ICF World Championships: Last Chance

It's not every day that you get invited to compete in a world championship, but that's the enviable position I found myself in when my buddy/nemesis, Matt Drayer, told me he was going to the ICF Canoe Ocean Racing World Championships in Madeira, Portugal.  OK, that's not technically an invitation, but when I asked if I could tag along, he made the mistake of grimacing without also verbally forbidding it.  For the past couple of years, Matt has been tirelessly promoting surfski racing from within the bowels of the American Canoe Association (ACA).  In addition to establishing a nationwide point series (I'm currently ranked ridiculously high at #17, with Matt slightly ahead of me - two clear indications that the algorithm may need some tweaking), he was instrumental in greasing the skids for US paddlers to race at the 2024 Champs.

Keep in mind that a normal race report that encompasses a span of 4 hours or so, including pre- and post-race coverage, weighs in at, say, a dozen paragraphs.  If you're lucky.  We spent 8 days in Madeira, which means that I'd be legally justified in generating 576 paragraphs here.  So rather than moaning about the length (or lack of character development), maybe instead be thankful there's only 30.  Or just look at the pictures.

Like its more famous cousin, the Azores, the island of Madeira is an "Autonomous Region" of Portugal.  I'm not sure exactly what that term means, but based on the disappointing lack of debauchery I saw, it definitely doesn't provide residents with carte blanche to flout society's norms.  Scarcely 30 miles from end to end, Madeira lies several hundred miles off the coast of Morocco.  Up until the early 2000s, when Cristiano Ronaldo took over the mantle, its most famous export was Madeira wine - a sweet fortified wine (like sherry or port), more familiar in the states under its brand name, Robitussin.  The island's rugged and beautiful terrain has led at least one wit to call Hawaii the "Madeira of the Pacific".  Race headquarters would be in the capital city of Funchal, which is rests precariously on whatever flat land could be carved into the sides of the island's mountains.

The ACA selected a crack team of open water paddlers using a complex vetting procedure which, in retrospect, relied perhaps a little too heavily on the members being able to navigate ICF's Byzantine competitor requirements and the wherewithal to cough up enough cash for the trans-Atlantic trip (with, shockingly, absolutely no refund for the 400-some miles of ocean left before Africa).  Our eight-person team would consist of Nick Murray (MI), Zach Handler (MN), Jonathan Sanborn (MN), Greg Greene (WI), Borys Markin (HI), Matt (MA), Ana Swetish (WA), and myself (MA).  Jan Lupinski (NY) would actually be competing for his native Poland, but should he perform well enough, ACA agents would swoop in, throw Jan into the back of an unmarked van (with, I hope, more than necessary brutality), and whisk him back onto the American team.  Even counting only our sanctioned members, however, we had unimpeachable open water bona fides.  Collectively, we could claim podium finishes in the last 5 Gorge Downwind races, including wins in 2021 and 2024.  Given this pedigree, the US team had a legitimate chance at bringing home a world championship.

The first wave of Americans came in hot, with a real bad-ass vibe.

Race headquarters in Funchal.  Instead of focusing on the vibrant blue sea, the beautiful city sprawling up the slopes, or the bustling activity of the marina, you should probably be paying more attention to those yellow barriers, lest you smash your toes into one of them on Wednesday.

Admittedly, most of the pressure rested on the shoulders of 22 year old Ana.  Between the 7 men on the team, we could claim a modest number of top 50 Gorge finishes, but breaking the top 100 at the Worlds would be about the best we could hope for.  Given our elder status - ranging from "mature" to "over-ripe" - we had no choice but to focus on age-group placement.  Unfortunately, my efforts to convince the ICF to narrow those ranges to 3 month intervals were met with indifference.  So it'd have to be 55-59 for me.

Since Epic wasn't offering rentals in Madeira, I procured a Nelo 540 - a boat roughly comparable to my V10 Sport in stability, but considerably more spry in downwind conditions.  In the week preceding the trip, I borrowed a sample 540 from local paddler Andrew Metz, so that I wouldn't be going blind into the Champs.  I found it to be a fine ocean boat, although so nimble compared to my Epics that oversteering was an issue.  In one rough-water practice session, I stomped on the right rudder, snapped sideways, and completed three rolls before I realized I was out of the boat.

The day we left for Madeira on a red-eye, I competed in my own race (the Salem Sound Spectacular - get your tickets now for next year's extravaganza!) using the 540.  During this event, I was hit in the face with a paddle (my own, naturally), lost my GPS, and struggled to stay within the same time zone as the leader.  Perhaps this wasn't the ideal send-off for my first competitive foray into international waters, but I refused to read any ominous portents into the disastrous race.  Nor draw any empirically-based, rational conclusions about my general lack of preparedness to compete at the highest level.  So it was off to Madeira with high hopes and a buoyant heart!

Perhaps due to some misunderstanding about US geography, I was assigned to the Midwest barracks in Funchal.  Although the mattresses were standard military issue (that is to say, somewhere between "extra firm" and "concrete"), the accommodations were otherwise stunning - a modern six bedroom house with ocean views, numerous verandas and patios, a pool, and an inscrutable coffee machine.  I'd be sharing quarters with Nick, Greg, Zach, and Jon - a battle-hardened squad that had seen many raw recruits come and go.  They were understandably wary of  welcoming an embedded blogger into their midst, but given that the Sarge was an inveterate podcaster, I felt like I had a leg up.  Surely there was enough commonality between Nick's thoughtful examination of the sport and my hyperbolic confabulations to forge a brother-in-arms bond.  I also shared a deep connection with Greg - he is my business partner's wife's sister's husband's brother.  We had endless foxhole discussions of the one person in the middle of that chain whom we both would be able to pick out of a police line-up (which Mary Greene probably should have thought of before her Greg-specific crime spree).

Mary Beth and I arrived in Madeira on Sunday, on the same flight as Nick and Zach.  We proceeded to race headquarters at the marina to check-in and grab our rental boats.  Greg and his wife, Lori, would arrive a couple of hours later.  Jon was lost by baggage handlers and wouldn't end up reaching the island until Tuesday.  Everything went smoothly enough at HQ, but I was shaken by a terrible wonder I beheld in the launch staging area.  I'm speaking, of course, of a shirtless Gordan Harbrecht.  The soon-to-be World Champion (oops - spoiler alert) appeared to stand just north of 8 feet tall, with a physique ripped from mythology and the square-jawed visage of a Patagonia model.  I tried futilely to avert my eyes from the German's blinding aura, but instead remained mesmerized and slack-jawed - dumbfounded that we could even be the same species, let alone competing against one another in just a few days.  After a brief hospitalization, Mary Beth, of course, lapsed into a deep depression.

This was about as close as I could get to Gordan without suffering 3rd degree burns.

