Battle of the Bay: Fine Line

You might think that a race held in a gated community situated on a semi-private island within the genteel city of Newport would attract only the finest breed of paddlers - athletes with refined tastes, ivy league degrees, and the highest standards of personal hygiene.  But maybe by chance you'd overhear at a polo tournament or yacht christening that Tim Dwyer was hosting the event in question.  And then, of course, you'd rush home to safeguard your valuables before the hoi polloi invaded.  For the second year, Tim would be running the Battle of the Bay from his home on Goat Island in the mouth of Newport Harbor.  Although the race is usually held in July, the postponement of the Essex River Race left a hole in the surfski season too big for an opportunistic race director to ignore.

Wary of the cold ocean temperatures and unpredictable May weather, Tim had originally planned a conservative course that would keep us mostly within Newport Harbor.  With nearly no wind and temperatures approaching 70, however, he made the race-day decision to revert to the triangular course from 2020.  We'd start at the southern end of Goat Island, head out to buoy R12, return to the northern end of Goat Island, and follow the harbor-side coast of the island back to the start.  Two laps would total just shy of 6 miles.

As befitted the boutique nature of a Newport race, the field was small but eclectic.  In addition to a smattering of locals and regulars, Rob Jehn and Megan Pfeiffer made the long trek from New Jersey, flatwater specialist Mark Wendolowski decided to see what all the salt water fuss was about, Gary Shaw joined us from South Africa (not just for the race - he also was dabbling as an engineer on a sailing yacht while in the area), and fellow swan-attack victim Jeff Tucker (with chipped gel coat to prove it).  My principal concern was Rob, who had beaten me a few weeks before on the Quaboag River.  He'd be in a V12 rather than his customary V10, but it didn't look like the conditions would make him regret that decision.  Based on his country of origin, I had concerns about Gary as well, but he assured me that he was out of shape.  Which is exactly what the lion tells the gullible springbok at the watering hole.

Even on the water, we're slaves to our screens.  (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

After a captain's meeting that focused primarily on the rich naval history of Newport ("So, in summary, watch out for unexploded torpedoes!"), we launched a modest fleet to prepare for our brand of maritime skirmish.  Making a rare concession to tactical thinking (or, if you want to quibble, common sense), I positioned myself near Rob for the start.  Taking the next logical step, I was quietly lashing my boat to his when Tim's countdown rudely interrupted my efforts.  Rob's start was solid, but I was able to stay close enough to get the benefit of his draft.  Just to our right, Gary also got off the line well.  The remainder of the lead group consisted of Tim D, Mark, Wesley, and Tim Hackett.

Within the first 30 seconds, my tenuous link to Rob started to fray.  To legally preserve my privileged position in the general vicinity of his stern draft, I loudly called out "Dibs!"  Apparently this sacrosanct protocol doesn't carry quite the same weight in South Africa as it does here, because Gary scarcely hesitated before sliding into my rightful drafting slot.  The nerve!  [My live-in editor, who wasn't at the race and has never even met Gary, somehow intuited that this might be a case of unwarranted indignation.  Under enhanced interrogation, I cracked and revealed that I had fallen back an honest boat length before Gary's move.  Still... Dibs!]

I debated between Gary's port and stern drafts, ultimately letting my flagging speed settle the argument in favor of the latter.  In retrospect, this mistake cost me the race.  That's what I like so much about retrospect - it need not align with reality to any significant degree.  I wouldn't be a bit surprised if there were elves, unicorns, and affordable healthcare in retrospect.  Here's how my particular alternative history would have played out.  On Gary's side draft (with a better view of the situation), I immediately detect when he starts to fall off of Rob.  A short half boat length surge is sufficient to secure a spot just behind Rob.  I implausibly stick with him in this position for the next 5.5 miles.  You might think in my manufactured vision that I'd then sprint by Rob at the finish, but it turns out that's not within even my fictional abilities.  No, I'd only win after aggressively ramming his stern and forcing him into a piling.  So, perhaps better that things played out as they did.  

I like to poke fun at Tim, but the truth is that he's the kind of guy that you want around when things get rough.  That is, the kind of guy that really puts a premium on visibility.  (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

I'm just out of the frame.  (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Although Gary stayed with Rob for a couple of minutes, he eventually was unable to maintain the leader's pace.  I pulled around him and made what at that time felt like an all-out effort to catch Rob.  Given that I've lived to write the tale, however, in retrospect it seems I could have put a little more heart into it.  That particular timeline has me suffering a stroke at mile 4 and being air-lifted to the only available in-network provider, just outside Dayton.  Interestingly, though, the pilot was an elf.

Despite my best (?) efforts, Rob remained out of reach.  At this point he could have put the nail in my coffin by pulling further ahead into uncatchable territory.  Instead, the sadist elected to prolong my death throes (coincidentally, the exact term a dumbfounded Sean Rice once used to describe my stroke) through a fiendish combination of offsetting ploys.  First, he dialed his velocity to approximately 2% greater than mine.  Then to counteract nearly all the gains this should have garnered, Rob charted the kind of erratic lines seldom seen outside of a Jackson Pollock painting.  Given that this was a point-to-point course with highly visible landmarks and no consequential current or wind effects, you'd be amazed at how many times I had to restrain myself from shouting out course adjustments to the leader.  Fortunately, my innate sense of underhandedness made it relatively easy to keep my trap shut in the face of Rob's questionable route decisions.  Against my better judgement, however, after the race I gave him a crash course in Euclidean geometry.  You know... how the shortest path between two points is a semi-circle - not the milder arcs he had been experimenting with.

