I distinctly remember waxing my boat in preparation for the Essex River Race - the first race in the New England Surfski point series back in May. After that, it's pretty much a blur. Based on the fact that I was now watching Eric McNett load his trailer in preparation to shuttle skis to the start of the Glicker Downwinder, however, I had to conclude that we had somehow come to the end of another season. Glancing quickly at my reflection in a car window, this fear was confirmed. In fact, it seemed that perhaps a half-dozen or more seasons had elapsed.
For the first time in 4 years, the race would be starting in its ancestral home in Kittery. We'd be heading north-ish from the mouth of the Piscataqua River to Long Sands Beach, 9 miles and one surf landing away. Our cozy crew of 9 skis was comprised of me, Mary Beth, Jan Lupinski, Eric Costanzo, Hugh Pritchard, Tim Dwyer, Kirk Olsen, Tim Hudyncia, and Jay Appleton. Rod McClain (OC-1) and Ryan Lundbohm (SUP) also joined us. A 10 mph wind from the south would be pushing us in the right general direction.
Tim makes some last minute adjustments to the attachment points for his nipple leash.
By returning to Kittery, the Glicker Downwinder reclaimed the dubious honor of having its launch further from the start than any other race in the region. From Pepperrell Cove to the starting line at the observation pier on Gerrolish Island is a solid half-day paddle. The pier is tall enough that it remains a visible landmark over the curvature of the earth, so at least we knew where we were heading. I just wish I had packed a second sandwich and brought some reading material.
Once the pack arrived at the starting line and woke a grumpy Eric from his lengthy pier-nap, we positioned ourselves for a start in the choppy waters at the mouth of the Piscataqua. The wind and waves were threatening to push the field into the pilings, but that didn't dissuade a certain paddler from taking a leisurely last-minute loop-around while offering disingenuous apologies to those struggling to remain unsplintered. Just realized that makes it sound like I was the paddler, and that I'm poking self-deprecating fun at myself. Nope. I'm poking malicious accusations at Dr. Costanzo, who apparently forgot to take his Hippocratic oath that morning.
It took us about twenty minutes to get Eric's attention.
Of course, I'm joking. At least, that's what I need Eric to think. You never know when, God forbid, I might end up in New Jersey with a pulmonary embolism (God also forbid).
A few seconds after Eric completed his utterly necessary maneuver, the other Eric (as he's started asking to be called) sent us on our downwind run. Heartened by the fact that with a field of only 9 skis there was a pretty hard limit on how far back I could fall with a bad start, I allowed myself the luxury of remaining calm as I slipped cleanly into the bottom performance quartile. While everyone else went to the left of the free-standing remains of an old pier support, I chose to test the waters on the far side. This parting of ways allowed me to gain some ground before rejoining the pack a few moments later. I pulled alongside Hugh, while Jan and Eric shared the lead just ahead.
Old school drone photography - just set your camera's timer and hurl that sucker as high as you can. (Photo courtesy of Eric McNett)
Until we got around the next couple of points, the wind and waves wouldn't be working in our favor. For the time being, we were sloshing around in beamy conditions. Any hopes that the more unstable boats of the other three paddlers would give me a marked advantage in this section were quickly dashed. Although I slowly eased past Hugh - not helped in the least by the vestigial, postage stamp of a rudder on his SES - Jan and Eric remained stubbornly stable, maintaining their pace in the slop.
Eventually I got clear of Eric as well, but Jan continued a boat length or two ahead for the next mile in his blue Nelo. When I finally passed him, I almost immediately wished he was back in the lead. The rocky Maine coast refuses to be pigeon-holed by the traditional definition
of "the land next to the sea". It has a nasty habit of reappearing well away from the land, making the "coast" more of a continuum than a concrete boundary. We had already skirted a few hull-threatening reefs, but at Sewards Point the demarcation between land and sea was particularly ambiguous. I would have preferred to have Jan be my shoal canary, but I was forced to risk my own feathers picking my way through the rocks. After the race he mocked the tentativeness I had shown in Hullgasher Passage, an over-compensating taunt I took as a clear sign that he had deliberately ceded the lead to mask his own faintheartedness. He was too yellow to be the canary.
