy and all, but mostly we want him around for PR purposes. He's 30 years younger and 75 points cooler than the average New England surfskier, but nobody else needs to know that. |
Clearly I also didn't have the might or fortitude to beat Rob. I'd have to rely upon my wits and wiles. That's admittedly a shallow well to draw from, but at least a mental battle was apt to hurt less than a physical one. Exiting the broader estuary for the river proper, I therefore decided my only hope was to out-navigate Rob. Perhaps I could escape the outgoing tide by paddling ridiculously close to the riverbank in search of eddies. You probably have serious doubts about this strategy given that I'd already run aground once. And your instincts wouldn't be wrong. Nobody had to pour water over my gills or pull me by the tail back into deeper water, but I can provide you with a detailed report on sediment strata based on empirical paddle sampling. These close encounters with the bottom had no impact on the outcome, but I document them to suggest otherwise to gullible readers.
While I was shaving the shores, Rob took a more sensible line back up the winding river - avoiding the brunt of the tidal current while still maintaining a safe operating depth. He finished in 47:24, a half-dozen boat lengths ahead of me. Ben, who had been forced into soloing the course after dropping off our draft, pulled in some moments later to claim the third spot. Leslie Chappell had little trouble in seizing her fourth consecutive crown on the Essex. The best race of the day, in the sense of being both the closest and the most, uh, let's say "strategic", was between the three doubles of Robin Francis & Phil Warner, Mary Beth & Phil Sachs, and Patty White & Chris Sherwood. Each boat held the lead at some point in the race, but they finished in the order listed above, all within 7 seconds of one another.
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| Would it have killed the photographer to use a wide angle lens here? Oh. He did? Well, maybe try a fisheye the next time. (Photo courtesy of Granite State Race Services). |
Thanks to the stalwart volunteers of the Cape Ann Rowing Club for making a return to Essex possible. The scene cuts back to Rhode Island for our next race this coming Saturday - Tim Dwyer's Battle of the Bay. Register (for free) at PaddleGuru. Tim asked me to remind everyone that the change of venue (from his home on Goat Island to Fort Adams State Park) was definitely not because his neighbors threatened legal action if he didn't "keep your degenerate friends out of our gazebos".
