Sakonnet Race: A Turn for the Worse

I've had enough.  I'm tired of constantly explaining that the Sakonnet River Race takes place in the ocean.  One year I had T-shirts printed up that said "The Sakonnet River Isn't", but this might have been too subtle - people kept spinning me around by my shoulders to read the rest on the back.  Taking a page from forward-thinking sportswriters (and now the organization itself) who took to referring to the NFL franchise as the "Washington Football Team", I'll henceforth be conscientiously omitting the offensive R-word nickname from references to the Sakonnet Race.  It strikes me that by creating a goofy analogy to a serious social issue, I might myself be guilty of gross insensitivity.  Better hold off on that new mascot I was going to propose for the race.

Since its 2008 inception, the Sakonnet Race has started at McCorrie Point.  Plagued by inconsiderate out-of-town visitors to that beach, locals successfully petitioned the municipality to limit parking to residents only starting this year.  Wesley was among the group wanting to limit access to his back yard launch - I'm guessing he was getting tired of the horde of fishermen taking bets on whether they could snag his boat as he paddled by.  By shutting down the beach to non-residents, however, he had successfully hoisted himself (and the race) with his own petard.  He's been experimenting with exotic new safety leash systems this season, so I can't say I'm that surprised at this mishap.  At least until he can get a waiver for the rule he himself had championed (wait... where have I heard that recently?), we'll be running an alternative course for the race.

For 2020, the start would be from Island Park Beach, located at the north end of the bay.  We'd proceed 4.6 miles out of the bay along its western shore, casting wistful glances at McCorrie Point roughly 3 miles into the trip (with the fishermen likely casting lead right back).  We'd then turn on a "No Wake" buoy near Sandy Point and head back to the start.  With a steady 15 mph wind from the north, the initial downwind leg would pass in a flash, while the return trip would, by my watch, still be underway now.  We'd actually covered the same water in two weather-adjusted previous Sakonnet races, but by starting at McCorrie rather than at an endpoint, the upwind slog was split into two more manageable segments separated by a long downwind leg.  This year there was no installment plan - the bill would have to be paid in one lump sum.

Responses to Wesley's captain's meeting ran the gamut from nausea to catatonia.

Dave chose to be in my photo rather than Gavin's, but clearly had some regrets about this decision.

At the end of August, some higher-up in the Meteorology Department had "accidentally" flipped his calendar directly to October to get to that adorable photo of otters having a tea party (to be fair, September's road-kill possum tableau was a real downer).  As a result, after strapping the boats on the car we had to swing by the emergency room so that I could have a couple of frost-bitten fingers amputated.  Don't worry - it wasn't the best ones.  The Doctor (if that was even his real name) expressed some doubt that 42 degrees was sufficient to do lasting tissue damage, but I told him to shut up and keep sawing.

By the time we reached Island Park Beach, the temperature had increased enough that I could finally move again, although most of that movement was confined to uncontrollable shivering.  Jim Hoffman asked if I wanted to borrow some warmer clothes, but he was unable to discern if I was shaking no or nodding yes.  When he graciously repeated the offer after the race, I got wise and blinked once for yes.  As we all know, Jim was inadvertently dropped into a vat of Human Growth Hormone as an infant, after which a well-meaning lab technician popped him into the gamma-wave chamber to dry him off.  That's why he has to buy all his clothes from Linebackers-R-Us and can melt titanium with his thoughts (oddly enough, only titanium - so unless you have an artificial hip, you're probably safe).  I was grateful for the loaner fleece, but had to keep the hood up over my head to prevent my shoulders from sliding through the neck hole.

With Rhode Island restricting outdoor gatherings to 15 people, we had a cozier than normal crew for the Sakonnet Race. In addition to a nice sampling of regulars from Greater New England, we had a delightful smattering of irregulars from regions beyond - John Costello (NJ), Melinda Schlehlein (NJ), and John Redos (PA).  Given that conditions would vary so much during the race, it was tough to handicap the field.  I had a particular respect for Tim Dwyer, though.  He's had a solid season, sure, but more importantly, he's consistently exhibited an almost pathological lack of concern for paddlers in distress - a critical component to success when you're in a race in which some poor sap is likely to be floundering beside my, er, his boat.  For months after the 2018 Gorge Downwind Champs, I'd awake screaming "Tim!  For Pity's sake, don't leave me, Tim!"

Color-coordinated.  Fashion-forward.  Bad-ass.

None of the above.

Once Wesley had gathered us around and sworn us in as deputies (I assume - I was fiddling with my hydration system during the meeting), we hit the water and lined up for the start.  I would have put my money on Chris Chappell to jump out to an early lead, but even at very generous odds, nobody is taking that bet anymore.  Tim and Wesley had fine starts in direct pursuit of Chris, with John moving swiftly from the right of the line.  I had a decent enough start to merit some back-handed compliments from the field as I pulled even with the leaders.  As I recall, something vaguely like "Tim, will you check me for weeds?  Because there's no other way Listless Lesher could have already caught me."  Now that I see it verbatim in writing, seems more like a fore-handed insult.  In any event, I showed those guys by inching forward at an almost imperceptible rate.

As we moved further from the lee of the shore, the conditions gradually transitioned from flat to rideable waves.  To reach that state of downwind maturity, however, you had to make it through that awkward adolescent period where you bumble through waves that somehow aren't big enough to push you along, but are substantial enough to be difficult to get over.  At 1.75 miles, my GPS track show an almost instantaneous increase of a half mile an hour in speed as the waves finally fleshed out.  They'd continue to evolve for the remaining trip to the turn-around, although based on post-race reports from my competitors, I may have stunted their development by taking an inside line that needlessly limited nourishment from both wind and tide.

Even though Wesley had thoughtfully sent us photos of the turn-around buoy taken from Sandy Point beach, I had trouble locating the scamp from the water.  My inside line had left me unexpectedly shoreward of the buoy.  I was just preparing myself for a peek-a-boo search through a small field of moored boats when I spotted the marker 100 meters off my port quarter.  I wheeled my V10 through a graceless arc towards the turn, noting with some alarm that the beam traversal was quite lively.  The first half of the race had left me giddy with glee, but the incoming waves quickly slapped the grin off of my face.  Just a moment after I had managed to turn back fully into the wind and round the buoy, an exuberant Tim came sailing by on the last run of his downwind leg.  Despite having only been thrust into an epoch of unrelenting toil about 20 seconds ago, I was already pining for that bygone era of untroubled surfing joy.