So Rob would steadily pull away on each of the triangular legs, only to sacrifice much of that effort when we converged at the next vertex.  My hopes of catching him would wane and wax accordingly.  The net effect, however, was that Rob's lead grew incrementally.  Any hopes that V12 instability would trip him up were dashed by a dearth of boat traffic, as well as by his deft handling of those wakes we did encounter.  My spirits waxed gibbous one final time at the second turn at R12, but quickly descended again into shadow as Rob's unconventional line back towards Goat Island actually reaped dividends.  On that course he was better able to leverage the long swell from a massive cargo ship that had entered Narragansett Bay some minutes earlier.  With a little over a mile remaining, I reluctantly transitioned from the pursuit phase of the race to the face-saving "minimize the damage" phase.

Rob finished 42 seconds ahead of me - safely within the not-at-all-arbitrary 45 second threshold that  I decided would allow me to look him in the eyes afterwards.  I'm disregarding the 30 or so seconds he probably could have added to that gap with better navigation, of course.  Gary pulled in a few moments later to claim the final podium spot.  Megan took the women's crown in her inaugural New England race.  Will Bomar was the SUP champion.  Afterwards, we all enjoyed the fine day, with marvelous panoramic views of the growing activity in the bay.  Thanks to Tim for having us over.

The bonhomie is what keeps me coming back.  Goes great on a cracker with a dash of paprika. (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Safety first.  Despite the fact that the field was accounted for and on dry land, Dave remained suited up in case one of us needed rescue.  (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Next up is the Sakonnet Surfski Race on June 5.  After years of legal wrangling and ugly court battles, Wesley finally accepted a plea bargain, conceding that the former name ("Sakonnet River Race") comprised "grossly misleading nomenclature" that "willfully distorted the true nature of the venue".  To wit... it ain't a river.  Sadly, my broader case against the cartographers of the world remains unresolved.  Register at PaddleGuru.

Battle of the Bay: The Other Half

A key component of Rhode Island's virus mitigation plan has been restricting surfski races to one per month.  The legislature was thrilled that in addition to drastically reducing COVID transmission, this mandate has resulted in improved water quality, 70% fewer stabbings, and the virtual eradication of chlamydia.  For July, Tim Dwyer was cleared to run the Battle of the Bay.  Traditionally, this race is held in conjunction with instructional sessions by a Rice brother.  The opportunity to race against an international champion has always been a drawing carb (I beg of you, don't judge me by my worst pun).  For the first time ever, we'd have to soldier on without a top tier athlete.  In fact, we'd forego the first six or seven tiers.

Since the last Battle of the Bay, Tim had inexplicably passed the rigorous screening required to live within the private community on Goat Island - just a stone's throw from downtown Newport.  As could be read in the distrustful eyes of the other inhabitants, however, his acceptance among them was provisional at best.  Lest any undesirable associates of Tim slip into the compound, racers were subjected to extraordinary security measures at the front gate.  I couldn't argue with the logic behind the background check or extensive blood work, but was the hernia test really necessary?  I'm pretty sure that itself a COVID transmission vector.  Fortunately, the guard gave me a clean bill of health, stamped our papers, and ushered us into the inner sanctum.

Tim's all-garlic diet is tailor-made for social distancing.

A solid crew of a dozen or so paddlers assembled at the gazebo on the southern tip of the island.  I think.  I've been practicing extreme social distancing and forgot my glasses, so from 60 feet away it was difficult to make out individuals.  I spent a good twenty minutes talking with Jan Lupinski before realizing he was actually a fire hydrant.  Jan had registered for the last two races, but "got up too late" to make either.  Ever the softy, in actuality he probably just didn't have the stomach to bear my sobbing lamentations from behind him.  I expected my toughest competition would come from Tim and Kurt Hatem.  Tim had finished barely a half minute behind me at our only other race this season.  And as race chairman, he might well wield his absolute authority to assess arbitrary time penalties, capriciously DQ paddlers, or have rivals keel-hauled.  I wasn't sure of Kurt's fitness level, at least until he paddled nonchalantly into the venue from some undisclosed location over the horizon.  If nothing else, his mind game was impeccable.

We'd be paddling a two-lap triangular course totaling 6.1 miles.  This would be the sixth new course in the 7 year history of the race - sixth-and-a-half if you count Jan's free-form route improvisation from 2016 (taking Newport's rich jazz history to heart, evidently).  From the southern tip of Goat Island, we'd head northwest to bell buoy R12, where we'd turn east and head to the northern tip of Goat Island, finishing the lap by passing through the GI Tract (as the inner harbor is called, or at least, should be).  With a light breeze forecast, the only significant waves we'd likely see would be from boats.  Of course, given Narragansett maritime traffic, that's like telling someone there's no need to worry about killer bees... what with all the murder hornets around.  We'd also need some luck to avoid those swarms of sailboats that spontaneously appear in flash mob regattas.

