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