The first half-mile back towards the start was a sobering exercise in growing dread.  Having perhaps put a little too much gusto into the previous 35 minutes, I was now getting man-handled by the conditions.  My majestic plunges while running with the waves had been replaced by a series of semi-controlled flops over an endless series of jagged crests.  Another 4.5 miles of this would be intolerable. For the first time ever, I felt like my damnable GPS had taken pity on me and was actually exaggerating my speed to boost my spirits.  A nice gesture, sure, but may I suggest picking a number larger than 4.4 next time?  Fortunately, as I moved more into the lee of McCorrie Point, the violent see-sawing abated enough that I could break the mystical 5 mph barrier.

I was initially concerned that Tim's superior rough water abilities would allow him to close the meager gap that I had established in the downwind leg, but as conditions flattened into more of an upwind grind, my baseless (wait... what?) confidence that I'd persevere grew.  Just about the time I had reached "cocksure" levels of arrogance, I happened to glance shoreward.  If it hadn't been for the neon yellow stickers on Tim's deck, I never would have spotted his shadowy, slinking profile.  But there he was, dead even on an inside line.  I responded to this horrific discovery with characteristic aplomb, limiting myself to only two or three shrill shrieks of panicked terror and resisting the powerful urge to activate my emergency locator beacon.  Of course, I had no such control over my involuntary physiological response to the shock.  I won't get into details, but let's just say that had I been a sea cucumber, I definitely would have regurgitated my intestines.

 Following (as it were) a deep-rooted tradition, Melinda wandered significantly off course to establish her pedigree as a true-blue surfski racer.

Once I had composed myself and cleaned out my bucket, I took stock of the situation.  Tim had made up perhaps 30 seconds in the last 25 minutes, with at least that much time again left in the race.  My guess was that at least some of his edge over me was related to his inside line - he was probably getting some modest relief from the wind and tide.  But eventually he'd have to abandon this protection and angle out to the more central finish.  With my more direct outer line, I reasoned that if I could just keep even with him until he started his cut away from shore, that extra paddling distance would be my cushion of victory.  I soon wondered if I'd have enough of a buffer to afford a quick swim.  Keeping tabs on Tim by frequently scanning the shoreline over my left shoulder wasn't helping my stability any.

My sophisticated strategy (that is, paddling in a straight line toward the finish) appeared to be working.  Tim didn't seem to be moving ahead of me appreciably.  With a half-mile left in the race, I abandoned my surveillance routine, put my head down, and dashed pell-mell for the finish.  My GPS had returned to its habitual deviousness by this point, preposterously insisting that my final sprint topped out at 6.2 mph.  I scarcely had time to mute its mocking laughter (am I ever sorry I opted for the Motivation Package) before Tim rolled in behind me - only 30 seconds back.  A hard-charging John took third less than a minute later.  Wesley and Jim rounded out the top five.  In the women's race, Mary Beth took the gold, Jean the silver, and Melinda the bronze (and a special commendation for scouting out previously unexplored regions of the Sakonnet).  Everyone agreed that although the downwind portion of the race was great fun, we're still gonna get Wesley some day for that grueling upwind slog. Sleep with one eye open and your PFD on, buddy.

The closing ceremonies were quite moving.

We're nearing the end of our abbreviated ocean season.  The last open-water competition is the Plum Beach Lighthouse Race on October 17.  Register early at PaddleGuru to assure yourself a spot.  And don't forget to bring your Rhode Island Ski Season punch card - four races and your social distance requirement will be reduced from six feet to five feet!  That may not sound like much of an improvement, but at least it puts your enemies within hockey stick distance.

Sakonnet River Race: Right Tool

The Sakonnet River Race is traditionally the first rough-water race of the New England season.  After careful consideration, however, race director Wesley Echols made a tough game-day decision.  We  had a handful of flatwater races under our belts, but given our collective performance at the most recent outing (three players with a half-dozen errors between them - myself included) he decided that we weren't ready for the majors.  We'd paddle the traditional course (12.6 miles round-trip from McCorrie Point to Third Beach, by way of Sandy Point and Black Point), but Wesley would use his administrator privileges to override the defaults and dial conditions down to "Mill Pond" - giving us one last shot to prove ourselves.

MB wouldn't be attending.  My helpmeet needed a little time away from home to "reevaluate her options", in large part because I insist on introducing her as my helpmeet.  Instead I'd be accompanied by my compeer, Bob.  [touches imaginary earpiece] Erstwhile compeer, I'm just being told.  He now prefers "acquaintance".  We carpooled down with my surfski catechumen, Janda.  [earpiece again] I see.  Is "fellow human" acceptable?  Good.  In any event, we three frabjous popinjays wended our way... [and again] Balderdash! [extended tinny harangue, audible to bystanders]  My apologies, folks.  I've been informed that the whimsical use of bygone vocabulary for humorous effect is no longer sanctioned.  [continued tinny denunciations]  Was, in fact, never sanctioned.  Oops.

A healthy quorum of regional paddlers met us at McCorrie Point Beach.  In addition to the cast of repertory players, we were joined by recent ski convert Andrew Metz and first-time racer John Litherland.   I figured my main competition would come from Matt Drayer (well-known by the Swampscott police from all those pre-dawn 911 calls regarding a wetsuit-clad prowler on the beach), Mike Florio, and Janda Ricci-Munn.  With flat conditions forecast, I felt comfortable bringing my V14, but Mike was playing it safe in his V10.  Ryan Bardsley, despite temperatures in the high 60s, was also playing it safe by dressing in head-to-toe neoprene.  Nobody was sure what the flash point of human flesh is, but we'd likely find out prior to the end of the race.

As Ryan is about to discover, Janda's bear hugs lie in that gray area between collegial bonding and stranger danger.

I tried to get Igor to share his larval hash with me, but turns out it was just cold risotto.  Blech.  No thanks!

You may have already noticed that the photos are better than usual.  Acquaintance Bob foolishly agreed to act as race photographer, not realizing that by borrowing my camera he had entered into an implicit licensing agreement that would prohibit him from sharing the profits I'd make from the lucrative surfski photo resale market.  He did get a free trip to Rhode Island out of the bargain, so he's really got nothing to complain about.

We find ourselves in the midst of a dangerous, bank-busting arms race.  I believe Tim got the ball rolling with his black-and-white Elite V10 3G last season.  Bruce Deltorchio followed suit earlier this year with the same boat.  And Matt showed up to the Sakonnet with an Elite V12 2G so new that its gelcoat was still tacky.  That's 63 feet of carbon hull between those three boats, the total probably weighing in at less than the first kayak I owned.  Of course, Wesley had gone nuclear long ago.  He just had the cunning to choose brands that don't broadcast their firepower by color.