Before every race Mary Beth and I like to get advice from our magic katydid, Cletus.

We told Tim that there was no need to set up accommodations for out-of-town paddlers, but he insisted that cashing in his 401k and selling a kidney was "no problem at all".

After a brief captain's meeting, we assembled on the water, and Tim counted us down to an orderly start.

Like an airline pilot prepping for take-off, I go through a pre-race equipment checklist before throttling up.  I can hear what you're thinking: "Then how come you always neglect to disengage the brakes first?"  Funny.  The brakes are off, smart ass, but you don't just drop the clutch on a finely calibrated transmission like this.  Anyway, the list.  Paddle at 214.5 cm and feathered to 60 degrees?  Check.  Footplate locked in place?  Check.  Pogies installed?  Check (hmm... might need to make some seasonal list adjustments).  Hydration system properly secured and positioned?  Hold on, let me... 3 ... just ... 2 ... put ... 1 ... uh-oh ... Go!  I'm not a big in-race drinker (which perhaps explains why the paramedics always have so much trouble finding a uncollapsed vein for the intravenous saline drip afterwards), but I like to take a few slugs before getting started.  If the water tube isn't readily available during the race, that's acceptable.  Not acceptable - a loose tube draped over my upper arm where every stroke sends it flying through a jaunty arc.  Although it would occasionally settle into a semi-stable position over my shoulder, the flapping tube was a repeated source of irritation.  It does liven up my GoPro video a little, I'll admit.

I got off to a good start, managing to keep Tim, Wesley, and Kurt abeam - as long as we stretch the definition to include even the minutest degree of overlap.  Plus maybe a few feet of gimme.  By halfway through the first leg, I had pulled into a tenuous lead.  As expected, there was a fair amount of boat chop in the Bay.  Occasionally a wake would line up in the direction you were heading, but roughly 90% of those potential rides would be contaminated by suspiciously coincidental counter-wakes.  I don't yet have enough concrete evidence to bring a class action suit against the power boaters of Rhode Island, but all the signs point to vast conspiracy to piss me off.  Huh.  Now that I think about it, there seem to be an abundance of such malicious players in my life.

As a good will gesture, I like to position my hydration tube so that anyone passing can take a quick sip.

Dave and his boat were well-primed for the race.  I can't wait to see the finished paint job.

I reached the first turn at clanging R12 several lengths ahead of Tim, followed in turn by Wesley, Kurt, and Forrest Horton.  I was pleasantly surprised to find a nice wave train heading my way back towards Goat Island, but quickly revised that opinion after discovering that I was being whisked along at all of 4 mph.  The fickle tide (someone should really try to nail down a schedule) had established a field of standing waves between the buoy and nearby Rose Island.  After a few moments of comical teetering, I managed to wallow myself out the other side and continue on back towards Newport.

Plunging into the north end of the GI Tract, I threw enough of a glance back to see that Tim and Kurt were in pursuit.  Not right on my tail, but close enough to qualify as nettlesome.  With the modest breeze now blocked by Goat Island, I realized just how warm the day was growing.  I couldn't wait to be expelled out the bottom end of the Tract back into the open Bay.  Starting the second lap, I was surprised at how much choppier it had gotten in the half-hour since the start.  Apparently once word of a paddle race got out, the locals wasted no time in mobilizing every craft in the motor pool.

The course was liberally spattered with moored and docked mega-yachts.  Despite his status as a recent immigrant to Newport, I assumed that Tim had applied his unique charms to provide us with access to these mobile comfort stations during the race.  A few palms greased, some tactical flattery, and perhaps a dash of casual blackmail and voila - we've got a half-dozen convenient sites to grab Gatorade, replenish our caviar stocks, and set up offshore account (to hide our race earnings).  There must have been some kind of misunderstanding, however, because when I tried to clamber onto the dive platform of one of the floating palaces for a quick pedicure, I was repeatedly beaten back by two nattily attired goons wielding riding crops.  When I saw one of them grabbing for a polo mallet, I decided I could live with unkempt feet.  Based on the fresh bouquet of orchids festooning Wesley's boat and Mary Beth's newly exfoliated skin after the race, it seems that other racers had better luck.

By the way, if Tim tries that greased palm trick with you, don't fall for it.  He's just trying to throw off your stroke.

At the second turn on R12, I saw that Kurt had broken away from Tim and was perhaps a minute or so behind.  Since our last visit, the tide had doubled down on the standing wave field.  I staggered drunkenly through without losing a man, but the harrowing experience compelled me to add a "Not suitable for younger viewers" tag to my YouTube video.  The remainder of the race was relatively uneventful, although by the end the pervasive smell of cooked flesh was making me ravenous.  I finished about a minute and a half ahead of Kurt, with Tim seizing the final podium step 30 seconds later.  Mary Beth took the women's crown (and sixth overall), with Robin Francis finishing second.

While Tim and Wesley laugh it up, Forrest quietly plots his revenge.  (Photo courtesy of Igor Yeremeev)

The new course was judged a worthy addition to the growing Battle of the Bay anthology, although that may just be the relaxing after-race bay-side gazebo-hang talking.  Many thanks to Tim for welcoming us to his exclusive enclave.