Nick, Zach, Greg, and I took our boats out for initial shake-downs - due to a limit of rental brand availability, none of us were in our usual skis.  Within minutes of departure, we found ourselves bouncing around in an amusement park ride courtesy of the side thrusters of an enormous Princess Cruise ship.  The 540 held up well.  We proceeded with an out-and-back run down the coast, during which I assessed my competition.  Oh sure, we were ostensibly on the same team.  And yeah, I did also really want to beat that one guy from Switzerland.  But let's face it, we all base our self worth 100% on how we stack up against our friends.  Based on past experience, my ego was about to take another big hit.  In my 3 years at the Gorge, I was a combined 1-16 in head-to-head match-ups with Team USA members.  In true downwind conditions, I was hands-down the worst.  However, at least in the upwind portion of this leisurely paddle, I wasn't embarrassing myself.  From this meager evidence, I took comfort.  Should race-day conditions be lousy, I might just avoid dead last.

For the next couple of days, we concentrated on exploring the natural wonders of Madeira.  Greg and Lori drew the short straws and were sentenced to ride in the backseat of my car.  In the best of circumstances, nobody would accuse me of having a "smooth" or "relaxed" driving style.  Give me a manual transmission and put me on roads that are so steep, narrow, and winding that a burro would balk at traversing them - that's a recipe for adventure.  And acute car sickness.  And a couple of cosmetic(ish) dings.  I may have gotten off on a tangent here (which, fortunately, I avoided while driving).  My point: We enjoyed several sensational hikes in the rugged landscape of Madeira.

Nick and Zach wanted to push for the summit, but we told them to save that pep for race day.

Matt's pretty used to getting out-Gregged by now.

On Wednesday, we got a chance to run the actual course - a 13 mile SSW run from Machico back to Funchal.  You often hear about buses plummeting over cliffs in mountainous countries, so to increase the chances that at least one American would make it to race day, we surreptitiously scheduled Greg for the afternoon shuttle while the rest of us unapologetically clambered onto the morning transport.  While the other guys opted for a light snack in Machico prior to the practice run, Jon and I hit the water immediately...  so that we could bob around for 20 minutes at the muster point a mile offshore.  When the safety boats finally gave us a green light, the downwind did not disappoint.

The offset between the wind and swell was around 30 degrees, providing skilled paddlers with ample options for linking runs.  I know this because I watched such paddlers immediately detach themselves from me.  Like an adorable pre-toddler pondering toddling, I'm at that awkward phase where I know what I should be doing, but lack the coordination, balance, and continence to fully implement my plans.  I had particular difficulty in gauging the precise level of effort required to catch a wave.  Too little, you waste the effort and miss the ride completely.  Obscenities follow.  Too much, you barrel down the face of the wave and bury your nose in the trough.  A brief rush of adrenalin, sure, but obscenities follow.  Just right - and I'm mostly speculating here - you perch just past the crest, haughtily surveying your heaving domain before charging towards your next ride.

Through shear happenstance, I occasionally found myself in the Goldilocks zone.  I managed several nicely linked runs that surpassed anything I'd previously achieved outside of the Gorge.  And even when I wasn't stumbling into success, conditions were favorable enough that I continued to move along smartly for the next 7 miles.  Papa Bear did once catch me napping in the wrong place, though.  I was unceremoniously dumped out of my ski after getting too fancy with my rudder footwork.  Having failed to properly secure my seat pad, sunscreen, and water bladder, it took some time to collect my belongings, but within a half-hour I was back on my way.  Unfortunately, the wind decided to stop cooperating shortly after this.  Within the course of a half-mile, the rideable waves evaporated, leaving a 5 mile upwind slog back to Funchal.  Despite the anti-climactic finish, I was left energized by the amazing downwind portion.

One of the great things about attending the Champs is that it gives world-class athletes (like Dawid Mocke) a chance to talk about funny YouTube videos with the hoi polloi.

When your elaborate Halloween costume backfires and someone mistakes you for the real thing...

On Thursday, the local paddling club sponsored a 2 mile triangular short race that started (and ended - because that's how triangles work) at the mouth of the marina.  Although dozens of paddlers had initially signed up, most wisely decided to forego an all-out sprint less than 24 hours prior to the Championship race.  Matt, Jan, and I weren't blessed with that kind of foresight.  With only 32 skis left in the men's race, however, I was in real danger of logging a DFL.  We're all anxious to get to the big event, so I'll skip the meat of this race and jump to the finish, with the three of us taking consecutive spots 27 through 29 (Matt, me, Jan).  Not exactly great, but also not last.

Matt would surely want me to add that he was surprised by the start while dorking around well behind the line.  He believes that makes it sound like he had a better race than the results indicate, whereas I believe it just makes him sound like a boob.

Because this was a World Championship event, there was a legitimate opening ceremony later that afternoon, complete with a parade of nations through the streets of Funchal.  Although some of us rolled our eyes at Matt's "suggestion" that we have matching USA apparel for the event (what, just me?) and feared the cringe factor of marching in a viewer-less parade, it turned out to be surprisingly cool.  We actually did have spectators, although I suspect that police preventing bewildered pedestrians from crossing through the procession accounted for roughly 99% of the muttering throng.  If for no other reason, the whole affair was worth it to see fair-weather-citizen Jan forced to stand in the sun behind the dais as Poland's flag bearer for an hour's worth of speeches by various officials.

Ana and the boys, ready to bring home glory (Ana) or bask in reflected glory (the boys).

Not realizing that the paparazzi's repeated calls of "Greg!  Greg!" weren't directed at him, poor Greg Greene got so tired from posing that he had to be carried to dinner.

With conditions expected to continue calming through the weekend, the race was scheduled for Friday rather than later in the 3-day race window.  In preparation for the Championships, Matt had assembled a world-class team of meteorologists, oceanographers, bathymetrists, hydrologists, and soothsayers.  Given the ACA's limited budget, he must have some titillating leverage over these experts (there were rumors of unholy acts with sea cucumbers in one instance), because rather than using their combined powers to predict global current and weather patterns, these unfortunate blackmail victims were providing hour-by-hour pin-point forecasts for the south coast of Madeira.  If there was a zephyr localized to an area the size of a tennis court, a ten-foot diameter back-eddy, or a sea god looking to recruit some new worshipers - Team USA would know about them.  With respect to that deity front, you gotta be careful - sometimes an albatross trying to mate with you is just an albatross trying to mate with you.  The consensus outlook was not promising.  We'd enjoy decent downwind conditions for several miles, but to perplexing factors such as nature and science, the majority of the race would likely be upwind and against a significant current. 

The next morning, we were shuttled to Machico several hours before the race start, which gave us plenty of time to pass through the accreditation checkpoint and then desperately search for shade.  I found one promising drainage culvert, but even aggressive paddle poking couldn't dislodge the original French claimants (Non, non!  Trouvez votre propre égout!).  Our team eventually established our own defensible beachhead against a shadowed wall.  With low expectations for my performance, I was feeling pretty relaxed as we whiled away the hours, occasionally snarling at potential shade invaders.

The excitement leading up to the race was almost palpable.