"And if you'll just direct your attention this way..."

"...you'll be able to add the yellow-banded paddle stork to your life list.  No, stork.  S. T. O. R. K."

Soon enough the 23 skis were on the water setting up for another battle.  Wesley bellowing "Hold the line!" as he coordinates our rolling start has become something of a Rhode Island tradition.  I don't know about the others, but it makes me feel like we're not fooling around - there's really something at stake.  In an inspired twist, this year Wesley shamed a creeping scofflaw by name.  Wasn't me, but I won't rat out the weasel.  You can clearly hear in the first few seconds of my video, but even that doesn't remove all ambiguity.

We take turns so that he doesn't get suspicious, but every race someone mentions to Chris Chappell that there's a substantial payout for the first paddler to the 500 meters hotspot.  It's tough to maintain a straight face after all these years, but poor credulous Chris bites hard every time.  Once he's taken the bait, we let him make his run before reeling him in and breaking the bad news.  No, no, it was 1000 meters, not 500.  Or 2000.  Or whatever it takes until someone finally gets in front of him.  We then make sure that whoever that is flashes around a wad of twenties after the race to help perpetuate our cruel ruse.

Opening day of ocean ski season brought out quite the crowd.

Naturally, Chris rabbited to an immediate lead while the rest of us snickered behind his receding back.  After a start on the Essex that would charitably be described as "anemic", I vowed to at least splash around more at the onset of the Sakonnet.  My sound and fury approach appeared to be working, although I suspect it was just because everyone missed a stroke or two while glancing over to see who was being attacked by geese.  Within a minute I had caught Wesley, Tim Dwyer, and Ryan (trying to achieve ignition temperature right out of the gate, apparently) to move into second place.  A minute later, I passed Chris.  For the first time ever, I may have legitimately stolen the hotspot from him.  While abreast of Chris, I noticed that we were skimming through maybe a foot of water.  I made a mental note of how shallow it was 50 meters off of McCorrie Point and filed it under "Facts to Soon Be Forgotten" for safe-keeping.

After years of working on my start, I finally discovered the key to success was cropping technique.

As promised, conditions were ideal for a lightning fast initial leg.  The previous Tuesday, Matt had dismantled my carefully arranged Salem League winning streak in convincing fashion, and now here he was in a faster, lighter boat.  Besides that, Iron Mike was finally in a ski he could hammer away from.  If those motivating factors couldn't push me to record speeds, then what could?  Hmm?  What's that?  Glass-flat conditions and a ripping tide propelling me along?  Well, agree to disagree.

Over the first several miles, I was pushing within a few tenths of 9 mph.  My hard training had finally paid off.  Like Bruce Banner or Peter Parker, all the disciplined hours spent in the "lab" had unlocked my latent abilities!  The sudden increase of 1 mph in my cruising speed was no surprise.  One expects such discontinuities in performance.  Pete didn't go through a phase where he could "kinda" hang upside-down from his fingertips.  During the early phase of flexing my new paddling muscles, I discovered that I grew even more proficient the more towards the center of the bay I tracked.  This correlation perplexed me for a while, until I figured out that dry land must be my (Uh-oh, should have thought my metaphor out a little better.  Oh well...) kryptonite.

I've written myself into a corner here, so I'm going to use my first "Get Out of Contrived Fantasy Free" card to snap back to reality.  Ish.  I did spend the first half-mile or so in awe of my ability to maintain such a blistering pace.  But as my speed continued to increase, it gradually dawned on me that a humdinger of a tidal current was mostly responsible.  Once I had made this realization, I could start properly obsessing over exactly how far out from shore I should be to optimize the speed-distance trade-off.  And, on the flip side, worrying about how much shore-hugging to do after the turn.

Shortly after passing Black Point, some unwelcome texture started to appear on the water.  Although you would be hard-pressed to categorize the subtle ripples as waves, I share no such compunction.  As far as me and my V14 were concerned, conditions transformed from calm to rollicking.  I didn't feel compelled to abandon ship and swim for shore, but I was destabilized enough to throw off my finely-tuned flat-water stroke (stop smirking, Jan).  My speed started dropping, a trend that was exacerbated as I moved out of the tidal current - edging shoreward in preparation for the turn-around off of Third Beach.

I always suffer from navigation anxiety when trying to identify the correct mooring buoy at the Sakonnet, despite Wesley's detailed instructions on triangulating a course using a house-less chimney, a lifeguard chair, and a cormorant.  My brain was too oxygen-deprived to pull up the specifics, but I did recall that the buoy was numbered 114.  In 8 point font.  Slipping on my reading glasses, I scrutinized each buoy in the bay until finding the correct one and turning for the return leg.  I could now see that Matt trailed by about 90 seconds, with Mike maybe half that far behind him, and Janda a comparable distance behind Mike.  With a sizable gap to the next paddler, it seemed like the podium we be drawn from us four.

Only after the fog lifted did Matt and I realize that we had been circling one another for the past twenty minutes.

I kept along the coast until reaching Black Point - a no-brainer since this was both the shortest path and avoided the outgoing tide.  After that, however, I had to choose between a straight-line course and a more circuitous track that would have me dipping into each bay between me and McCorrie Point.  Clearing Black Point, it was obvious that the once-friendly tide had turned openly antagonistic.  And, in bald-faced defiance of all meteorologists, a playful headwind was also greeting me.  Not knowing how much current the coastal route would avoid, I decided to choose the devil I knew.  For most of the remainder of the race I would only see 7 mph when an anomalous mini-wave happened to be heading my direction.  I nervously monitored the inner passage to make sure that nobody was zooming up the shore, but since I still had my reading glasses on, they would have to be waving giant fluorescent banners for me to actually spot them.

Given what I wrote a few paragraphs ago, you'd be forgiven for thinking that I'd soon be crashing into the rocky bar off of McCorrie Point.  That was misdirection.  I didn't, in fact, forget how shallow it was off the point.  I forgot how far off the point it was that shallow.  As a result, I swung ridiculously wide, setting up a half-mile in advance for a sweeping turn that would have allowed a supertanker to skirt the point unscathed.  Only to find criminally inadequate docking and off-loading facilities.  One port-a-john for a crew of 27?  Oof.