All I can say is that I'm not proud of all of my tactics.
Once past Sewards Point, we'd head northeast along the so-called coast for the next 4.5 miles to East Point. With the ocean swell coming from the southeast and the wind from the south, you had to keep bearing right to avoid a premature landing. While you could take the occasional nip from the bigger waves rolling in from the ocean, lingering too long on such a ride would lead you on a drunken course with zigzag corrections. I spent about half the time on this stretch attempting to steal some angular momentum from these quartering beauties and the other half trying to resist their salty allure. In my best moments, I sussed out those intermittent waves traveling in the right direction and locked onto those, ignoring most other temptations. I spent most of my time, however, worrying about how much better the guys behind me were handling these conditions. I expected to see superior downwind paddlers like Eric or Tim Dwyer fly by me at any moment, but hurried peripheral glances behind only revealed the same blue splotch about a dozen lengths back. Jan - you should probably get that checked out.
After East Point, our course to the finish on Long Sands Beach was more northerly. Although you still couldn't jump on every wave with reckless abandon, that was my initial strategy. Once I had ascertained that sticking with this approach would leave me beached a mile short of the finish, I tempered my enthusiasm. Although it felt like I was still catching quite a few good rides, subsequent video analysis depicts runner after runner speeding under me with impunity. Despite my lackluster downwind performance, however, Jan was unable to catch me. How was this possible?
Over the last four seasons, Jan has been my most consistent rival.
We've finished next to each other in the standings of 13 races over this
span, and within two positions in another half-dozen. It's no
exaggeration to say that when I drag myself out of bed at 4:30 to train
before work, the thought of beating Lupinski is what's driving me.
Well, actually I seldom paddle in the morning and would never get up
that early. But if I did, I'd blame Jan. My secret weapon in our
rivalry, however, is that Jan is a modern day Job. That is, if instead
of just being an innocent pawn in a sadistic bar bet between God and
Satan, Job also tried to get in on the action by adding his own
self-induced trials. And if he drank and swore a lot more than a
god-fearing Uzite ought. Whether it's a leaky boat, kidney stones,
debilitating weeds, running the wrong course, a sticky rudder, shoulder issues,
forgetting his clothes, crotch boils (just speculating based on how I
saw him walking at one race)... Jan is Fortune's fool. Or perhaps
Destiny's doofus. In any event, his fate is beyond his control. At
East Point the waves lined up for Jan, but once again, the stars
didn't. The rudder line on his month-old boat parted, effectively
ending his race.
The Glicker Downwinder is one of the
few New England races to finish on the beach, and the only one with a
strong possibility of finishing in crashing waves. In fact, the net
total of my lifetime surf landing experience has taken place at this
race, and that experience has been less than entirely positive. I'm
still finding grit in various nooks and crannies after last year's
surf-driven sand-blasting, and that was probably the most successful of
my finishes. Given the size of the waves I'd been haphazardly riding
for the last mile, I sensed there'd be another mouthful of sand in my near future.
Having exhausted my primary and secondary stability, I tertiaried my pants.
Before I could
even get into the surf zone, however, I broached on a steep wave. This
might not have been a problem by itself, but I now found myself wallowed
behind a surf SUP waiting for his next ride. While clumsily attempting
to maneuver around him, I was surprised by a cresting wave and went
over without a fight. Tim Dwyer insists that we should makes a point of
demonstrating the superiority of surfskis over SUPs at every
opportunity, and here I was single-handedly setting us back in
humiliating fashion. "No! No!", I wanted to yell. "I'm incompetent!
It's not the ski!" To reinforce the point, I blew the remount. "See!?!"
"Vaikobi. At least they'll find your body!"
Once
back on my ski, I tentatively turned down range and started paddling in
a last ditch attempt to abandon all remaining shreds of dignity.
Success was swift and inexorable. After missing two consecutive waves, I
inexplicably stopped paddling in the surf zone. I was broached and
swept shoreward on a mass of foam, which then unceremoniously dumped me
in neck-deep water. Measuring from the top of my sand-planted head, of
course. Once I had re-oriented myself, spit out a hermit crab, and
restored a dislodged surf shoe, I stood and assessed my situation. Not
yet knowing how Jan would be knocked out of this race (I had figured
maybe bear mauling during the run to the finish), I was amazed to see that
not only was I the first to the beach, but that there didn't appear to
be anyone right behind me. Only 150 meters separated me from victory.
