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.