As fellow Bay Staters, Matt and I felt we needed a suitable moniker. We considered "Critical Mass" or "Weapons of Mass Destruction", but in the end went with the catchier "Two Gentlemen from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts".  Really rolls off the tongue.

Eventually it was time to launch.  The 12.8 mile course had us first heading straight offshore for a mile before turning southwest back towards Funchal.  There were 283 skis in the men's field, with an additional 76 women milling about awaiting their subsequent start.  Even with a starting line extending several hundred feet, maneuvering into position necessarily involved a lot of yelling and gesticulating at paddlers who were apparently hell-bent on boxing me out.  I finally elbowed my way into a third-tier post - far enough back to keep out of the way of the contenders, but close enough that I could make a credible claim that I raced against them.  The starting horn sounded before I had a chance to even survey my neighbors.

I was unprepared for the chaos that immediately enveloped me.  The paddlers in front of me had whipped the ocean to a boil, while those alongside were wide-eyed with panic, futilely trying to avoid my unpredictable lurches to the sides.  It was my first experience in Class III rapids, but I acquitted myself admirably - assuming success is measured by instilling enough fear in other boaters for them to provide a wide enough berth to thrash about in comfortably.  After the first minute or so, I mostly avoided additional paddle-paddle, paddle-boat, boat-boat, and paddle-paddler contact.  I don't recall any paddler-paddler contact, but I was surprised at one point to find myself chewing gum.

It was almost impossible to pick me out of the field...

...until I remembered to enable my boat's "highlight" feature.

When drafting, they always teach you to put your bow in the other guys bucket.

As we got closer to the downwind turn, the beam wind and waves increased.  It became increasingly difficult to hold a straight course, particularly with my short-and-sassy 540.  Fortunately, the density of boats was decreasing correspondingly, such that the peril of collision remained roughly constant.  I was nevertheless relieved when we finally reached the turn buoy.  With a swell in the 4-6 foot range and a 10 mph breeze at our back, conditions were excellent from my perspective, but certainly disappointing to the more experienced downwinders.

As the field around me hurtled ahead like starships engaging their warp drives, it quickly became obvious that the downwind phase would be one of damage control.  I couldn't stop the bleeding, but perhaps I could apply enough pressure on the ego to prevent utter demoralization.  I worked the waves with growing confidence, occasionally even settling into a groove.  Paddlers were still passing me and pulling away, but at least now I could make out their features - they weren't just streaks of color.  In a way, that was unfortunate, because I'm pretty sure I could now see them laughing at me.  So I was glad to see a friendly face a few minutes into the downwind.  The women had started several minutes after us, and Ana had already made up the gap - apparently in the lead.  I shouted encouragement as she coasted by, proud of my imaginary role as her sacrificial pace-setter.

Matt's crack squad of prognosticators had made it clear that we'd want to minimize our total distance by heading directly for the next point rather than chasing bigger waves further from shore.  Watching scores of skis pulling ahead while heading out to sea made it difficult to stick to an inside passage strategy, but I kept repeating my pride-shattering mantra: "It's only because they're far superior paddlers".  And, to mix things up, "You are to them as the possum is to the cougar".  I definitely need a new guru.  I stayed true to my goal, however.  And when, 5 miles into the race, the wind swung abruptly around to our faces and the opposing current kicked in, I was able to defiantly shout "Possum has become cougar!"  Fortunately, everyone was way too far ahead (and aside) to hear.

Here's a screenshot of the GPS tracking app 6 miles into the race.  I'm near the top in the center, with Jan and Jon in the jumbles below.  The leaders are currently 17 screen swipes ahead.

Theoretically, conditions had swung to my wheelhouse.  Although it defies logic, I've spent 90% of my career racing hours battling some combination of wind, waves, current, otters, tide, suckwater, seaweed, and fishing lines.  Even when some of those factors were technically helping me, I was still battling them.  This relentless and unjust adversity has turned me into a grinder.  While most view that as a pejorative term - a thinly veiled euphemism for someone with poor technique, but who petulantly refuses to either quit or improve - I see myself as a proud brand ambassador.  Grinders unite!  Today we would show our strength by performing ever-so-slightly better than we would in more technical conditions!  I'll admit, however, that it was difficult to maintain that sunny optimism when my gloomy Gus of a GPS insisted I was barely breaking 5 mph.

Progress was slow, but through dogged effort and, more importantly, considerable grumbling, I salmoned my way upstream towards the end.  After clearing the imposing Garuajau headland, the finish was finally visible, but still 3.5 miles away.  I had been seeing fewer and fewer competitors, but got a exquisite view of #209 as he passed close by with a couple of miles remaining.  My one chance to beat someone, now gone!  Over the next mile, I gradually resigned myself to finishing in last place.  But then, up ahead, I saw a poor soul floundering in a Fenn - clearly afflicted with a terminal case of balance fatigue.  Oh, blessed Gods!  This poor sap's misfortune would be my salvation, lifting me from my own Hell.  Even at his compromised pace, it took me 15 minutes to pass the Fenn, adding the heavy DFL burden to his own torment.  Newly energized (mentally, I mean - I didn't actually get any faster), I worked my way triumphantly around the final two buoys and into the marina to complete my race.

Exhausted, I bobbed among my fellow not-quite-last paddlers.  As the penultimate finisher, I was perplexed by the stream of racers that continued to cross the finish line behind me.  It took me a few moments, but with a jolt my worldview shifted.  I hadn't done that badly.  I was hardly a threat to Gordan (who, at 1:27:32, had finished almost 45 minutes ahead), but my 2:11:02 landed me at 210th of the 283 men who competed, and 7th of 18 in the 55-59 age group.  Although the conditions weren't particularly suited to her style, Ana was the clear stand-out of the Americans, finishing as the 3rd overall woman at 1:45:17.  The team order was: Ana, Borys, Zach, Nick, Matt, me, Greg, (Jan), Jonathan.

At the finish, my GPS watch informed me that my recovery time was 118 days.

Jan was such a hit at our house party that the Midwest squad politely retracted my honorary membership and awarded it to him.

Matt, of course, wants you to know that he was caught unprepared, well behind the line at the start.  Photographic evidence confirms his shocking claim.  He'd like me to also note that, despite his ongoing boob-ery, he beat me by 9 minutes.

We made the best of the two days we had remaining in Madeira, continuing to explore the natural wonders of the island.  On Saturday, we hosted the extended team for dinner at our house.  As with any gathering they attend, entertainment was provided by Jan and his wife, Renata.  Representing the US in an international competition (even if you put quotes around "representing" and add an asterisk disclaimer) was great.  But being able to share the experience with a gang of friends - old and new - that's what made it truly special.  Also, these really delicious cheese pastries we found.

Blackburn Challenge: Odyssey

When you've been paddling competitively for a certain number of years, the races tend to run together.  But the Blackburn Challenge always stands out in your memory.  And among those races, certain Blackburns are seared into our collective consciousness, universally referenced by simple monikers.  The Rough One.  The Hot One.  The One I Shouldn't Have Eaten a Huge Breakfast Burrito Right Before.  Nobody doubts that the 2024 Blackburn will be added to this pantheon.  I spent the better part of a day workshopping names involving cool terms like "atmospheric condensate" and "compromised visibility", but in the end, I settled for the lowest common denominator.  The Foggy One.