After Eric's unfortunate L2L incident, Gentleman Kirk was asked to make sure nobody walked off with the sample V7.
Figuring
there was no reason to leave my boat thrashing in the surf, I started hauling it
towards the finish. I had only taken a few steps, however, when I
spotted someone running along the beach from the south. Costanzo! I
dropped my ski and started a heroic sprint of my own (which, after
seeing the GoPro video, would probably be more accurately characterized
as an "arthritic waddle"). Given that we were approaching the finish
from different angles, I wasn't sure which of us would win (or perhaps
expire) until I stumbled in two steps ahead. Despite limited surf experience, Hugh glided effortlessly in a short time later for third, after which he remounted to frolic in the waves. We eventually had to wade in and pry him from his ski for the awards ceremony. Tim Dwyer and Jay rounded out the top five overall, and were joined by Kirk on the Masters' podium (now fully accessible!).
Mary
Beth had a long day, but finished in style with what was easily the
day's best two-thirds of a ride to the beach - screaming down an
incoming wave until she disappeared in a cascade of boiling foam, her
riderless ski bolting out of the chaos like a battle-spooked steed. It
would have been even more legendary if I hadn't then witnessed a
wild-eyed MB staggering through waist-deep water to get to shore, but
we'll omit that part from the epic poem version.
Jan really took offense at being referred to as Destiny's doofus, but accidentally super-gluing rocks to his hands really just underscored my point. (Photo courtesy of Eric McNett)
After handing out race medals, Eric awarded the New England Surfski point series titles. I won the overall men's championship again, with Eric taking second and Jan in third. Mary Beth similarly repeated as the women's champ, with Leslie Chappell in second and Jen Kreamer and Justin Rawley tied for third. Tim Dwyer also repeated his Masters' title from 2015. Jan and I are concerned that Tim
might be growing a little complacent in the 50+ group, so we decided to
age into the bracket to give him some more competition next season. Wesley won the drawing for the V7 generously donated by Epic, finally breaking Bruce and Bill's stranglehold on free skis. Thanks to Eric for giving us a memorable race to close out the season.
A small but cantankerous group gathered last weekend at Long Sands beach in York for the final race of the New England Surfski point series. Newly renamed the Glicker Downwinder in honor of Joe Glickman, this race would finally settle the question on every young surfski enthusiast's mind: Lesher or Lupinski? Partisans from both sides confusingly adopted the L-on-the-forehead hand signal to show their support as they casually walked their dogs on the beach. Although there were a range of scenarios that might play out (one of which involved Jan and I starring in a short-lived sitcom on ABC Family), the long and the short of it was: win the race, win the series. Jan had already taken the SurfskiRacing.com title by thrashing me two weeks earlier at the Cape Cod downwind. This was my chance to even the score.
They asked me to pin my "6" upside down so it would be read correctly as I approached the finish.
Not only had coordinator Eric McNett balked at Chris Sherwood's exorbitant demands for enchanting up favorable winds, he had insulted the necromancer (or "slug-eating charlatan", to use Eric's terminology) to the point that we were cursed with a counter-productive offshore breeze. Not one to be vexed by having his best-laid plans thwarted (this is a man, after all, who has spent most of his adult life shirtless), Eric gamely devised an alternative triangular course. From Long Sands beach we'd round Nubble Island (reluctant host to the picturesque Cape Neddick Lighthouse), then head south to turn at the buoy off the mouth of York Harbor, finally heading back home for a beach finish - 6.75 miles total.
We'd have a chase boat this year, as Eric decided to monitor the course from his small Whaler (with Sarah Waterman as support crew and photographer). After reviewing the course with the competitors, Eric left to take his boat to the nearest launch. Which was apparently somewhere in Delaware. As the hours stretched to days with no sign of our captain, there were mutinous whispers of starting the race without him. Surely his penchant for hugging the coastline too closely had finally spelled his doom, I argued. We had just about given him up for lost when our chief finally hove into view and called us out to the starting line. I knew all along the old salt wouldn't let us down!