Although Matt swears by the express route he took along the shoreline, the proof is in the plodding.  My path may have been slow-going and tedious, but it ultimately got me to the finish first.  Matt pulled in shortly after to claim silver, with Mike outlasting a hard-charging Janda for the final podium spot.  In the women's race, Leslie Chappell took the crown, followed by Melissa Meyer and Jean Kostelich.  These three paddled together for the first leg of the race, but Leslie had another gear when she needed it.

How is it that Timmy is smiling in every photo?  It's starting to get a little creepy.

All those clinics have done wonders for Bruce's technique.

Thanks to Wesley and Betsy for hosting the race.  I wouldn't miss it for the world.  Unlike, say, Mary Beth.  Just something to think about after she trades up and you need to choose which of us to remain friends with.

We've seen a whole lot of flat this season, but rest assured that this is about to change on June 15 at Wesley and Tim's Ride the Bull race.  Should there be not a breath of wind, should all other boats be banned from Narragansett Bay, should the moon be reassigned to another planet to stanch the tides... we'd still be bouncing around while cursing the diabolical duo that created this abomination.  Probably also a little concerned about the ecological and political chaos associated with the moon thing, but there'll be plenty of time to fashion our paddles into weapons after the race.  Please register at PaddleGuru.  Don't forget to indicate your blood type and post-apocalyptic tribe preference.

Sakonnet River Race: Hot Streak

Unless you wanted to spend the entire month of August in Rhode Island making up for missed credits, attending the Sakonnet River Race was a must to keep on pace to make quota.  Now in its 11th year, this Echols-branded event always attracts a rowdy band of paddlers anxious to throw off the shackles of flatwater and mix it up... in a partially-protected ocean inlet.  You don't want to jump in over your head.

I car-pooled down to the race with newcomer Ryan Bardsley.  I'd previously made the trip with fellow old hands Bruce Deltorchio and Bill Kuklinski.  Although I tried to steer this year's drive-time conversation to Metamucil, hip replacement, and DNRs, Ryan kept bringing us back around to concerns of the younger generation.  Touch-tone phones.  Corduroy.  Mumenshanz.  Man, did I feel ancient.  I don't yet know Ryan well enough to feel comfortable gently mocking him the way I might Bill (as a random example).  So let's just say he has some surprising views on on human-goat hybridization.

Wesley's insistence on maintaining a "minimum safe distance" seemed odd until we got a whiff of one another after the race.

A win at the Sakonnet has proven... elusive.  For the past six years I've finished in second place - beaten by a veritable Who's Who of non-me paddlers.  Dostal, Lishchuk, Lupinski, Markin, and Costa.  Not a single one of those me.  Over the years I've called in a bunch of favors to have the champions transferred out of the area, enrolled in college, infected with the hantavirus, etc.  But someone else always seems to step up.  And, of course, Jan is cockroach-like in his tendency to appear, alive and kicking, despite having a polonium-laced serum injected into his thorax.  This might be my year, however.  Since Jan had just returned from his stint as nauseous race commentator on Borys' chase boat at the Molokai, with any luck he'd still be reeling from jet lag, sea-sickness, and acute radiation poisoning.

I had some grave concerns about Chris Quinn.  It's always the guys that are quiet, even-keeled, and ridiculously fit that give you problems.  My only solace was that he'd be in a second-gen V12 rather than his habitual V14 - perhaps a slight disadvantage given the baby-butt sea conditions.  And there was Matt Drayer, who has been religiously following a before-work training schedule that has him making his daily devotion before monks have even hit their snooze buttons for the first time.  Chris Chappell has also been doing hard time on the water this year, and with flat conditions might just try to break out on the Sakonnet.

I may have discovered the source of the navigational problems we seem to face at every race...

With the possibility of thunderstorms moving through later in the day, Wesley took the precaution of modifying the course to keep us in a more contained area closer to McCorrie Point.  That way the authorities could more easily skim us collectively from the surface like dynamited fish.  Instead of heading to the mouth of the bay, we'd head south 3.5 miles to Black Point, return 3.1 miles back in the direction of the start, return down to Black Point, then finish up back on the beach.  To break up the typical Where's Waldo monotony of turning on a specific mooring buoy within a field of indistinguishable alternatives, the northern turn would be on a lone moored motorboat.  I was tempted to dart out before the race and cut his fuel line to prevent a mid-race escape, but figured the resulting sea of flames might make it just as difficult to find the turn.

The day promised to be hot and humid.  When you find yourself in a cold-water/greenhouse-air situation, it's always challenging to choose the right apparel.  We told Ryan that paddling in a scuba suit under these conditions was overkill, but he just winked and adjusted his regulator.  The rest of us were still shedding clothes as we boarded our craft for the start.

By implicit mutual consent, the field eased off the line with Jenga-worthy deliberation and cautiousness.  With little wind and growing mugginess, there was a legitimate danger of total collapse if you charged pell-mell out of the gate on your 13.2 mile trek.  By encouraging drafting, the glassy water further helped hold the field together.  I had a typical mid-pack start, but at least the collegial spirit of the field helped allay my usual apprehensions about my languor.  Jan and Chris C took the early lead, but remained within hailing distance should we need to recall them.  A minute into the race, Matt sprinted by me and headed out to join the scouting party.  His ease in overtaking me was a tad worrisome, but I figured he'd burn through his youthful zest pretty quickly.

I'm starting to suspect that Olga is sweet on Max.  In any event, I've discovered the sure-fire way to feature in her photos is to stick close to him. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Over the next few minutes I overtook a drafting clump of pursuers, gradually slipping past Wesley, Max Yasochka, Tim Dwyer, Chris Laughlin, and Chris Q.  Unfortunately, I wasn't able to make a clean escape.  I got a little too close and ended up with a Quinn stuck on my port draft.  A fading Chris C angled over and latched onto the other side.  Jan and Matt were working independently four or five lengths ahead on different lines.

I tried various maneuvers and intervals to shake off my drafters.  Chris C fell for a head feint to the right and dropped off, but Chris Q remained a thorn at my side.  Finally, I managed a short sprint that brushed him back to my stern wake.  From there it was a simple matter of bursting a few superfluous blood vessels in my head and neck to drop Chris completely.  I was hoping for a "blown out of the airlock" kind of separation, but had to settle for a gentler "lost grip on the module hatch" departure.  As Chris drifted lazily back, I concentrated on catching Matt, who seemed to be on the more direct line to Black Point.

