Blackburn Challenge: Springbok'ed

As a surfski race, many people find the Blackburn Challenge aggravating.  There's seldom any significant downwind, but there's always confused chop.  It's nearly 20 miles long.  At various points you'll have to contend with suck water, weeds, aggressive tidal currents, heavy traffic, fishing lines, lobstermen hauling traps, and a heart-breaking final turn that clearly reveals the finish... still nearly 2 miles away.  Despite all this, it's the most popular race in New England.  Partly because we're hidebound traditionalists who'd still probably be riding buggies if all the whip manufacturers hadn't been driven out of business by unscrupulous horseless carriage companies, but mainly because no other race can offer its combination of variety, scope, and beauty.

For the past couple of years, the Gorge Downwind Championship has conflicted with the Blackburn.  Although they weren't technically held on the same day, you'd essentially have to charter a private jet to Logan Airport immediately after competing on the Columbia, where your race-ravaged body could then be medevac-ed to Gloucester just in time for a 20 mile coup de grâce.  This year, however, the stars aligned to offset the dates of the two races.  Oceanographer and all-around spoilsport Chris Sherwood insists that it was actually the sun-earth-moon alignment that shifted the favorable Blackburn tides a week earlier.  Given that Chris summarily rejects all portents, omens, and auguries out of some misguided allegiance to "scientific principles", however, I think we can agree that he'll soon be struck dead by Zeus.  At least, that's what his horoscope says.  If you also happen to be a Pisces, might want to avoid going outside for a few weeks.

This is what happens when your parents pooh-pooh those warnings about toxic mercury levels in herring.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

As always, the Blackburn field was intimidating.  It's been close to 20 years since the Blackburn trophy has been hoisted by a New Englander, and not just because years of inbreeding has made us too feeble for hoisting.  Nor because there isn't literally a trophy.  Although we dodged some of the traditional villains this year - no Craig Impens, Erik Borgnes, or Eric Mims - there's apparently an endless stream of alien dastards waiting to swoop in and steal our thunder.  This year, world-class South African paddler Ian Black seemed a lock to whisk the title clean off the continent.  I infiltrated his paddling clinic the Thursday before the race in order to probe for weaknesses, but after only five minutes he insisted that I stop poking him randomly with my paddle.  Although I was unable to identify his Achilles heel, I can confirm that it's not literally his heel - nor left elbow, neck, or stomach.  To make matters worse, South African expat Bruce Poacher (who himself would be paddling a double with Eric Costanzo) had his brother Ross bubble-wrapped, crated up, and shipped from Durban to Gloucester.

Sensing US paddlers were in a weak position, Canada and Mexico decided to jointly execute a pincer move to finish us off.  The invasion was on.  I wasn't personally familiar with Toronto native Vadim Lawrence, but I knew that he had hung tough with Borgnes at a race in Montreal last year.  Vadim would be joined by perennial Canadian threats Jack Van Dorp and Brian Heath, the latter still clinging to his old West Side Boat racing kayak like an ailing medieval peasant to his leeches (and vice versa).  From the south, young Mexican flatwater paddler Ronald Zavala would be making his Blackburn debut.

Back before the invention of the paddle, we were all doing this.  [Shudder]

And of course, not all threats were international.  The protective bio-electric barrier that usually keeps the indigenous New Jersey population contained ("for their own good") apparently malfunctioned long enough for Robert Jehn to slip through.  Even closer to home, Matt Drayer has been nipping at my heels this entire season - a particularly impressive feat since more than once he's had to twist around backwards in his cockpit to do so.  And hailing from a mere 8,342 feet from the starting line, rabid newcomer Janda Ricci-Munn was the local's local everyone had their eye on.  A few weeks earlier I had delusions that this might be my year to win the Blackburn.  Clearly my pipe dream needed recalibration.  Cracking the top 5 seemed vaguely doable, but only after a vigorous round of self-affirmation exercises.

After a brisk captain's meeting at Gloucester High School, the racers found their way onto the water.  With a mild incoming tide, we'd be fighting the current in the Annisquam River before getting some temporary relief in the open ocean.  By the time we finished, however, an outgoing tide would be pushing against us.  The forecast was for light northerly winds, but not enough to provide much downwind action on the long stretch along the east coast of Cape Ann.  After nearly a dozen heats of other craft had been launched on their journey, the surfskis finally nosed up to the starting line.

Nobody really knows how these things get started, but before I had a chance to gird my loins for the upcoming engagement (terrible chafing issues, you know), I found myself amidst the mayhem.  And then, within the first few seconds, increasingly abaft the mayhem.  While this might have been a safer vantage point to watch the unrolling skirmish at the front, I needed to join the melee.  Rather than diving in head-first with paddle flying (often a literal analogy, in my case) I took a cue from Jack Van Dorp, who was creeping ninja-like along the shore, out of the tidal current.  My rear-facing GoPro later showed that locals Matt and Janda quickly followed suit.

Ian Black was leading a furious charge up the middle of the channel, with Rob, Vadim, Ross, and a few others in tow.  A half-mile into the race, the course veers to the right while a long dead-end arm of the estuary stretches alluringly in front of you.  Having myself been enticed down the wrong path back in my larval sea kayak days (oh, such fond memories of pupation!), I knew how easy it was to lead yourself astray.  Watching the leaders veer from the optimal path I was treading the fine line between "exploiting local knowledge" and "being a weasel".  With Jack by my side near the riverbank, however, I felt that between us we could likely shoulder the shameful burden of remaining silent.  I'm on the fence about misery, but trickery definitely loves company.