Eric designed awesome new medals for the renamed race. (Photo courtesy of Sarah Waterman)
In short order, we were set off towards the Nubble. Jan surged to the early lead, followed closely by Eric Costanzo. For reasons that escape me (or more likely, never existed), I had lined up well off to the right of the other racers. Unable to bar hop my way to the front (from draft to draft), I was forced to toil in obscurity for the first half mile, angling slowly towards the pack. When I rejoined, I found myself just behind Eric, a couple of lengths behind Jan. I soon managed to pull ahead of Eric, leaving only Jan between me and the prize.
As I struggled to close the gap, I noticed in my periphery that Jan was threatening to pass me. I bore down to successfully fight off the challenge. But hold on a second... something's not quite right here. Before I could nail down the source of my unease, Jan counter-attacked from behind and I again had to concentrate on beating him back. Well, if nothing else this spirited sparring will make it easier to catch... uh... Jan. Slowly, the implication of this nightmarish paradox sunk in. I was surrounded by Jans!
My mind reeling with the implications, I ticked through the possibilities. Practical joke with hidden camera? Sounds like something Kirk Olsen might try, but it'd be darn tough to find a second Jan. Clones? Unlikely given the current state of somatic cell nuclear transfer capabilities. No, the only rational explanation was that we were dealing with a type of quantum uncertainty - both possible outcomes (Jan-beats-me versus I-beat-Jan) were superimposed in the same reality. While feverishly trying to devise a method to collapse this uncertainty in my favor (if only I could tweak the tau-zero factor...), I chanced to get a better look at I-beat-Jan Jan.
I'd be remiss if I didn't include at least one picture with a lighthouse in it. And also in breach of the binding contract entered into by all visitors to Maine (read the fine print on the "Welcome" signs).
Who was actually not Jan, but newcomer Mariano Scandizzo. Same Think yellow-on-white color scheme though. Oops. A classic case of mistaken identify leading to a detour through the most abstruse areas of quantum physics. Could have happened to anyone. I wasn't sure that I wanted to live in a Jan-beats-me world, but it looked like I had no choice.
Paddling between the Nubble and shore is the creepiest experience in the New England racing répertoire, and I'm including Tim Dwyer's insistence that out-of-towners "Come spend the night in our basement" every time there's a race in Jamestown. Tourists come to Nubble Point to view the lighthouse, where they stand shoulder-to-shoulder in solemn contemplation. They marked our mournful passage by bowing their heads in gray
remembrance of another season past. The paths of glory lead but to the
grave. Much like the stairs to Tim's dungeon, I'm guessing.
Rounding the Nubble, Alpha Jan appeared to lose his focus. I quickly caught and passed him as he wandered aimlessly. Doubtless he was shaken by the close call he recently had with non-existence. Mariano continued to pester me as we headed towards the distant buoy, eventually over-taking me. Who was this stranger? We traded the lead a couple of times over the next mile, until I caught a nice run and finally got enough ahead of him to purge him completely from my view. I naturally assumed that he was beaten, and thus banished him from my thoughts.
He didn't take that too well. With a half-mile to go before the turn, both Mariano and Jan made a mockery of that old phrase "out of mind, out of sight" (wait, is that right?) by making themselves quite visible while passing me. Seeing these two side-by-side reminded me that I should apologize to Mariano after the race for confusing them. (He swings. He really got a piece of that one... Yes! It's a Jan Slam!)
Despite my best efforts (which were largely indistinguishable from whatever effort I had been using all along), I was unable to catch the duo prior to the turn. Mariano rounded the buoy a couple lengths ahead of Jan, who was in turn two or three lengths in front of me. Two and a quarter miles of a mild headwind with quartering chop separated us from the finish.
Within a few moments, the undisputed upwind master had taken the lead from Mariano, who fell in on the draft. It took me the better part of a mile to catch up, but I eventually settled in at the end of the train. Something about Maine must be conducive to close
finishes. At the Casco Bay Challenge, the top three paddlers finished
within 4 seconds of each other. It looked like this race might similarly end in a sprint for the finish.