I've been on the Blackburn podium several times, but the top step has eluded me.  Every year I hope for the stars to align in my favor, but since the Cape Ann Rowing Club has repeatedly rejected my requests for veto power over registrants, I'm doomed to compete instead under the black cloud of misfortune.  This year I counted no less than 5 paddlers who would almost surely finish ahead of me.  This list contained 3 previous Blackburn winners - South African Ian Black (2019), Rob Jehn (2021, 2023), and Ed Joy (1996, 1998, 1999, 2001).  Other contenders for the crown included Rob Foley and Matt Drayer, both of whom have been force-feeding me humble pie this season.  I had also heard frightening things about young sprinter Sam Rhodes, although this would be his first ocean race.

At the captain's meeting, we reviewed the basics.  Racers would circumnavigate Cape Ann in a clockwise direction, starting in the Annisquam River and ending 19.5 miles later in Gloucester Harbor.  The skies were overcast, with 10-15 mph winds blowing from the southwest.  On a playful closing note, we were notified of a great white sighting along the course the previous day.  Opportunistic vendors at the launch made a killing on shark repellent, tourniquet kits, and blindfolds.  Once a dozen earlier waves had been launched down the Annisquam - including one with 7 double skis - the 24 singles lined up for our start.  After a lot of confusion about whether racer #45 was present (turns out I was), the starter sent us off.

I doubted that I could keep up with the leaders even for a few seconds, and that proved to be the case.  Ian, Ed, and Rob J made an early break, with Rob F in pursuit.  After a few minutes of jostling, Nick Robison, Sam, and I settled into the next chase group.  This was Nick's first ever race, and he had started paddling less than a year ago, but fortunately I wouldn't become aware of those demoralizing facts until afterwards.  I might also have felt a little guilty taking advantage of his generosity in pulling me (and Sam) for the first 10 minutes of the race.  Nope... that sounds nothing like me.  As we lined up for the final bend in the Annisquam, I swung left and moved past Nick and Sam.  Sam followed on my wash, but Nick took a different line and started to drop back.

The lead trio split into a duo, with Rob J chasing.  Sam and I were closing on Rob F, but we wouldn't catch him until leaving the river and passing the Annisquam light.  He hung with us for a while, but dropped off after a few moments - marshaling his resources for the long race, I imagined.  I had no such long-term strategy.  Which is probably why, for the next six miles, I did the majority of the pulling.  Sam's turns in the lead were noticeably faster than mine, but also much smarter (by which I mean: shorter).

With little wind on the north side of Cape Ann, I was getting a little toasty.  Relief was right around Halibut Point, however, as we started heading southeast across Sandy Bay towards the halfway point, a cool breeze now in our face.  Reaching the safety boat at Straitsmouth, we yelled out our numbers (actually, I yelled out Rob J's, hoping to get him DQed under the broad "Unspecified shenanigans" clause).  In return, we were met with frantic arm-waving and shouts that I couldn't quite make out.  Maybe "Your dog is dead!", which was technically true, but 40-odd years too late to be breaking news.

If they added a few intermediate postures, Sam and I could be the end points on one of those "Evolution of Man" diagrams.  (Photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)

Shortly thereafter, Sam warned me that Rob was catching us and that "there's also some creep lurking further back in a black boat".  That had all the earmarks of Matt.  Rob soon joined us.  With 12 miles under our belt, I still felt relatively fresh.  That is, until I realized that the difference between my 57 years and the combined lifetimes of Sam and Rob left enough extra time to produce a bottle of 12 year old scotch, some well-marbled blue cheese, and several seasons of a brooding Norwegian detective show.  I suspected that those spirited moppets might finish with slightly more vigor than I could muster.  After gamely hanging with them for the next mile or so, I watched the youngsters move ahead and dissolve into misty obscurity.  Given my advanced age, I wasn't particularly surprised at developing cataracts, but the sudden onset over the course of just a few minutes was slightly alarming.

It took me a moment (as would be expected in my dotage) to reconcile the warning shouted from the safety boat at Straitsmouth with my incipient blindness.  "Fog ahead!"  Both mental and physical, it seems.  I was soon enveloped in an otherworldly mist.  Unfortunately, the arrival of the fog coincided with the leg that required we navigate a 3 mile open stretch during which a straight-line path would leave us at least a half-mile from shore.  With shifting visibility in the 100 to 500 feet range, there'd be no landmarks for navigation.

We've had a number of fog-bound races in New England over the past decade, but those have been modest affairs where the loss of, say, ten percent of the field wouldn't raise a public outcry (particularly if one were to select those 1.7 missing paddlers carefully).  Should 20 people go AWOL, however, you can bet the Gloucester Times would have a field day with the debacle.  Some of the more prepared competitors had GPS waypoints or compasses to guide them.  Others wisely decided to hug the shoreline, knowingly adding nearly a mile to their circumnavigation in exchange for not being featured in the full-color In Memoriam insert.  And then there was the "How hard can it be?" crowd, who figured they could dead reckon a straight line through the limbo.

It should go without saying that I was an enthusiastic member of the know-nothing camp.  Fortunately, the misguided confidence in my navigational skills initially worked in my favor.  I missed the "turn off" at Lands End that would send me into open water, inadvertently following the shore for an extra 3/4 of a mile before heading out to sea.  This shifted the crossing closer to shore, which allowed me to use the distant sound of crashing breakers to my right as a guide.  And by keeping the incoming swell (from the southeast) on my left, I hoped to maintain a consistent southwest bearing.

Something they don't tell you about paddling in the fog (probably because they assume that the one thing they do tell you - don't - should be enough) is the amount of second guessing you'll experience.  Usually I decide on a course of action and then ride that decision to its inevitably disastrous outcome.  But now I would repeatedly say to myself (aloud, mind you, to help break the eeriness) "You've got the line now!", only to be convinced moments later that I'd be making landfall on a different continent.  Perhaps one that doesn't even exist in our normal space-time continuum.  This uncertainty also impacts motivation.  It's difficult to maintain a competitive drive when you're 90% sure you're paddling in the wrong direction.  Also, when you're already in purgatory, hard work and clean living are no longer going to earn you any credit.  Which helps explains all the swearing and boozing.

Like they always say, the camera adds 100 feet of visibility.  It felt even foggier than this.

I paddled alone through the void, no sign of fellow man.  Time was now without meaning, but at some "future" point the Back Shore of Gloucester loomed colorlessly into view.  I'd discover later that my open water path had been more EKG-like than you'd prefer, but in broad strokes you could describe it as linear.  I could now feel my way along the coast, making frequent course corrections to avoid a rocky end to the race.  I finally started to encounter other racers and/or spectral manifestations, materializing from the haze ahead.  I was tempted to test their corporeality by passing straight through one of them, but then remembered how difficult it is to remove ectoplasm from neoprene.