A few minutes into the race, Matt had a four boat lead on me.  I had since been whittling that down. It took me twenty minutes to cover the 100 foot gap - a whopping closing speed of 0.05 mph.  A garden snail can't even manage 0.03 mph, so I think you'll agree I was putting the hammer down.  By the time I slid onto Matt's draft at around mile 3, Jan had fallen back a few lengths, where he was joined by Chris in the chase.

Typical show-off Canadians. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Approaching Black Point, I started to get nervous about identifying the proper turning buoy.  I wouldn't exactly say that I had tuned out during the captains meeting, but I did keep picking up an NPR program on silkworms (nature's tailors!).  Matt and I began a discussion on the relative merits of the various choices, finally settling on a spiffy white-and-blue job 150 meters ahead.  We were feeling pretty good about this decision when indistinct shouts from behind cracked our veneer of confidence.  The four lead boats stopped paddling to assess the situation, ultimately deciding to follow our hearts rather than the incoherent ravings of some lunatic.  Turns out it was Wesley, frantically directing us to the buoy we were in fact heading for (although from his angle, he couldn't tell that).  So following the ravings would have gotten us to the same place.

I rounded the buoy just ahead of Matt, with Jan and Chris perhaps another 4 lengths back.  There was still a lot of confused yammering going on, but a lot of that may have been me chastising myself for making such a wide, lazy turn.  We'd spend the next few miles heading back into the wind.  Although later in the day we'd get slapped around by its aggressive bluster, at this point the gentle caress of the breeze soothed our blistered skin.  Or, in Ryan's case, cooled the gooey contents of his wetsuit back to a mostly-solid state.

The 3 mile trip back to the upwind turn-around was relatively uneventful once I'd retroactively edited out all of the terror-filled glances over my shoulder to see who would soon be overtaking me.  I'd installed a Geiger counter app on my phone prior to the race, so at least I'd have some warning if Jan was sneaking up on me.  I never saw anyone distinctly (because, remember, I didn't look) and the headwind helpfully swept away any scent of impending doom, so (to the syncopated clicks of intermittent cosmic rays) I began to think perhaps I would finally break my runner-up hex.  The subsequent downwind leg back to Black Point scorched away that hope, along with all others.

I had about a 35 second lead over Matt at the upwind turn (which, remarkably, was still attached and afloat).  Chris lagged behind him by a few lengths, with Jan a half-dozen more back.  With the wind now surgically tuned to match my exact speed, I could finally appreciate the full swelter of the day.  Despite shedding a half-dozen pounds in my cockpit sauna, I felt increasingly leaden as the miles to the next turn trickled by.  My target pace was slipping so often that I was forced to switch over to target deceleration.  Some quick calculations (and they say you never use calculus in real life...) indicated that I'd actually be going backwards by the time I reached Black Point.  I must have integrated incorrectly, though, because I actually had some residual velocity as we approached the turn.

Blinded by sweat and tears, heat blasted, and mentally exhausted from all the math, I was finally about to round the buoy when... again with the yelling from behind.  Given that he was only a few lengths behind at this point, Matt could have used his inside voice, but he must have sensed that my befuddled mind was only capable of responding to intense stimuli.  The fact that I was now paddling canoe-style and yelling out "hut" on side changes probably tipped him off that I needed some hand-holding.  In any event, he managed to redirect me to the correct buoy.

I was still in the lead, but watched Matt and Chris take the turn together - now only 20 seconds back.  Given my depleted state, I was done for.  Noting that Jan had dropped off the pursuit, I dreamed that I might salvage a third place finish from the charred wreckage.  Amazingly, however, it turns out that everyone else was also suffering on that past leg.  And that my seemingly debilitating fatigue was as much mental as physical.  It took only a few minutes of wind-in-the-face therapy to reinvigorate my hopes for a win.

While Chris prepared a hasty exit to avoid the press throng, I graciously stuck around to provide an hour-long Q&A session (mostly A, now that I think of it) with my deck camera.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

My upwind execution was sloppy, but the glee of being freed from the downwind kiln powered me back towards McCorrie Point.  About halfway home, I noticed one of the two chase boats back about a dozen lengths on an inside line.  He didn't seem to be gaining, which allowed me to concentrate 100% of my anxiety on the guy I couldn't see.  I hate that guy.  With a mile to go, a mischievous squall descended on the Sakonnet.  With an almost perfectly head-on wind, however, negotiating this final obstacle was more annoying than challenging.

I reached the line a half-minute ahead of Chris, with Matt taking third shortly after that.  Jan and Tim completed the top 5, with Leslie Chappell paddling away with the women's title.  After rehydrating (I'd forgotten my IV saline drip so I had to do things the old-fashioned way - guzzling seawater), we headed up the road to the Echols' house for the after-party.  Once you fought your way through the crowd of surfski pilgrims genuflecting towards The Garage, it was a pretty good spread.  Many thanks to Wesley and Betsy for a great day.  And a special thanks to guest lecturer Jan, who gave a sobering scared-straight presentation on the perils of the Molokai.  Or, at least, the perils of being on a chase boat there.

You know the angel/devil that pops up to provide advice in cartoons?  Apparently that's a real thing.  Minus the costumes.

Due to popular demand, we're all booked for a reunion tour in Rhode Island on June 16th for Ride the Bull.  Poring over navigational charts, tide tables, and unholy grimoires, Wesley and Tim are already hard at work summoning the latest incarnation of the cruelest course in New England.  Please preregister at PaddleGuru.

Sakonnet River Race: Catch and Release

With Mary Beth away on her annual June pilgrimage to "where you're not", I was desperate to recruit someone to fill my open Goodboy rack for the trip down to Wesley's 10th Annual Sakonnet River Race and Pizza Jamboree.  If I couldn't find a willing passenger, I'd be forced to bring both the V10 and V14.  A regrettable race-time decision would inevitably follow.  I ultimately had to offer $500 and a couple of meal vouchers, but I finally convinced Bruce Deltorchio to join me.  I was looking forward to some lively conversation, but he told me that'd be an extra $250.  When I protested that I was out of cash, he slipped on his noise cancelling headphones and worked on a Sudoku for the entire trip.

Up until a couple of days before the race, it looked like the Rhode Island economy would be suffering a harsh blow.  With nearly two-thirds of its tourist revenues derived from surfski racing, the prospect of only a half-dozen out-of-staters showing up at the Sakonnet had the governor slashing quahog subsidies left and right.  Fortunately, a slew of  (drunken, I'm guessing) late night registrations pushed the state ledgers back into the black. With the top 5 finishers from the Narrow River Race (Mike Dostal, Mike Florio, Jan Lupinski, Chris Quinn, and me) meeting again, the race promised to be challenging.  Especially for those of us dipping our toes into the Grand Fogey class.  Despite the fact that any of those guys might beat me, I was focused on Dostal.