After catching my breath on the wash for a moment, I decided to push the pace. I pulled out to the left and made my move. Although I managed to get abreast of Mariano, Jan wasn't buying into the legitimacy of this so-called "attack". He increased his pace. We continued in this formation for the next mile, with Eric and Sarah cheering us on from the chase boat. It's surprising how much motivation you can get from someone yelling "Way to go, Greg!", even if that same person immediately follows up with "You got 'em, Jan!" Although I'd occasionally fall off the pace by half a boat length, I was always able to claw back even with Mariano (during the "Greg" cheering phase, of course).
Mariano was ever-so-slightly out of sync here, but we worked out the kinks prior to the judging stage. (Photo courtesy of Sarah Waterman)
The straight-line path from the turn buoy brought us in at a shallow angle to Long Sands Beach. Although it was difficult to identify the actual finish line on the extended beach, I was becoming increasingly concerned that we would run out of water before we got there. I was on the shore side of the other boats, so unless I wanted to drop back and cross behind Mariano I'd have to defer to Jan's navigation. We soon found ourselves paddling nearly parallel to the shore in search of the finish.
It feels a little ridiculous talking about the surf zone when the waves topped out at 18 inches, but we found ourselves encroaching in this deadly territory. We were perhaps a 100 feet off the beach when a warning shot was fired across our bows. Steepened by the shallow water, a wave passed under us and started breaking just a few feet shoreward. My balance compromised, I took a couple of half-brace strokes before recovering fully, allowing Jan to open up a boat length's lead. I also got pushed in a little closer to shore than the others.
Fifteen seconds later I looked to my right to see a breaking wave. For a brief moment, I thought I was going to find Mariano's boat in my lap, but he apparently knows how to handle modest surf. I manifestly do not. I followed my brace head-first into the foam. After reorienting my teakettle and removing the sand from critical orifices, I realized I was in knee-deep water.
Sigh. This kind of thing just keeps happening to me. (Photo courtesy of the unblinking witness to my misadventures)
The way I saw it, I had two choices. I could jump back on my boat, paddle 15 more seconds in the surf zone before getting flipped again, then say "screw it" and run up the beach to the finish. Or I could just say "screw it" right off the bat. Even though tumbling out of the boat is kind of my signature move, I chose the latter option given the stakes. As I hit the shore in full stride, I heard Jan ask plaintively from his boat "Are we running?" I still don't know if he meant "Is the finish line on shore?" or "Are we running already?" But by the time he asked, there was nothing he could do to catch either me or Mariano.
A lot of people (mostly via their accusing eyes) have asked me, "Greg, how do you feel about your weasel win?" It's true that if the finish had been on the water, there's a 95% chance that Jan would have won (108% if you trust Jan rather than me). If we had come into shore at a preset position with 100 meter run up the beach, I'd decrease Jan's chances to 70% given my Salem League experience at dry finishes (and don't forget Mariano in the mix). In the dynamic confusion of the actual race, however, Jan drew the short straw. So to answer the original question... it's not the manner I would have chosen to win (which would be slowly walking backwards up the beach, while giving the L-on-the-forehead hand signal to a still-paddling Jan), but we play the hand we are dealt. And also... mildly sheepish.
I can't help but notice that nobody was hoisting the men's champion. (Photo courtesy of Sarah Waterman)
Eric Costanzo and Joe Shaw rounded out the top five, followed by Tim, Bruce Deltorchio, Kirk, Jay Appleton (first SS20+), and Bob Capellini (second SS20+). Mary Beth finished off a spectacular season with another solo win (I saw her strutting around the beach afterwards, roaring "That's right, ladies! Don't even think about coming into my ocean and challenging me!"), easily taking the women's point series trophy (to match her SurfskiRacing.com crown). In the men's point series, Jan finished second and Eric (Costanzo) third. Congratulations also to Tim Dwyer and Joe Shaw, co-champions in the newly established 50+ division (with Bruce finishing closely behind them). To finish off the day's festivities, Bruce added another boat to his unparalleled stable of V12s by winning the Epic drawing for the second time in three years. Thanks to Eric (and Cindy) for hosting the race and for organizing another successful New England Surfski season.
If we happen to go at the same time (I'm betting on "buffalo stampede", but wouldn't rule out "bowling accident"), please enlarge this photo to poster size for display at the wake.