After turning one corner (maybe... who can tell?), I was surprised to see Sam and Rob emerge from the gloom.  Giving them the benefit of the doubt as to their physical reality, I assumed that they had squandered some of their zest in taking a longer open water path.  This hypothesis was bolstered by the fact that when I first saw them, the two paddlers were literally heading at right angles to one another.  I wondered for a moment if a lost child had been reported in the area - splitting up for such a search seemed the most likely explanation for such behavior.  Since Rob seemed to be paddling directly for shore (which was, granted, invisible) I decided to follow Sam.  With any luck, I'd be out of earshot by the time Rob met his doom.

Sam would have surely melted into the fog had he not been pathfinding - zigging right to find the shore, then zagging back to avoid the same.  A half-dozen lengths back, I could just make out his wandering silhouette, allowing me to average his deviations to an approximation of a straight line.  After an interminable span tailing Sam in this manner, the Dog Bar breakwater eventually appeared - an unmistakable milestone that would guide us to the entrance of Gloucester Harbor.  Without navigational challenges to slow him down, Sam started to pull away.

I was clinging onto fifth place entering the harbor, but was almost immediately knocked another notch down by Rob, who apparently had managed to avoid being shipwrecked.  With nearly two miles of open water separating the Dog Bar from the Greasy Pole, many racers once again had their heads in the (surface-level) clouds with no concrete target.  As Matt's GPS track later revealed, a few minutes later he would do a full loop within the harbor - disoriented and seasick.  I was fortunate to have a fading string of boats ahead.  Assuming that somewhere sufficiently further up the procession, someone could actually see the finish, our well-spaced fleet would also arrive there safely.  Of course, like a game of telephone, a few distortions were inevitable as the bearings were relayed visually down the line.  My track was vaguely sinusoidal, but got me safely to a 6th place finish without excessive meandering.

Ian had finished first, clocking in at 2:49:54.  Of course, as an aquatic demigod, he has celestial seafaring resources (no, not GPS - the mystical kind) unavailable to the rest of us.  Despite taking a longer coastal route, Ed and Rob finished only 6 and 7.5 minutes behind Ian, respectively, to claim the other podium spots.  Jean Kostelich defended her SS20+ women's title, with Emerson Yang taking the men's award in that category.  In their first ocean race, seasoned flatwater team Joel Pekosz & Chris Weaver destroyed the course, putting in the fastest time of the day at 2:45:23.  In the SS20+ double's race, Bernie Romanowski & Andrew Metz won as the fifth overall surfski.

Five-sixths of the SS20+ doubles podium.  Apprehensive about blowing his witness relocation cover, Igor opted to make himself scarce.

Of course, a race report wouldn't be complete without a well-composed photo of the winner.  That's Ian on the far left with the expressive eyes.

The typical post-Blackburn discussion topics - bad boat choices, funny hats worn by racers, the proletariat's role in post-industrial societies, etc. - were swept away by fog tales.  In the topsy-turvy world, competitors compared distances rather than times, with bragging rights secured by those with the longest trips.  The minority of well-prepared paddlers with GPS guidance were shunned by the clueless daredevils.  These sad pariahs stood mutely by as the rest of us swapped tales of staggering navigational incompetence and giggled over the outrageous tracks shared on our phones.  The median distance was probably in the 20.6 mile range (a mile and change longer than usual), but some intrepid explorers logged well over 22 miles.  Legendary waterman Dana Gaines, with 30+ Blackburns under his belt, showed off his skills by writing messages (in Greek, no less) with his GPS track.  Eli pioneered a new overland route via the sandy causeway linking Salt Island to the mainland - possibly setting himself up for a more extended portage from Good Harbor Beach to Gloucester Inner Harbor in 2025.  We were each Odysseus, searching endlessly for home.

OK, there was also some talk about Ed's ridiculous hat.

The inaugural Bay State Games Paddling Competition is up next this Sunday (July 21) at Wollaston Beach in Quincy, MA, but if you haven't already registered you're gonna have to settle for spectating.  Or, more likely, sleeping in.  However, you can still get in on the New England Paddlesports Championship (register at PaddleGuru) on Sunday, July 28.  This 12 mile course on the Connecticut River in Hinsdale, NH promises to be not only fun, but dangerously close to the excellent pubs across the river in Brattleboro.

Ride the Bull: Doubled Down

Somehow my name still appears as co-director of the Ride the Bull race, despite the repeated cease-and-desist letters sent to actual sole-director Tim Dwyer.  I could no longer afford the astronomical insurance premiums associated with sending paddlers careening back-and-forth amidst some of the most notoriously confused waters in New England.  If just one competitor splattered against the rocky coast, my priceless Hummel collection would be in real jeopardy.  Fortunately, conditions for this year were mostly benign.

Although a couple of intimidating registrants had bowed out - probably due to cowardice and/or an aversion to driving 3+ hours for a 75 minute race - the field was still rife with dangerous competition.  Since he clearly established himself as the regional Alpha at the Sakonnet last weekend, I now have to carry all of Matt Drayer's equipment, and I'm no longer allowed to meet his gaze.  However, even my Beta status was clearly on the line, with Tim Dwyer fresh off a Gamma finish, and perennial challengers John Hair and Jan Lupinski making for a veritable Greek salad of contenders.  There was also a wild card.  Although a Massachusetts native, youngster Rob Foley has been refining his abilities in Hawaii.  Like a migratory great white, he'll be prowling New England waters for the summer.  This would be our first chance to see how much carnage he'd be leaving in his wake.  In the doubles category, the formidable team of Mary Beth & Kirk Olsen would be giving the singles a run for their money.

Eager to avoid direct confrontation, I always taunt remotely.

I have to hand it to John.  A full hour before the race, he's priming us for a subsequent cramping excuse, wailing "My hammy!" and writhing theatrically.

I'd review the byzantine course with you, but as was the case when Tim attempted the same at the captains meeting, it would just end with tears of frustration, bitter recriminations, and a lot of indecipherable scribbles on scrap paper.  Suffice it to say that we'd be covering 8.8 miles over 2.2 laps of a roughly triangular course defined by an island in Mackerel Cove and bell cans G7 and G11.  I always tell fellow competitors that it's a foolish waste of a short life to get wound up in navigational details when you're paddling in such a spectacular setting.  And, you know what?  It's even more spectacular over there, which is not technically on the course, but you won't want to miss the view.

A fleet of 15 boats lined up in West Cove.  I was pleased to see several were toting their easels and oil paints, while others had opted for tripods and telephoto cameras.  With a light wind from the north and sunny skies, they'd have perfect conditions to capture the majesty of Narragansett Bay.  Tim soon counted us down.  I decided my best chance at a good start would be to expend at least 80% of my entire race energy quota in the first quarter mile.  That didn't put me out front or anything, but it at least kept me relevant.  Naively assuming that we wouldn't let him stray too far from the course, newcomer Rob wasn't afraid to take point from the get-go.  Jerry Madore, Tim, Matt, John, and I pursued.

