Sakonnet Surfski Race: Becalmed

The Sakonnet Surfski Race celebrated its 15th installment this past weekend.  This is the longest continuously operating surfski race in New England.  The youngest competitor this year, Sam Duffield, wasn't even born when the gun first fired on the Sakonnet.  Oops.  Might just have blown his cover with the Navy.  When Wesley Echols started the race way back 2008, who could have guessed that any of the competitors in that inaugural race would still be paddling today?  Now well into their twilight years, four such elder statesmen showed up this year, although only Wesley seemed to know exactly where he was.  

Several years back, Wesley and his neighbors convinced their town to restrict access to their local beach at McCorrie Point to only those with resident permits.  Unfortunately, not all paddlers got the memo that they were now persona non grata at the ancestral home of the Sakonnet race.  As a result, in early June of every year, the town constabulary has to extract neoprene-clad geezers stuck firmly in the razor wire and rake up the detritus left by those who made it as far as the mine field.  We probably have a few more years of safe access to the new venue at Island Park Beach before the inevitable lock-down on invasive species, but if you notice a red dot on your chest or a billowing yellow cloud of noxious gas heading your way - maybe just drop your boat and start running.

Tim's attempts to recruit new members to the Narragansett Paddle Drill Team were, once again, unsuccessful.

You can thank me later for cropping this photo in such a way that exactly what Igor just realized he forgot isn't explicit.

Although there was historically a "standard" course for the Sakonnet, varying weather conditions (and now the venue change) have necessitated frequent ad hoc changes.  At times, these revised directions have had the distinct feel of a scavenger hunt.  One year, the winner was the first paddler to return to the start after finding (1) a Clorox jug inscribed with the Sanskrit word for "fellowship", (2) a bobbing flock of Buffleheads ducks, and (3) a patch of floating seaweed in the shape of Poland.  So naturally I was suspicious when Wesley instead described this year's course with clinical precision.  We'd proceed 4.63 miles towards the mouth of the Sakonnet, turn on navigation buoy RN6, and return to the start.  I kept waiting for him to add "... and also circumnavigate the completely submerged wreck of the trawler Glory B", but he kept silent.  Doubtless he'd wait until just before the start to spring that course addendum on us.

With just a few days left until the race, it appeared that the entire field might earn spots on the podium.  By Saturday, however, our ranks had been swelled by procrastinators, impulse registrants, and parolees assigned to the paddle release program.  Twenty-one paddlers showed up, but since there were only 18 boats we played musical buckets to decide who had to double up.  We can't seem to move our races far enough from New Jersey to keep Rob Jehn from attending.  As winner of the last couple of races, he was naturally the favorite.  Matt Drayer was also competing.  I had recently beaten Matt in consecutive races in our Tuesday night league, but my margin of victory had shrunk alarmingly between the two.  Another 4 days worth of whatever super-soldier serum he's been taking might well make the difference here.

Since discovering that tattoo removal isn't covered by his insurance, Timmy has taken to passing the hat.

In our previous two races, I had clung desperately on Rob's draft until my grip gave way, then faded gradually behind in quiet despair.  I'd only been 15 to 20 seconds back at the finish, but the gap seemed so insurmountable it might as well have been 18 to 23.  Those earlier races had been contested in dead flat conditions, but any hope (unwarranted, granted) that the rougher water of the Sakonnet would mix things up were dashed by the forecast - a whispered breeze from the north at race start, dying to a preternatural calm (weird for the National Weather Service to phrase it that way, but whatever) midway through.  I therefore decided to just make a couple of tweaks to my tried-and-true "draft, fade, despair" strategy.  As we lined up for the start, I could barely contain my excitement at implementing the improved "draft longer, implode, despair" approach.