It's tough to say when exactly our sport was taken over by bad-asses, but for those of us who remain stubbornly awkward and self-conscious, it can be a little intimidating.

Heck, these outlaws even got their own walking-towards-the-camera-in-slow motion shot.

OK, now.  I feel like things may be getting a little out of hand.

Dorky, wizened, and virtually lipless.  Now that's a New England surfskier.

I've raced against Mike D ten times previously.  In four of those races, he was in an ICF boat.  And, based on our relative performances, I have to assume that I was in an anchored barge.  In the other six ski-to-ski meetings, however, I emerged victorious.  Granted, that was partly due to teaming up with Ben Pigott to dump Mike in the Annisquam River during last year's Blackburn.  But mostly due to the fact that Mike spends more time standing atop podiums at the National Marathon Championships than he does sitting in a surfski bucket.  Unless conditions picked up considerably (or Ben made a surprise visit), however, my Dostal defeating streak was in real jeopardy.

I was busy taking photographs during the brief captain's meeting, so I didn't really catch many of the details.  There were plenty of wild gestures and dire warnings, of that I'm confident.  I believe the gist was this: From McCorrie Point, paddle 6.25 miles towards the ocean, turn on Mooring Buoy 114 (you gotta try their calamari), then return back to the start to get ready for the 2018 race.  We grabbed our boats and hit the water, eager to show off our comprehension skills.  Unfortunately, Jim Hoffman suffered a pre-race rudder failure on the beach.  As the rest of us arranged ourselves at the starting line, he circled helplessly in the sand like a three-flippered turtle.

While gesticulating during the captains meeting, Wesley inadvertently called in a drone strike.

Wesley soon gave us the one-minute warning, followed by a pair of thirty-second warnings (I might have heard one of those wrong), a ten-second warning, some advice on cleaning cast-iron pans, and the start signal.  Mike D seized the immediate lead, quickly separating himself from pursuers Andrius Zinkevichus and Jan.  Playing it cool (let's say), I hung back to see how the field would develop.  Once I had a pretty good sense of who had better starts than me, I got to work erasing those deficits.  I slowly moved past Chris Q, Mike F, Tim D, Chris Chappell, Joe Shaw, and Chris Laughlin to get to open water behind the three leaders.  Although I didn't realize it at the time, the entire field behind me was cutting shoreward as I successfully pursued and passed Andrius.

Mike and Jan seemed to have established a wary truce at 6 or 8 lengths apart, with Jan perhaps 10 lengths ahead of me on a wide line.  Having now caught a glimpse of a train of skis I guessed was being led by Mike F or Chris Q on an inner line, I decided to split their paths.  When we reached Black Point, 3.5 miles into the race, we'd all necessarily be forced together to follow the shore towards the Third Beach turn-around.

I caught Jan and eased alongside just before Black Point.  We didn't speak, but simply exchanged somber nods.  We knew what it would take to catch Mike.  We'd be plumbing the depths of our courage and resolve, but in the end, we could take pride in knowing that we gave our everything to the chase.  We would no longer be able to physically hold our heads high by the time we completed the race, but perhaps someone could prop us upright and jury-rig some type of neck braces.  I knew they'd also draw obscene pictures on our faces, but hoped they'd spare our eyeballs.  I took the first pull.

By the time we caught Mike just after mile 6, Jan had provided me with a veritable stroke clinic.  My own private one-on-one lesson.  And, thoughtful an instructor as Mr. Lupinski is, he positioned himself so that 100% of his tutorial was recorded on my backward-facing GoPro for later review.  Unfortunately, the accompanying audio track was pretty much ruined by an off-camera ventriloquist griping about "good-for-nothing freeloaders".

After the race, impressed with my ability to maintain a wildly inefficient rate of 106 strokes per minute, Jan told me I had the heart and paddling technique of a horse.

A lot of you scoffed when I had those guys from MIT install a laser interferometer in the bow of my boat.  Although more generally used for quality control during microchip fabrication or for detecting minuscule shifts associated with gravity waves, I figured its nanometer-scale accuracy would come in handy when inching up on competitors.  Mike remained stubbornly fixed ahead at 51.2063283 meters for several minutes before the distance finally started to tick down.  51.2063282, 51.2063281, 8.8888888 (saltwater and delicate electronic equipment - a bad combination), 51.2063280.  You get the idea.  51.2063279.  I needed to step it up a notch if I wanted to catch him before the sun ran out of fuel.

Eventually, some of Jan's peripheral instruction must have taken hold, because we began to close on the leader at a rate that a mobility-impaired slug would have found respectable.  During this phase I made sure to stay hydrated - leaving that mucus trail really depletes your liquids.  To his credit, Mike contributed his fair share to our gains.  He insisted on taking lines that angled him away from the direct path along the shore, periodically missing a stroke to look over his shoulder for the pursuit team's approval of his route.  My mouth offered steadfast support ("Looking good!  Might want to bear a little more away from land!") but my body language ("I'm paddling in a different direction than you!") apparently spoke louder.  Picking up on these non-verbal cues, Mike would temporarily adjust his course.  His saw-tooth track helped us to ratchet closer, however.

After a particularly long stay at 6.2601148 meters back - apparently stuck on the first harmonic of Mike's wake - I finally eased onto his wash.  Jan, his lesson plan complete, slid from my side draft to a stern draft.  He lingered there for a few moments, but the slime made it difficult for him to maintain a grip and he slipped off.  I was only able to enjoy few hundred meters resting behind Mike before I suffered the same fate.  As we swung around the turn buoy in less-than-graceful arcs, he managed to accelerate away from me.  I was chasing again, but this time without Jan's reassuring presence.  I held steady at a couple lengths back for perhaps a half-mile, but was soon falling further and further back.  The interferometer reading was eventually increasing at such a fast rate I felt compelled to periodically douse it with water lest it melt down.

The trip back to McCorrie Point was frustrating.  Although a mild incoming tide should have been helping us, attempts to exploit this flow were met with wind resistance.  After tapping my GPS to ensure the needle wasn't stuck, I determined that a better strategy would be to tuck out of the wind.  I quickly discovered how difficult it is to paddle while curled into a streamlined fetal position, so instead cut left to let the shore break the wind.  During this process, I noticed the dark silhouette of Jan's boat gliding smoothly on an even further inside line, back a dozen lengths or so.  Jan himself was nowhere to be seen, which gives you some idea of just how effective a paddler he is.