Through some odd tidal anomaly, you'll find that if you launch your ski anywhere in northeast coastal waters, within a week it'll be sucked into Narragansett Bay.  Since you'll be in Rhode Island anyway, why not race the Jamestown Double Beaver on August 8?  Please preregister at PaddleGuru so that Tim knows how many personalized race bonnets to make.  With the cancellation of the Nahant Bay Cup, this is the last ocean race in New England until late-September.  With that in mind, Jan would appreciate it if everyone would give him a 3:30 a.m. wake-up call on the 8th.

Battle of the Bay: O'ertaken

Once again, the Battle of the Bay fell within the mandatory blog blackout period following the Gorge Downwind Champs.  However, I'm assured that the Committee often turns a blind eye to brief race summaries provided that they "portray surfski paddlers in a positive light" and avoid ancillary alliteration.  Hardly seems worth writing anything under those conditions, but here goes.

While last year's race was hastily reorganized to a rip-roaring downwinder, with modest wind conditions we'd be reverting to a course similar to 2016's.  You may recall this as the route so distasteful to Jan Lupinski that he instead created his own alternative course, persisting for two laps even when it became obvious that nobody was following his lead.  From the dock of the Conanicut Yacht Club, we'd head out around buoy G11 near the House on the Rock, retreat up the bay to a stanchion of the Newport Bridge, return to G11, and finish back at the Yacht Club.  Assuming no detours, this would be about 6.25 miles.

Wesley really took Sean's recommendation to "keep his arms up" to heart.

I knew it.  They're pod people!

Attracted, no doubt, by the prospect of humiliating post-race novelty costumes, Sean Rice once again joined the Battle of the Bay.  To help cover his expenses, he also scheduled a few clinics and private lessons in Jamestown.  As in previous years, Sean would provide us with a sizable head start, then blow by us mid-course as if we were moored.

After the first wave start, Chris Laughlin and Jan quickly took the lead on an inside line.  Hoping to catch some of the outgoing tide, I stayed further out initially, but quickly revised my tactics and angled over to join the leaders.  By the time I caught them, Jan and Chris had switched places (but, showing little imagination, had remained in their own boats).  I pulled onto Jan's side wash, then slid back to his stern as Chris dropped off the pace.  We remained in this stable configuration, bucking a moderate headwind, until arriving at G11.

I had assumed that Jan would pull away during the subsequent downwind leg, but surprisingly I was able to maintain contact as we both enjoyed some decent runners heading toward the Newport Bridge.  With our speed matching that of the wind, the warmth and humidity of the day became increasingly apparent.  I was just starting to build an unhealthy dread of having to duel Jan for the remainder of the race in these muggy conditions when I unexpectedly caught and passed him.  At first I figured that I must have surged ahead on a fluke run, but as I continued downwind to the turn-around abutment, I realized that Jan had fallen well back.  As it would turn out, he had imploded in the heat.

Presenting a strong finish requires perfect synchrony with the photographer.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Sad Jan makes me question the existence of God.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

I spent the remainder of the race awaiting to be passed by the one-man second wave.  Of course, I wasn't disappointed.  With a half-mile to go, I spotted Sean overtaking me on an outside line.  He would ultimately beat me by 8 minutes in what was for him only a 45 minute race.  So I still have a little room for improvement.  Jan would finish third with hard-charging Kurt Hatem (who had overtaken a heat-flagging Chris on the final leg).  Mary Beth nabbed the top women's spot.

Despite years of studying their ways, Greg could never truly pass as human.

The remainder of the day was spent grabbing lunch at Spinnaker's, watching boats from the cliffs of Fort Wetherill (hold on a second - is that Kurt doing out-and-backs after racing in the morning and then attending Sean's afternoon clinic?), and enjoying a lively group dinner at Tim's.  The next day we'd again get schooled by Sean, this time in his all-day clinic.  Thanks to Tim and Alyce for hosting the festivities and to Sean for slumming it with us in good cheer.

I still can't paddle worth a damn, but my rotator cuff was miraculously healed.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Battles of the Bay: Sean vs Us vs Jan

As all New England paddlers know, Jamestown is the heart of the New England surfski scene.  This is home to three open-water races, the Dwyer family, and the best black raspberry milkshakes in the greater Narragansett region (I was a bit off my game this year, only logging 3 for the weekend).  For the second year running, Tim would be hosting 2014 world champion Sean Rice, who'd be racing in the Battle of the Bay and holding several clinics.  Like moths to a flame, the lure of Sean's brilliance drew us once again to Rhode Island, despite our solemn vows to boycott the Ocean State in protest of its disproportionate representation in the US Senate (and, of course, its aggressive pest spraying program).

Mary Beth and I arrived in Jamestown Friday afternoon so that I could take a private lesson with Sean.  I had asked MB to spend the drive down criticizing my technique, hoping that this would  inure me to any harsh judgments made during the session.  In retrospect, I should have been more specific about the critical domain - seems that I need a lot of work across the board.  Despite finding  serious flaws in what he diplomatically referred to as my "crazy paddle thrashing", Sean was a patient teacher.  With his recommendations for improving my stroke seeded in my brain, it's safe to say I will not be a competitive threat in the future.  I just hoped I could prevent these suggestions from germinating before the Battle.