What golden-tongued orator could command such rapt attention?

Tim.  Huh.  Maybe his co-director warmed up the crowd.

Two minutes into the race, a pecking order had already emerged.  Rob and Matt were clearly the cocks-of-the-walk, strutting away from the field.  With our dull plumage and bedraggled wattles (that's right, someone let turkeys into this mixed metaphor), the sorrier specimens started stringing out behind - me, John, Jan Lupinski, Tim, and Jerry.

By the time we had reached the first turn within Mackerel Cove, the lead had stretched to the better part of 10 lengths.  My vision of making up time in the beamy conditions to the G7 turn was not prophetic, nor was the "good feeling" I had after turning upwind for the subsequent leg.  I'd not be threatening to push Rob or Matt from the top of the podium, but at least I was a virtual lock for bronze.  That thought persisted for a solid 20 seconds after the G7 turn, at which point I noticed John's red-nosed Epic perhaps 20 seconds back on an inside line.

At the G11 turn, I verified that the Epic was now only a half-dozen lengths astern, with a dusky boat that could have only been Jan's about twice that distance again behind.  I made may way back towards the start, completing the first lap with the assistance of some small runners.  My unerring sense of hysteria should have been sufficient to verify that John was gaining steadily on me, but I nevertheless felt the need to goose my panic level by throwing quick half-glances behind.  With each hurried turn of my head, I confirmed that another half-length of my advantage had evaporated.  As I started the turn into Mackerel Cove, I glimpsed the bow of my tormentor pulling even with my bucket.  I could put it off no longer.  I turned my head completely to confront my demon face-to-face.  Hmm.  Odd.  Seemed like more face-to-face-face.  Where I expected to see the beastly visage of John (no offense, buddy), I instead saw the beatific countenance of my life partner.  And also Kirk - who himself has his own kind of non-John charm.  As you've probably surmised, my cursory scans had only registered the Epic-ness of my pursuer, while missing certain other superficial details.  In any event, I can truthfully say that I'd never before been so happy to see Mary Beth.  

Energized by my reprieve (because... out-of-class, out-of-mind), I matched the pace of the double for a while before they began to inexorably leave me behind.  At the Cove turn-around, I got a better view of my actual pursuers - Jan back the better part of a minute, with John several lengths behind him.  Over the next few miles, I concentrated on minimizing the disadvantage Mary Beth & Kirk were inflicting on me - a motivational gimmick that was largely responsible for keeping me ahead of my own pursuers.  I kept tabs on the latter at the turns, noting at some point that Jan had fallen behind John - weeds being one factor in this positional swap (if the be-weeded party is to be believed).

I'm told that "aloha" can be used as greeting or farewell - a duality that Rob exploited with clinical efficiency in his first area competition. (Photo courtesy of Andy Knight)

I often hold court after the race, regaling my loyal subjects with tales of derring-do.  Because these adventures often involve paddling in strong winds, many affectionately call me "Lord Blowhard".   (Photo courtesy of Andy Knight)

As we had feared, Rob made short work of the mild New England conditions to claim the crown at an even 1:15:00, although Matt kept him honest (and on course) by finishing less than 90 seconds behind.  Having little incentive (or ability) to push Matt, I cruised in another 275 seconds back.  If you do the math and round aggressively, that's only like 3 minutes behind the winner, so I'm pretty happy with my race.  Let's say that Mary Beth & Kirk finished "comfortably ahead" of me to take the doubles crown.

Thanks to Tim and, I suppose, to myself, for throwing a fine race with zero fatalities.  Next up is the Jamestown Double Beaver on June 29, run by Tim and only Tim.  Register at PaddleGuru (for free).  In an effort to promote tandems in this race, anyone paddling a double in the Double Beaver will be rewarded with 36% more fun for 23% less effort!  Your mileage may vary.

Sakonnet Surfski Race: Toil Rewarded

Ocean racing season doesn't officially open until Wesley Echols counts us down to the start of his Sakonnet River Race in Portsmouth, Rhode Island.  I've competed on the Sakonnet in a ski more times than I have any other race.  This would be my 13th iteration.  That got me thinking about the storied history of the race, so I visited the local library and used my journalist credentials ("I got a blog, see?")  to access to the archives.  After donning a pair of cotton gloves, I was allowed to leaf through yellowed copies of the Portsmouth Courier.  There, in sepia tones, were photos of the elder giants of our sport from the earliest days of the race.  Names like Dwyer, Grainger, and Chappell.  It sent chills down my spine to think that descendants of these storied paddlers - grandchildren, perhaps? - were registered to carry on the tradition in 2024.

There was no shortage of competition at this year's race, but I chose to focus on two recent rivals - Joel Pekosz and Matt Drayer.  Like a supervillain you keep enclosed in a copper sphere suspended by carbon fibers over a sea of lava to neutralize his powers, we've been vigilant in keeping Joel at least 100 miles from the ocean, lest the salt water cause his evil surfski skills to blossom to their full potential.  Here he was, though - peaked to bloom.  Matt and I have been battling for supremacy in our Tuesday night league for more than 10 years.  He shows no signs of giving up, despite my increasingly drastic acts of sabotage on his boat and safety equipment.  

As usual, Wesley monopolized his own Q&A session.  (Photo courtesy of Kendra Lassor)

Wesley briefed us on the 12.5 mile course.  From our start just before McCorrie Point, we'd head southward to the open ocean, passing Sandy Point and Black Point before angling towards Third Beach for our turn-around on mooring buoy 114 (which, in my mind at least, we were told was "literally impossible to miss").  Conditions at the start were calm, but with a 10-15 mph wind from the SW, might just liven once we mounted up.

Jerry Madore broke first off the line, followed closely by Chris Chappell and Tim Dwyer.  In an attempt to heed Wesley's dire warnings about the sand bar off McCorrie Point, the field crowded left, resulting in the kind of jostling you might expect in a log jam, not in a wide-open ocean race.  I was on the verge of standing astride a few boats to pry them apart when the bind resolved itself.  Joel and Matt had started at my pace, but quickly built momentum to pull into the lead.  By the time I had picked my way past the other paddlers, they enjoyed an advantage of several boat lengths.

Conditions had started out benign, but began to build as we progressed southward.  I caught the leaders and took turns drafting off them for a mile or so, until the three of us separated to take our preferred lines.  In my case, "preferred" makes my navigation sound a lot more reasoned than it actually was.  I couldn't decide whether to stay out to utilize the outgoing tide or tuck shoreward to escape the SW headwind, so I just followed my boat's lead.  The three of us pounded forward into an increasingly stiff breeze.

John and Emerson started out reluctant to join the pre-race hootenanny, but by the end they were a-hollering and knee-slapping with the rest of us.

