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.
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.