We spent a pleasant evening in Jamestown before retiring at the Dwyer's.  We slept on an air mattress which was also legally classified as a trampoline in 36 states, meaning that any time one of us moved during the night, the other was in danger of being tossed like a rag-doll into the ceiling fan.  Despite some contusions and a couple of lost toes (if they turn up, Tim or Alyce, they'd make great keepsakes of our visit), I awoke refreshed and looking forward to my first milkshake of the day.  Soon after, we headed down to Bay Voyage Beach for the race.

John and Jim drove from Western New York expressly to demonstrate to Tim Hudyncia that Worcester is not "inland". 

I should point out that Mary Beth and I had brought the air mattress with us.  And apologize to any of our own guests who might have spent a fitful night dreaming of free fall.

After getting a taste of the ocean at the Blackburn (despite being warned of the consequences), Jim Mallory and John Hair joined us again from Rochester to top off their electrolytes.  As a native myself, it was nice to reminisce about the Fast Ferry ("Rochester to Toronto in just two... Hey, where did our boat go?"), to agree that Kodak was "just about to turn the corner", and to rail against Buffalo for stealing our god-given 716 area code.  The remainder of the field was composed mostly of paddlers who had been unable to find their way off the island after last week's Double Beaver.

In honor of the Olympics, Jan started us off the day with a rousing rendition of the national anthem.  On a roll, he continued with a medley of 80's era Polish commercial jingles and closed with "Single Girl".

The traditional Battle of the Bay course loops across the bay to Newport and back.  However, the brisk southerly winds would have made this route a little more demanding than Tim thought appropriate for Sean.  Despite living in the Golden Age of Cartography, it took us twice as long to devise a simple alternative than it did to actually paddle it.  In our defense, most of that time was spent fruitlessly trying to find Jamestown in Penobscot Bay (with a break to watch some baby sloth videos, naturally).  In the end, Tim settled on a route that would limit our cross-wind exposure while providing a couple of downwind legs.

Tim walked us through the revised course, although it was hard to understand him once we got into deeper water.  From the Conanicut Yacht Club pier, we'd head upwind 1.4 miles to buoy G11 (which, rumor has it, is vying for a pivotal role in the next Star Wars movie), downwind 1.6 miles to a concrete stanchion of the Newport Bridge, back to G11 (oddly, 3.5 miles in the upwind direction), back to the stanchion, and end back at the pier.  Wesley - who had been inappropriately giddy at the prospect of spending half the race in challenging beam conditions - appeared despondent about the change.  Others unclenched and wept with relief.

Apparently it's still too soon for Bernie jokes.

Unlike the start of last week's Double Beaver, in which we couldn't see the ocean for the weeds, we had clear sailing at the outset of the Battle (which I still think should have disqualified Joe Shaw and Bob Wright, but whatever).  My own start was even more gradual than usual, as I had to wait for Tim Hudyncia to finish strutting diagonally in front of me before I could even move (he'd later get plenty of fretting in too, stretching his allocated hour to an hour-and-a-quarter).  Slowly picking my way through mooring balls and competitors, I eventually took the lead of the first wave.  The second wave would consist of Sean.  He'd start several minutes later, but would surely sweep over us by mid-race.

Jim's role in this production was clearly described in the script.  The race director had cast him as the cocky flat-water specialist that would get his well-deserved comeuppance in the angry sea.  Jim had botched a similar part in last year's Casco Bay Challenge (by winning) and his take on cockiness was coming across more as affability, but apparently he's related to the executive producer or something.  In any event, halfway to G11 it was obvious that he was going rogue again.  Despite getting bounced around paddling into the chop, he was sticking tightly on my stern draft, while the stage directions had him capsizing (and disappearing through a trapdoor - it would have been a magical effect).

Having assumed that I was safely in the lead, it was with some disappointment that I noticed Jan had slipped by on an outside line.  As an excellent upwind grinder and a solid downwind paddler (whereas my downwind skills are gelatinous, at best), he was going to be a real threat - 98% of this course was either upwind or downwind.  Jan arrived at G11 a couple of boat lengths ahead of me, with Jim still right on my tail.  I had hoped that once we entered the downwind portion of the race, I'd be able to exploit the latter's relative inexperience.  Sure enough, I was able to catch a few nice runners immediately after the turn and pull free from Jim.

Caught in the middle of a phase shift while rounding G11.

Jan seemed to be taking a very wide line to the designated bridge stanchion, but I figured he must have found some righteous waves to surf out further in the channel.   Fighting the urge to follow the dude, I kept working back to the left to stay on line for the next turn.  After a few minutes of this, I lost track of Jan.  It was the last anyone would see of him.  Arriving at the concrete support, I spotted three boats making the turn behind me - Jim, Sean, and a non-Jan mystery paddler.