Joel and Matt opened a gap on me, but I was able to limit their advantage to 6 or 8 boat lengths.  Nearing Black Point, Matt took a swim.  This wouldn't normally slow him down.  I've witnessed him remount without missing a stroke - much like a Mongol horseman raiding a village might lean over and scoop up a terrified toddler while simultaneously dispatching his father with a sabre.  Before you accuse me of anti-Mongol bias, you should know that the villagers really had it coming.  Just awful people.  And that boy was fully adopted into the Horde, despite missing a few fingers.  Look, you're swinging that sword around and grabbing up kids at a full gallop, accidents are gonna happen.  In this case, however, Matt's experimental new leash attachment put a hitch in his remount.  While he sorted things out, I toddled past over the liquid steppe.

The gradual turn into Third Beach apparently caught Joel by surprise.  He continued pursuing the tidal current on an outer line well past when he should have started angling shoreward.  Since he was too far away to hear any corrective suggestions, I found myself in the enviable position of being able to enjoy the navigational blunder of a fellow competitor without having to also feign guilt over failing to do anything about it.  Win-win.  Joel eventually noticed me pulling rightward and revised his course accordingly, but the extra distance traveled allowed me to move into the lead.

Within a few minutes, Joel pulled onto my draft.  Knowing that I was familiar with the course, he seemed content to follow me to the turn-around buoy.  A solid strategy in theory, but as Mary Beth is fond of saying - I never fail to disappoint.  If buoy 114 was actually out there (and most of the field assures me that it was), I couldn't find the elusive bastard.  I led Joel and Matt in a tour of the mooring field, eventually circling enough random buoys to achieve a 95% confidence that 114 was among them.  The next two paddlers (Chris and Eli Gallaudet) shared a similar adventure, after which Tim and subsequent paddlers keyed in on the correct target.

I've found that, more often than not, there's a marked asymmetry between the misery experienced during an upwind toil and the joy felt on the return trip.  You'd think that these reciprocal journeys would be in karmic balance - a zero-sum game of pleasure and pain - but I'm usually left substantially in the red after the exchange.  Today, however, the downwind leg didn't disappoint.  The first couple of miles after the turn were especially exhilarating, with well-formed waves cradling your boat along.

Early on our voyage back, I caught a glimpse of Joel much further out, back perhaps a half-dozen lengths.  Matt remained more elusive, but of his nearby lurking presence I had no doubt.  I continued to work the waves, occasionally linking together a few runs with a solid C performance.  If I can occasionally be described as "minimally proficient" without exaggeration, I'll take it.

Although the evidence is mostly circumstantial, it seems that around 8.5 miles into the race, Matt passed me to move into the lead.  He didn't slip by hidden along the shore or pass so wide he wasn't visible.  No, one moment he was behind and the next he was miraculously 10 lengths ahead of me.  And the next after that, 20 lengths.  From my backwards-facing video, I found a single frame that could conceivably be interpreted as showing the blur of a passing black boat, but that's the only indication that Matt's overtaking actually consisted of a continuous motion.  In the remaining third of the race, he'd increase his lead to more than 4 minutes.  By my calculations, this means he was traveling 17 miles per hour faster than me.

I asked Mary Beth if she was planning on doing a little gardening later.  She replied that this was exactly the kind of smartassery that leads her to paddle doubles with Chris, Bill, Kirk, Robin, Igor, etc. (Photo courtesy of Kendra Lassor)

I suspect Matt's high-speed pass left a vacuum in its wake, into which my confidence was suctioned away.  I started missing rideable waves, struggling to maintain pace, and questioning my line.  I resigned myself to being caught by Joel, who had surely witnessed this ego-thrashing and would be keen to exploit my depleted spirit.  Indeed, this would have been the case had he not succumbed to a case of late-race balance fatigue.  After navigating 10+ miles of lively seas with aplomb, he contracted a nasty case of the Wobbles and limped to the finish, dropping several places along the way.  He'll certainly build up an immunity, so I can't count on such luck in future races.

Of course, not knowing of Joel's struggles at the time, I spent my remaining race in white-knuckled panic.  Surely he would be passing at any moment.  I took some solace in the fact that at least a podium place was assured, since back at the turn there seemed to be no imminent threats.  Turns out I had been needlessly unconcerned about paddlers other than Joel.  Turning to look back after finishing, I was surprised to see a steady stream of competitors alarmingly close behind.  Third place was claimed by Tim (less than 30 seconds back), followed by Chris at roughly the same distance behind.  Mary Beth & Chris Sherwood claimed the double's title.  Given the challenging conditions, I was impressed by the overall level of competence and fitness exhibited by the field - nearly everyone finished within a tight 15 minute window.

Amazingly, Tim was also on the podium in the inaugural Sakonnet Race back in the 30s.  (Photo courtesy of Kendra Lassor)

Thanks to Wesley for throwing a wonderful race on his home course.  We're in the prime of Rhode Island race season now, with Ride the Bull this coming weekend (pre-register at PaddleGuru) and the Jamestown Double Beaver following two weeks later (also at PaddleGuru).  If you can only make just one of these two... well, I'd recommend you shuffle around your commitments to fit both in your schedule.

Run of the Charles: Back of the Pack

Many had given up the venerable Run of the Charles for dead after it went belly-up in 2020, but just like my pet goldfish Rodney, its bloated carcass turned out to actually be a pupal stage, from which a renewed Rodney emerged while I was at day camp.  The ROTC returned this year, and, just like Rodney, wasn't exactly how I remembered it, but nevertheless provided hours of entertainment.  Here's hoping the race doesn't also have to go through another half-dozen pupations (ending up, surprisingly, as a gerbil).

Including a few doubles, 21 skis would be competing in the 6 mile race - not quite as many as in the pre-COVID years, but a solid field to build on.  Coming off his dominant performance at the Narrow River Race a few weeks earlier, Mike Florio was practically crowned champion by dint of taking his boat off the car, but we'd make him run through the motions on the water.  I figured my primary competition would come from Joel Pekosz and Chris Chappell, although you never know who else might secretly be doing serious early-season training.  The course would have us heading downstream for a half mile, turning on the first bridge, then working 3 miles upstream to turn on an inflatable marker, finishing back where we started.  The weather was fine - sunny and in the mid 50s, with a light breeze.

I must have missed the memo.

I hadn't planned on missing the start of the race, but sometimes these things are simply beyond your control.  Sure, we were told multiple times that our heat would go off at 10:00 sharp.  And I had my watch set to provide verbal reminders of the impending start at regular intervals.  And, as I stepped out of the porta potty, a hooded crone whispered to me in dire tones that she saw tardiness in my future (and also, in the present, some toilet paper stuck to my foot).  But there were old friends to catch up with.  And I had to make multiple last-minute runs back to the car to retrieve forgotten items - seat pad, heart rate monitor, cup (you can never be too protected), etc.  These unavoidable delays put me at the tail end of the launch queue.  I adjusted my safety equipment on the water and was slowly paddling towards the start when the siren sounded.

Look to the person on your left.  Now look to your right.  If Greg is either of those people, then one of you three is going to miss the start of the race.