Mike continued to surge ahead on a more central line.  Now that I was no longer directly behind him, I had to use seat-of-the-pants estimates of how fast his lead was increasing.  Only by applying some creative trigonometry during these assessments did I manage to maintain a splinter of morale.  When Mike passed McCorrie Point, however, I suspected that it would be difficult to make up a 400 meter deficit in the 200 meters left in Mike's race (barring a fortuitous spearfishing incident up ahead, of course).  I attempted to ramp up to the necessary 24 miles per hour, but fell just shy of the mark - practically handing Mike his first surfski victory.  And me my 6th consecutive second place finish at the Sakonnet.

Mike explains the finer points of bait-and-switch racing - get their hopes up in the first half by paddling out front at 70% effort, then crush their spirit by ramping up to 75% for the return leg.

After finishing, I looked over my shoulder to see how close Jan was, only to be surprised by Mike F. charging across the line to take third.  Nearly two minutes behind at the turn, he made up all but 25 seconds of that in the return leg.  Jan and Chris Q filled out the top five spots.  Leslie Chappell took the women's crown, with Olga Sydorenko close behind.  In an ultra-competitive doubles race, Mark Ceconi nosed across the line slightly ahead of Sean Milano - that despite the latter's last-minute attempt to clamber over the mid-deck into the lead.

As we enjoyed pizza and cookies, we compared our notes on the race.  Despite mellow conditions and a favorable slack tide, it was not a particularly fast year.  Everyone was in agreement that they, individually, had taken the worst line.  Not being one to rock the boat (at least, not intentionally), I joined the chorus in singing the deficiencies of my route.  My heart wasn't in it though.  I couldn't be too unhappy with my performance given the result.  Thanks to Wesley and Betsy for hosting another successful race on their backyard waterway.

If Mark and Sean don't make you smile, there's something wrong with you.  Or perhaps you just know too much about their dark past in the koala fighting rings of  Perth.

It's time to separate the wheat from the chaff.  On June 17, we'll toss a bunch of skis into the turbulent waters of the Ride the Bull course and see who floats to the top.  I'm hoping for that sweet spot - just rough enough to throw the Mikes off their games, but not chaotic enough to launch Tim D or Jim H onto the podium.  Wesley and Tim ask kindly that you sign up beforehand at PaddleGuru.  It's free.  If you fail to pre-register, you'll only be allowed to race if you bring me a sleeve of  Fig Newtons, something made out of jade, and five Susan B. Anthony dollars.  Why me?  Why those items?  Who can say.  But I'll remind you that this blog has always maintained, at best, a tenuous relation with reality.

Sakonnet River Race: There Are No Shortcuts

Gazing over the placid waters of the Sakonnet River, it seemed that I had been granted a reprieve.  With all of my training thus far done on flatwater, I was hardly ready to compete in any significant ocean conditions - what some traditionalist sticklers might refer to as an "actual surfski race".  I can appreciate the thrill of clutching desperately to the shattered hull of your boat as you're being swept helplessly out to sea as much as the next person, but as I fade into my twilight years, I find myself welcoming a gentler passage.

With a light wind in our face and the tide in our favor, we'd run the classic out-and-back course 6.25 miles south from McCorrie Beach down the Sakonnet to the turn-around at Third Beach.  After the turn, we'd struggle against the tidal current and the increasingly oppressive heat until - about 4 miles later - every last paddler would wonder if this stupid race would ever end and why-oh-why won't Jesse just pull ahead already and put me out of my misery?  I'm pretty sure that's what the PaddleGuru course description said, anyway.

I miss the old days, when we could just show up and race without having to first suffer through another of Wesley's Rhode Island timeshare presentations.

We'd been getting increasingly hostile letters from the National Surfski Racing Accreditation Board threatening expulsion unless we starting complying with Subsection 13.C of our licensing charter.  With Ben Pigott AWOL and Eric McNett's dermatologist laying down the law regarding further sun exposure, we've been without the requisite shirtless paddler for too many races.  I'd have stepped up to the plate, but I'm a bit self-conscious about my "Avoid the Noid" tattoo and the vestigial spiracles.  Fortunately, Matt Skeels agreed to descend from the wilds of the Adirondacks to save the day (before knowing that Personal Chafing Devices were mandatory, I'm guessing).  A flatwater specialist and newly anointed Epic Expert, Matt would be participating in his first ocean race.  Seems that you can't swing a paddle these days without hitting an Epic Expert, which has resulted in quite the payday for those of us enrolled in Fenn's generous bounty program.

As usual, during the captain's meeting I lingered just out of earshot so that I could plead ignorance after cutting the course or violating some other for-squares-only "rule".  Presumably fearing a repeat of my Narrow River performance, Wesley tried to corner me one-on-one afterwards to verify that I could identify the correct turn marker, but I barricaded myself in the port-a-potty until the threat had cleared.  To those of you forced to relieve themselves in a bucket while the outhouse was in use, you're just lucky I hadn't started my GoPro.

For Tim, race day invariably starts out with breathing exercises and Kegels.

Because Mary Beth didn't accompany me to the race (something about "needing some time away from those people"), I brought down a discreet quiver of boats.  With flat conditions at the starting line and an innocuous forecast for light winds, however, it took only modest prodding from mischievous cohorts to convince me that the V14 was the right boat for the day.  Against the likes of Jesse Lishchuk, Eric Costanzo, Matt Nunnally, Matt Drayer, and our newest Matt, I could use every theoretical advantage.
 
Soon 22 boats were molded into starting formation by Wesley, who wasted no time in setting us off via a rolling start.  While I had expected Jesse to surge immediately out in front of the pack, it was Matt Skeels who seized an immediate and commanding lead - apparently attempting to complete a 12.5 mile course in a thousand meters.  Over the next few minutes, I worked my way by Wesley, Bruce Deltorchio, and Chris Chappell until I was in clear water.

Chris, remember when time froze for everyone but us, and I wanted to change everybody's feather angles and rudder alignments, but you argued that rather than taking advantage of the mysterious space-time anomaly for personal gain, we should use the opportunity to clean up the beach or some such goody two-shoes crap, and then we compromised and shaved "Epic Rulz!" into the back of Wesley's head?  That was wild.