The upwind leg back to G11 was uneventful.  Sean, who had started 5 minutes after the "plodders" (as I imagine he calls us when we're not looking), was courteous enough to cruise by at a significant lateral distance away.  Any closer and the pressure wave he pushes ahead of him might have shattered my eardrums as he passed.  After turning on the buoy, I got an oblong look at my closest pursuer, but couldn't make out who it was.  Didn't seem to be Jim, though.

The second downwind leg wasn't as productive as the first, since the fickle tide had now fully turned against us.  But, as the saying goes, even the worst downwind is better than the best broccoli.  While I struggled to get into a rhythm, Sean gave a free clinic on how to milk every runner.  Ahead by twenty lengths at the turn (plus the 150 or so he had spotted us), he put his awesome abilities into perspective by swiftly receding to the vanishing point.

I managed to sneak in a chuckle at the last moment, but John almost managed to get the last laugh.

I eventually followed Sean around the stanchion for the final turn and made the short trip back to the Yacht Club to finish in second at 58:34 - only 9 minutes behind the winner.  Moments later, my anonymous stalker was revealed to be John - an impressive showing for a paddler without much time on the ocean.  However, as I watched him weave through the moored boats, I saw Jan angling in from a completely different direction to nip John at the line.  Comparing notes, we determined that Jan had been paddling the alternative alternative Battle of the Bay course, turning twice on the wrong concrete stanchion.  He had traveled slightly (100 meters) farther overall, but graciously DQ'ed himself.  At least, that's how I interpreted his excited shouts of "Third place!  Third place!" - as a congratulatory shout out to John.

As any ethnographer will tell you, ritual humiliation is an essential component of indoctrination ceremonies in primitive cultures.  They generally don't use the loaded word "primitive" nowadays, but in this case, I think they'd make an exception.

Despite losing ground on the downwind legs to more experienced ocean paddlers, Jim managed to hammer through the upwind portions, finishing just ahead of Tim to take the final first wave podium spot.  Tim was followed by Joe Shaw, Bob Capellini, Andy Knight, and Bob Wright.  Although there were a few DNFs (primarily of the "Ugh.  It's not worth the second lap upwind effort." variety), most seemed pleased with the revised Battle of Jamestown Harbor.

Once Tim had bestowed inflatable awards upon the winners (not as fun as you might hope), the afternoon was spent on milkshakes, discussion of future races, and discussion of future milkshakes. After a leisurely dinner at Simpatico ("Largely skunk-free since 2013!"), we retired to the Dwyer House again to rest up (and down, and up, and down) for Sunday's all-day clinic with Sean.

Sean's beginner clinic focused mostly on the importance of humbly deflecting praise in a charming accent.

The next morning's session consisted of land-based instruction, drafting practice, discovering how inept we were at fundamental drills, and pestering Sean with incessant questions (mostly about South African wildlife).  With winds building from the southwest, we relocated to Fort Wetherill for the afternoon.  Sean outlined downwind techniques and strategies, at one point commenting that if you had to brace for balance more than once every ten minutes during a downwind run, you should be in a more stable boat.  I wanted to ask the limit on falling out of the boat, but was afraid I wouldn't much like his answer.  I decided to just classify that maneuver as a full-body brace.  Once per ten minutes?  I could probably manage better than that in the V10.

My appearance at breakfast didn't evoke the joyful ovation that the Dwyer House Yelp reviews had led me to expect.

After the instruction, we enjoyed some rewarding out-and-back downwind runs.  Although there was some slop mixed into the more ordered waves, I managed a few excellent rides and a couple of spectacular full-body braces (which, unfortunately, Sean didn't see - I think the South African judge would have given me high marks).  Tim claimed that the downwind conditions were pitiful.  Jaded by his recent experience at the Gorge, if a tsunami swept through New England and carried him and his V10L clear to Ohio, Tim would spit on the still-damp ground and complain about the lack of a shuttle back to the start.

Despite his churlish stand on New England paddling conditions, Tim deserves our gratitude for all the work he put into a great surfski weekend - hosting Sean, putting up a passel of paddlers, organizing the race, supplying equipment to literacy-impaired beginner clinic participants, buttering up Alyce, etc.  Thanks as well to Alyce, Finn, and Gaelyn for enduring a full 48 hours of non-stop paddling talk and unsavory types traipsing through their home.

Some of us are off to the USCA Marathon Nationals this Friday, where surfskis and ICF boats will combine in the unholy amalgam known as the Unlimited K1 class.  After all my (good-natured!) gibes at the expense of flatwater paddlers, I fear retribution may be at hand.  Those guys have no sense of humor.

Battle of the Bay (Featuring Sean Rice)

Nobody can deny that Rhode Island has a proud history worthy of appreciation.  Crafting a full-fledged state out of a forgotten parcel small enough to be written off as a surveying error?  A real credit to Yankee ingenuity.  Let's say on that basis that Rhode Island merits a couple of surfski races a year.  As the honorary ski capital of the region, it was granted a third race.  A coalition of Rhodies greased the right palms and somehow obtained a fourth race.  Not quite fair, but you gotta admire their gumption.

Recognizing that no rational paddler would consent to a fifth surfski race in Rhode Island without some additional incentive (what with hapless Connecticut starving right next door), Tim Dwyer sweetened the pot by somehow tricking defending world champion Sean Rice into racing with us.  Coincidentally, Tim would also be hosting Sean (and his partner Emily) for two sold-out weekend clinics.  Padawan Jesse Lishchuk would also be attending the festivities.