The more punctual members of the field were invisible to me at their start - hidden well over the horizon - so I can only speculate on what transpired.  However, I know as a certainty what didn't happen.  None of my erstwhile friends said "Wait, where's Greg?  Let's collectively hold up until we ascertain his whereabouts!"  Or, if one did, he was shouted down by craven opportunists looking to pick up a spot or two at my expense.  In any event, we know that not only did the cowards leave without me, but in fact everyone went out faster than usual in a kick-him-when-he's-down orgy of profiteering.

In the interminable span it took me to reach the starting line (yes, technically only 20 seconds, but I hadn't the chance to start my GPS, so time was literally at a standstill), apparently Mike jumped out to an early lead with Chris and Joel in pursuit, along with the double of Hank Thorburn & Joe Guglielmetti.  By the time I could make out individual paddlers, the field was starting to string out, with Mike pulling away.  Despite an effort some might described as Herculean (as in, "Just like Hercules, that guy has no clue how to paddle a kayak."), I started catching those paddlers who, weighed down by the guilt of abandoning me at the start, could no longer maintain a sprightly cadence.

What began as playful ribbing between Tim and Sean quickly escalated to a full-blown noogie fight.

Uh-oh.  Protect your heads!

Once you accept your misfortune, the psychological freedom provided by getting a late start can not be overstated.  All performance pressure is off.  You can't be expected to compete with such a handicap.  Not only do you begin some minutes behind everyone (and nobody can deny that 0.35 is "some"), but you miss out the all-important drafting phase, where you get hauled involuntarily along behind Mike at breakneck speed for the first 250 meters before getting spit off his wake - disoriented and whiplashed, but ahead of everyone else.  So you know that any position you can pick up is gravy.  And, more importantly, you can use the late start to gain sympathy from those you pass, while simultaneously demoralizing them.  For this to work, of course, you need to explain the situation.  Some exaggeration is to be expected.

Here's a typical conversation.

Me: Got started about 10 minutes late.

Victim: But it's only been 3 minutes since the start.

Me: Yeah, yeah, I'm moving along well today. 

Victim: But that doesn't make any sense.

Me: Huh?  Sorry, Doppler shift is making it difficult to understand you.

Victim: You sound just fine.  And you're barely inching past me.

Me: Inching... good one.  I'm using a falsetto voice to compensate.  Surprised you can still see me though.  Infrared vision? 

And so on.

Under the misapprehension that we were required to touch both shores of the Charles during our downriver turn, I ceded several lengths back to the field with an elegant arc best described as
"marginally curved".  Heading back upriver, however, I began to catch more paddlers.  Describing to each subsequent racer how I had still been driving down to the venue when the gun sounded, I slid by Matt Drayer, James Legrand, Tim Dwyer, and Wesley Echols.  At this point I was getting winded, so I pulled to the shore and ran to a Kinko's (in my fantasy world, it's still 1997) to have some 3x5 cards printed up with the details of my late start.  I stuck these under the bungies of subsequent boats to save myself further verbal exposition.  It was becoming increasingly difficult to catch those ahead, so I couldn't afford to waste words.

It took most of the remaining upriver leg to creep by Cliff Roach, Eli Gallaudet, and Chris Chappell.  Before the forthcoming turn buoy even became visible, I saw Mike cruising back towards the finish - several minutes ahead of a nominal chase group consisting of  Joel and Hank & Joe.  By the turn, it was clear that I was closing the gap on that pair of boats.  Over the course of the next mile, I worked my way onto Joel's stern draft.  I didn't really think I could beat him, but if only I could pull up another half-boat length, at least I could slip him my card.  Also, I might be able to get a glimpse of his stern on my backward-facing GoPro so that future generations would know that I was in the fight for silver.

Ignoring the fact that I was starting to hear a celestial choir while merely struggling to stay on Joel's draft, I pulled out of his slipstream to make a move.  The intense discomfort quickly ramped up to intolerable torment.  As I started to pass through the mortal veil, the choral vocals became more distinct, and unless there have been some serious quality control issues at the Pearly Gates, those weren't angels singing.  Sure, maybe I had been tricking rubes into thinking I started later than I actually had, but that hardly seemed sufficient for an obscenity-laced welcome from the infernal choir.  That guy I shivved while in the slammer, though - that probably didn't help my cause.  Since this wasn't a gold we were talking about, I decided that an eternity of suffering wasn't quite worth it.  I backed off and returned to Joel's wash, never even getting video evidence of my ill-favored push.

Knowing that I lacked proof that I was right on Joel's tail, my buddy really had me over a barrel. (Photo provided at exorbitant cost by Tim Hudyncia)

I continued to draft behind Joel, recovering from my brief foray into the nether realms.  With perhaps a half-mile remaining in the race, Hank & Joe opened a small lead on us, which inspired me to make one last stand of my own.  With the imagined notes of a cavalry bugle ringing in my ears (trying to silence that damned choir), I made a valiant charge.  Since my direct attack had been heroically rebuffed by Joel (or, as he might tell it, "fizzled pathetically with no intervention whatsoever on my part" - toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe), I'd have to try a different strategy.  My early Herculean effort had yielded some gains, but it was now time to go Pythagorean on the competition.  To that end, I applied all my expertise in geometry to navigate the final sweeping bend of the Charles.  Some may claim that I just "cut the corner" to shorten the distance, but those ignoramuses wouldn't know a hypotenuse from a hyperbolic secant.

Despite the meticulous planning, the best I can say of my maneuver is that I didn't actually lose ground to Joel.  I must have misinterpreted an axiom or something.  At one point I might have succeeded in overlapping Joel's boat, but by the finish he was clear of me by a half length.  Of course, we had both finished 4 and a half minutes behind Mike.  He had gotten so far ahead of the pack by mid-race that officials considered applying a "mercy rule" to terminate the race early and avoid further mass humiliation, but Florio had already holstered his ski and cleared town before the committee could take a vote.  Hank & Joe took the men's doubles crown, with Max Yasochka & Olga Sydorenko claiming the mixed title.  On the women's podium stood Leslie Chappell, Jean Kostelich, and Pam Browning.

I like this picture since it allow me to imagine myself just out of frame.  On the left, of course - I'm not completely delusional.  (Photo courtesy of Tim Hudyncia)

I've been told that I can no longer speak for everyone, but, to the last person, we deemed the resuscitated Run of the Charles a great success.

Traditionally the next meet of the season would be the Essex River Race, but that event has been on ice since the regrettable debauchery of 2022.  The drunkenness and nudity could (and definitely should) be overlooked, but the town board was fed up with all the supplemental tourist income.  And the abandoned livestock.  I'll instead be doing the 12 mile course at the Mystic River Herring Run and Paddle on May 19th - a surprisingly bucolic route that winds through some of the most notorious neighborhoods of Boston (namely, Somerville and Medford).  And, of course, the open water season starts with Wesley's Sakonnet Surfski Race on June 8th - returning to its ancestral home at McCorrie Point after years of tense negotiations there.  Don't forget your goats!