While Matt was forging his own path in the steely waters to the right, I looked left to see what appeared to be the entire remaining field strung out in a neat line chasing Jesse.  He was pushing the pace, and they craved what he was selling.  I could identify Eric Costanzo, Matt Drayer, and Matt Nunnally behind Jesse, but the remaining row of paddlers merged into a kaleidoscope of colors, boats, and paddles.  I angled over to join the parade, slotting myself cleanly behind Jesse.  I wasn't exactly sure if a "Thanks, Eric!" or a "Sorry, Eric!" was called for after taking his place, so I settled for the "Eric?  Never heard of him." approach.

You'd have thought Jesse would have been tuckered out from hauling so many paddlers, but he kept steaming ahead at a blistering pace.  I soon fell back a boat length or so, but managed to decouple myself from Eric.  Matt was flagging up ahead.  I initially wasn't sure if he was surrendering or trying to catch a ride, but given how spryly he jumped on my wash as we reached him a few minutes later, it seemed like he had plenty of fight left in him.

Betsy had to swap in a wide-angle lens to capture the commanding lead that Matt Skeels took in the opening seconds. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols and SurfskiRacing.com)

After another quarter-mile of agonizingly slow gains, I finally managed to close the gap on Jesse and get back on his draft.  I was just getting snuggled into my bucket in preparation for a cozy Lishchuk-powered ride to the turn-around, when Jesse eased up for a moment.  I wasn't sure if he was grabbing a drink or urging me to take a pull, but since I didn't want Matt to pass, I took the lead with only a single put-upon sigh.

On the shoulder of the outgoing tide, we were pushing well over 8 mph, even with a breeze in our faces.  Matt soon dropped off, doubtless to attend to his worsening abrasions.  Over the next few miles, Jesse and I swapped pulls a couple of times.

As we progressed closer to the mouth of the Sakonnet, the "utterly benign" conditions of the start steadily deteriorated until we were eventually confronted with "extremely mild" conditions - a very light head-on chop.  Unfortunately, I've only been "mill pond" certified in the V14 (plus a recently added "with ducks (no geese)" supplement).  Although I wasn't in danger of swimming - beyond the baseline probability I assume whenever I get in a ski, naturally - I could feel the power draining out of my stroke.  Would the first 3 or 4 miles of flatwater speed be enough to justify my boat choice?  Or would the better rough-water paddlers (that is to say, most of the field) make me pay?

Between the Run of the Charles and this race, Jesse and I have spent a lot of time together.  Like an old married couple, we sometimes argue about how much to tip the waiter or whether Angela Lansbury is still alive, but mostly we sit together in rueful silence.  I haven't really figured out why he keeps me around.  Am I an insurance policy to help him stay ahead of third-party threats by helping with the pulls?  A pathfinder guiding him through unfamiliar waters?  A gentle reminder of his own mortality?  In any event, I appreciate the prestige lent by my sidekick status.

As we approached Third Beach, Jesse and I pulled even so that we could discuss which among the endless field (well, three) of white-and-blue mooring buoys was our turn-around target.  Fortunately, I had watched the landmark movie posted by Wesley earlier in the week, and recognized #114 from its searing portrayal of loneliness therein.  Once we had made the turn, Jesse and I decided on a trial separation.  I wasn't optimistic about our chances of reconciling before the finish.  At some point during the first leg, Matt Nunnally and Eric had passed Matt Skeels, and were now scarcely a couple of minutes back.

With the outgoing tide pushing at least a half-mile per hour against us, you could increase your speed by hugging the shoreline on the way back to McCorrie Point.  However, if you religiously tucked into every cove and bay, the extra distance would chew up any advantage in velocity, and a stray rock might just do the same to your hull.  Jesse seemed determined to take the straight line home, while I spent the first few miles of the return trip weaving indecisively in an attempt to stumble into the optimal groove.  With the sun on our backs and without a cooling headwind, I was starting to feel like a nomad wandering aimlessly in the desert..

Eventually I found a sweet spot, much closer to the shore than I had anticipated.  My GPS finally stopped showing sarcastic speeds like "Nope" and "N/A", although it continued to insist that my heart rate was "Critical".  And don't get me started on the foolishness it was showing for my elapsed distance.  On the positive side, I seemed to be pacing Jesse - pulling even as I slid along the coast in each cove, then dropping back a few lengths when I had to emerge to round a point.

With the with-the-wind heat building to levels capable of melting the sturdiest mettle (or, at least, mine), McCorrie Point couldn't come soon enough.  Jesse and I were abreast of one another, roughly 50 meters apart.  I would have to angle out and around the point, while he would have to slant in towards the finish.  It would be impossible to out-sprint him on equal terms, but perhaps if I could shorten my distance by... (soft scratching sounds)... cutting tightly... (loud crunch)... around the... (heart-rending scrape)... point... (gentle whisper of waves lapping against grounded boat).  Seeing the shallow bar looming, I had tried to lean my rudder out of harm's way, but in water only a few inches deep, the hull itself was hitting bottom.

Jesse won this race not by finishing before every other paddler, but by... no wait, I'm wrong - that is how he won it. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols and SurfskiRacing.com)

Further from shore, Jesse skirted the shallows and headed to an easy victory as I awkwardly tried to free my ski.  Let's be clear.  He absolutely would have won even had my shortcut proven navigable, but as long as I studiously avoid rereading this sentence in the future, I can misremember how only a sandbar stood between me and victory on the Sakonnet.  With the help of a marine salvage team, I did manage to free my boat (a few scratches worse for wear) and take silver.  Matt Nunnally came in less than 2 minutes later to fill out the top 3, with Eric only a few seconds behind.  Despite having virtually no ocean experience, Matt Skeels took 5th place by an easy margin.  Joe, Matt Drayer, Tim Dwyer, Kirk Olsen, and Wesley rounded out the top 10 men, while Leslie Chappell took the top women's spot.  Special commendations were awarded to Bob Capellini and Steve DelGaudio for assisting a paddler in discomfort.

I don't recall much of the post-race festivities.  I'm told there was pizza (best in the state, allegedly, although keep in mind that's also what they say of Narragansett Beer) and a raucous sing-along around the bonfire, but I was too wiped out to join in the revelries.  I just crawled under my car and whimpered.  Thanks to Wesley and Betsy for throwing another great Sakonnet Race.

You couldn't ask for a better bunch of folks.  I've tried, but turns out this is about as good as we can get with our credit rating.  (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols and SurfskiRacing.com)

Like that dream where you keep running and running but never get anywhere (and also, your fingers are snakes), we'll be back in Rhode Island on June 18th for the Ride the Bull race.  Register today at PaddleGuru.  It's free, but if you're interested in putting some money down, betting has already started on how many times I'll be swimming.