During the captains meeting Sean sized up the competition, but even that didn't help us.

The weekend's race was formerly called "Rose Island Lighthouse Battle of the Bay", but too many people were dozing off before getting to the end.  Now it's just "Battle of the Bay".  We'll be cutting out 3 more words from the name each subsequent year, so vote now for which one word you'd like to remain next year (I'm throwing my weight behind "Of") and start thinking about which two words we'll be removing from the English language when we go negative in 2017.

The course was to be a 5.3 mile loop that would take us across the bay around the north end of Rose Island, through Newport Harbor inside of Goat Island, back across the bay to Clingstone, and returning to the Yacht Club.  With some bouncy chop, two busy channel crossings, and the old-money decadence of Newport, we'd experience a full range of conditions in our short journey.  To give us ample opportunity to be humbled mid-race by their superior skills, Sean and Jesse would give us more seasoned paddlers a head start (of 5 and 3 minutes, respectively).

Once everyone had met the new kid and listened attentively as Tim reviewed the rudder-shredding perils that awaited us if we failed to keep the rusty steel ball to our right, we paddled out for a start into the quartering waves.  True to form, Andrius Zinkevichus and Jan Lupinski took the early lead on parallel tracks.  I climbed my way past Wesley, Tim D, and Joe Shaw to move into third position.  From there it was a long jump to catch Andrius, but a menacing sailboat provided precisely the boost of terror I needed to bridge the gap.

By the time we reached the rusty steel ball, I had pulled into the lead, with Jan and Andrius trailing by a couple of boat lengths.  The run to Goat Island was largely downwind, with some kiddie rides available for a small fee.  I noticed Jan well off to my starboard, obviously looking for a way to cut to the front of the line.  He didn't seem to be gaining ground, so I stayed my more direct course.

A quarter mile before reaching Goat Island, Jan slid in unexpectedly from the left and latched onto my port bow wake with an audible click.  Apparently he had found the loophole he had been searching for.  The champagne and caviar I had packed in expectation of a leisurely sight-seeing cruise through Newport Harbor were going to have to wait.  This would be grueling.

Nobody has more naked disdain for stand up paddlers than Tim, so I wasn't surprised to find that he had scheduled our race to coincide with a SUP race around Goat Island.  If we "accidentally" thinned out their herd when we crossed paths, Tim would shed no tears.  Jan and I sliced through the lead pack of shuffling water zombies, careful to evade their highly contagious marketing hype so as to avoid finding ourselves balanced precariously on a 14' slab with a cooler of beer behind us.  At our race after-party nobody called me "brah" or "dude", so it looks like we all made it through unscathed.

Uh-oh.  Could be that it's really Tim's antiSUPism that's dangerously infectious.

The trip through Newport Harbor was unexpectedly lucrative.  Apparently thinking that nobody would intentionally captain such insubstantial craft (powered by hand levers, no less!), several philanthropically-minded mega-yacht owners took us for beggars and tossed silver dollars and junk bonds into our footwells.  Some less compassionate aristocrats threatened to call the gendarmes, however, so I didn't tarry.  In my haste to escape the exclusive harbor, I managed to gap Jan.

The beamy waves on the crossing back toward Clingstone meant that I daresn't chance a peek back  to check for stalkers, lest I tumble from my steed (sorry - the Newport influence).  As I rounded buoy G11 near Clingstone to turn for home, however, I did catch a glimpse of Jan about a half-minute behind.  I searched gropingly for a higher gear, but the grinding sound and cloud of smoke issuing from my transmission indicated that I'd be lucky if I could keep it in first.

Even though Sean had given us a five minute head start, there was little doubt that he would catch me before the finish.  Long before I could see him, I felt a reassuring warmth on my back that could only be the aura of approaching greatness.  Halfway between G11 and the Yacht Club, the nose of his Uno Max surged into my periphery.  I tried to avert my eyes, as we had been taught, but he exploded into my field of view so quickly that I couldn't shift my gaze in time.  The full splendor of the reigning world champion remains imprinted on my retinas (which, I'll admit, has proven a bit distracting when trying to get a good look at the sun).

Sean offered no words of encouragement as he passed.  A simple "Wow!  I didn't know Dawid and Jasper had another brother!" would have been nice.  I'm not sure Sean even noticed me.  He wasn't a fellow competitor.  This was a steely-eyed pro doing a training session that just happened to coincide with our race.  Based on his measured cadence and lack of apparent effort, Sean was warming down by the time he reached me.  Of course, this didn't stop him from streaking by like a well-oiled springbok.  I suggested to myself that we hop on Sean's draft, which had us both rolling in the bucket with laughter.

With tears still in my eyes, I made it back to the Yacht Club a minute or so behind Sean.  Although I was the second to cross the finish line, Jesse's corrected time was more than a minute better than mine, dropping me to the final podium step.  Jan and Joe Shaw comprised the rest of the top five (or the mortal top three).  Mary Beth once again was in a class by herself.