To maximize drafting time, I maneuvered to set myself up on Rob's port side as Wesley counted us down to the start.  He must of forgotten about the course adjustments.  The usual suspects - Chris Chappell, Tim Dwyer, Matt, and Rob - shot off the line, but this time I was dragged along with them.  Unaccustomed to the g-forces associated with such sudden acceleration, I blacked out briefly.  When I came to, I was still safely ensconced in the warm embrace of Rob's generosity, pulling away from the rest of the field.  It might have been a little warmer if I wasn't catching a paddle-scoop of water in the face every few seconds, but after the race I was happy to provide Rob with a few tips for maximizing my future comfort.

We continued peacefully in this mutually satisfactory manner.  The sea was so smooth that we'd occasionally see stripers finning at the surface ahead, darting away in a confused swirl at the last moment.  Rob made perfunctory efforts to shake me from time to time, but it was obvious that he wasn't seriously committed to these attack intervals.  He could hardly maintain his delusion of being in a competitive race if he dropped me so early.  I wish he would have made a little more effort to sell these break-out attempts, however.  Checking email while ostensibly sprinting?  Come on. On my part, I didn't bother with even a token show of trying to seize the lead (or take a turn pulling, as Rob might have worded it) - the most credulous audience would hardly have bought such a fiction. 

Halfway to the turn buoy, I sensed we had established an uneasy truce.  I'd keep on his draft so that Rob didn't have to admit to himself that he drove 5 hours for a cake walk, and he'd let me stay on that draft because he sensed the looming darkness of competitive irrelevance that lay in my future.  We'd carry on this pitiful charade until the buoy, at which point Rob would break our wispy bond of mutual deception.  And that's pretty much what happened.  Rob's Nelo gave him superior turning agility and his strength gave him superior acceleration.  There's no way I could keep with him.  At least, that was the rationalization I used for not gutting it out and fighting back to his draft immediately after being dropped.  

I took some solace in surveying the oncoming field as we headed back towards the start.  Rob had pulled me well clear of Matt, who in turn had opened up a solid lead on Tim.  For the first couple miles of the return trip, I managed to keep within a half-dozen lengths of Rob.  My planned implosion was disappointingly fade-like - my end came not with a fffwoomp, but with a whimper.  As I fell further back, I resorted to increasingly wild-eyed tactics.  I weaved to and fro searching for non-existent waves or tidal currents I could exploit to negate Rob's advantage.  I'm ashamed to admit that I grew so desperate that at one point I resorted to trying to paddle really hard.  Not my finest moment.

With a half-mile to go, I heard a tremendous splash just behind the bucket on the starboard side.  Despite any corroborating evidence from my other senses, and perhaps a little addled by lack of oxygen to the brain, I suspected that I had fallen out of the boat.  And on my weak remount side!  Fortunately, a quick head count revealed that all the crew were accounted for.  Apparently a large striper had taken offense at my trespassing through his domain and decided that retribution was in order.  The worst thing about being a fish, however, is that you lack convenient access to the judicial system.  That and gill worms.  Lacking any legal remedy against my incursion, he settled for a startling splash.

The capsize scare failed to quicken my heart rate - I am, after all, still around to write this - but it did provide a sufficient boost of adrenaline to see me through to the finish.  Rob had crossed the line 35 seconds earlier at 1:15:58.  Matt came in a few minutes later to claim the final podium spot, with Tim and John Redos taking 4th and 5th shortly after.  Leslie Chappell earned the women's title, while Bill Kuklinski & Kirk Olsen were the double's champions.

Bill placed 14th in the first Sakonnet race, but even while carrying a passenger, improved all the way to 5th this year!

Having survived the Great Kumquat Deluge of 2012, the odd banana peel doesn't phase Matt at all.

Thanks to Wesley for having us down for a fantastic day on the water.  We'll be back in Rhode Island on June 18th for Ride the Bull (no charge, but please register at PaddleGuru).  Some paddlers were disappointed that this year's calm Sakonnet didn't provide a suitable warm-up for the notoriously lively conditions at the Bull, but I think it'll make for a better consumer experience.  Would Friday the 13th have been any good if Jason made his first appearance skulking around basket weaving class in broad daylight?  No!  In his initial reveal, he's gotta be stabbing a counselor in the eye.  So buck up little campers!  You're in for a treat.