After lunch at Spinnakers, Tim compelled the top finishers to don inflatable novelty hats (whispering to Sean that it would be perceived as an insult to the natives if he refused) and pose for blackmail photos.  Once that indignity was out of the way, Sean was able to start his Saturday clinic at Bay Voyage Beach.  Not invited to that particular party, Bruce, Jan, and I leaned back on the grills of our nearby cars and coolly mocked the goody two-shoes students to mask our disappointment and shame.

As always, Mary Beth is blissfully unaware of the mayhem that she leaves in her wake.

Overflowing with energy from the cheese-slathered and bacon-laden sandwich I had wolfed down earlier, I soon made the cholesterol-muddled decision to take another paddle.  I was hoping to catch some good runs from the northerly breeze, so I powered five miles through upwind slop (supplemented by a generous helping of wakes from boats passing unnecessarily close) to the end of Conanicut Island.  Exhausted by this effort and the morning's race, my "run" back to Jamestown would better be characterized as a "limply assisted drift".  Fortunately, I eventually washed up to shore close to the Yacht Club.  If any oceanographers out there are interested in my GPS track for Narragansett Bay current analysis, let me know.

We congregated at Tim's for a post-clinic relaxation session on his front porch, where Sean and Emily graciously fielded an endless barrage of questions about their travels, other elite-level paddlers, and what it's like to hike unassisted across Siberia.  I'm not convinced that Joe Shaw knew exactly who Sean was.  We then enjoyed a delicious dinner cooked up by Alyce, Gaelyn, and Tim, supplemented by a work-of-art salad provided by Tim Hudyncia (from his under-appreciated Early Quinoa period) and chowder lovingly made by Bob Wright from unsuspecting clams he wrested himself from the fetid inter-tidal sludge of Jamestown (when you put it that way, I'll have another serving!).

Saturday's clinic focused mainly on posing for group pictures.  Don't worry guys - you'll get it someday.

Urged on by the rapt dinner audience, Sean regaled us with incredible stories of paddling from around the world.  It's tough to one-up a tale that involves getting bitten on the face by a seal during a Miller's Run, but we all gave it our best shot.  I thought my story of a particularly yappy little dog harassing me from his yard when I was out for a jog was the winner, but there was some push-back on that front.  Agree to disagree.  We concurred, however, that the South Africans were enthralling dinner guests.

Once Sean and Emily had retired/escaped for the night, Tim fired up the Apple TV so that we could binge on videos of surfski races and platform tennis matches (thanks Alyce - I was starting to feel seasick).  For those of you unfamiliar with the latter, I recommend a visit to the Platform Tennis Hall of Fame site, where you can read about the daring exploits of Buffy Briggs, Flip Goodspeed, and Mortimer "Mojo" Jonglemeister III (I may have made that last one up).  Eventually the rigors of the day came to collect their toll, and the remaining overnight guests turned in.

Sean checked each of us to make sure everything was hunky-dory.  Chris' foot plates were angled incorrectly and his cockpit was over-padded.  But his boat was fine.

Serenaded awake by the early morning foghorns of Narragansett Bay (at about 4am), we gathered in the Dwyer kitchen.  After a groggy breakfast of scrambled garlic (the key is to add just a dash of egg) and bagels, the sleep-over crew was reinforced with new recruits for the morning's clinic at Fort Wetherill.  After an hour or so of on-land instruction, we would hit the unpredictable waters of the Ride the Bull course for more advanced training.  I received some practical set-up advice from Sean in the first part of the session - move my GPS to a higher position (so that I'm not always looking down), tighten my PFD straps (because otherwise I "look like a hobo"), and stop wearing the same shorts for every paddle (because otherwise I "smell like a hobo").  Fortunately, I managed to hide my lucky bindle before he got started on that too.

Tim and I had spent weeks choreographing our ski dance, but even the big finish failed to impress Sean.  I guess once you've seen Hank MacGregor and Oscar Chalupsky perform Swan Lake on the water, you get a little jaded.

Unexpectedly mild conditions meant that our on-water work was largely concentrated on trying to keep lined up abreast so that we could properly see Sean.  He walked us through several useful drills and exercises (that's how miraculously good he is), provided valuable training insights, and provided feedback on our individual strokes.  I wasn't aware that itinerant train hoppers had a characteristic paddling style, but I apparently share it.  The day after the clinic I tried one of the interval sessions that Sean had recommended.  The sheer brutality of this workout made me quit surfskis and take up knitting.  Does anyone know some merciless purling drills that might traumatize me back onto the water?

All too soon, the clinic was over.  Sean and Emily couldn't have been nicer folks, nor the Dwyer family better hosts (I'll give them a pass on the foghorns).  It was a truly memorable weekend.  I can't wait to see what the Rhode Islanders have up their sleeves to promote a sixth race next season!

Sean and I bonded on an emotional level that transcends the $20 I slipped him to stand next to me in the photo.

For those of you wondering how you're going to fill your time before the next open water race in late September, why not head to the Great Stone Dam Classic in Lawrence on September 13?  It helps fund a great cause, Francisco Urena (one-time local paddling legend, currently not-so-local real-world legend) is co-chair, and shark attacks are exceedingly rare. Turtles... that's another story.