Unfortunately, Ian noticed the error of his way before heading too far afield and corrected his course to intercept ours.  Of course, as the star paddler of the race, he brought his entire entourage with him.  When Jack and I merged with the main group a quarter mile later we were just a skosh shy of the leaders.  At this point Ross was pulling, with Ian on a port draft and Rob flared out further to the left.  Everyone else had fallen at least a length behind.  I pulled onto Ross' starboard draft, any lingering compunction about our clandestine corner-cutting quickly washed away by the salty spray from his paddle.

As Ross' right hand man, I felt obligated to whisper sage advice into his ear.  He probably welcomed my suggestions concerning course adjustments given his unfamiliarity with the area, but I'm not convinced he appreciated the spiritual guidance (nobody seems to honor Baal these days) or random grooming tips (why not try pure lye to remove that pesky epidermis?).  Having had enough of my counsel after a few minutes, Ross dropped back for some peace and quiet while I took the pull for our inseparable gang of peers.

I'm not sure for exactly how long I spent basking in glory while leading the Blackburn, but it was precisely from 8:01.41 to 15:04.25 into the race - perhaps someone handy with a slide-rule and calipers can figure out the elapsed time for me.  At first, the euphoria related to pulling Ian Black muddled my thoughts (conveniently discarding the logical conclusion that he was just using me as a pathfinder through uncharted territory), but over time, suffering and fatigue gradually took over responsibility for scrambling my brainwaves.  I was intent on staying out front for as long as possible, but through the haze of growing anguish I remembered the sing-song adage concerning exertion: "When your heart rate hits four digits, you'll soon be dead, cold and rigid."  Although curious to see what would happen to my Garmin display after rolling past 999 bpm, I decided it might be wiser to let someone else take a pull.

While that move may have kept me alive for another 24 years, 7 months, and 10 days (give or take), it came at a bitter cost.  Ian tried to take point, but I denied him this opportunity by sliding clean off  his wake - just barely catching onto Ross' rear draft on my way back.  With the mouth of the Annisquam now clearly in sight and our well-formed triangle in tatters, Ian decided to go it alone, leaving Ross and his plus one to fend for ourselves.  Fortunately, we had dropped Rob and the pursuit pack by this point, buying some time to formulate a new attack plan.

The secondary market for photos of Blackburn photographers is surprisingly robust.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

If I'm on a draft and I'm operating at any level less than a white-knuckled terror of falling off, I become inexplicably convinced that the puller is dogging it up front.  After a few minutes of such lollygagging from Ross, I couldn't take it any more.  At any moment the guys behind would certainly catch us!  I moved smoothly ahead of Ross with a few powerful strokes (let's call it 150), then relaxed into a new pace just a notch or two below his former clip.  Sure, we were technically going slower than before, but based on the labored breathing and intermittent groans I heard from the new puller, I was satisfied that nobody was slacking off.

I paddled out of the Annisquam with Ross in tow, while Ian steadily increased his lead ahead.  I've been referring to Ross by name for clarity in this report, but as these events unfolded, I actually thought I was sparring with Vadim.  I had met both men briefly during registration, but somehow got them mixed up once we were on the water.  I knew Vadim came from a flatwater background, so I figured that once we were in proper open water conditions, I'd have an opportunity to show off my superior rough water skills.  Rather than quibble about this wildly overstated characterization of my ocean paddling abilities, let's just accept the questionable premise so that we can then agree that subsequently taking a 30 minute pull wasn't a bone-headed blunder, but a brilliant piece of strategy.  Even though it wasn't particularly rough, surely Vadim would stumble at some point and fall off my draft.

Approaching Halibut Point 3.5 miles later, I finally conceded that I wasn't going to drop Vadim, and eased back to let him take a turn pulling.  As he passed by, I had a horrible epiphany regarding his identity.  I'd have loved to see the look on my face when I realized that Vadim was actually Ross, but I just can't bring myself to check out that segment of my video.  Given the South African waters he habitually paddles in, Ross must have regarded our mild seas with a sneer of contempt.  I should note here that the real Vadim would finish only a minute behind me, despite conditions that would eventually get notably lumpier.  Clearly my assumptions about his ocean skills were off base.

After bonding over a shared appreciation for early Hapsburg Dynasty tapestries and the comic strip Blondie, Bruce and Eric became a powerhouse double pair.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

Leslie captured one of the last moments during the race that Ross and I could actually be seen in the same frame.  Next time maybe she'll bring her fish-eye lens. (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

Vadim and Rob, on the other hand, couldn't be separated even using Photoshop.  (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

Hoping that Ross was as much of a stand-up guy as brother Bruce (I'm not above using retroactive ass-kissing to influence results), I jumped on his wash and nestled in for my turn on the dole.  Perhaps we could work together over the next 90 minutes to lock down second and third places.  Keeping the good name of Poacher alive, Ross made no attempt to drop me.  You can imagine my surprise, then, when a few minutes later I blinked and suddenly found myself four length back.  I figured alien technology was advanced, but never imagined they'd mastered teleportation.  It took me the better part of fifteen minutes to get back on the draft, but then, poof, he's four lengths ahead again.  After a couple of additional yo-yo iterations, I finally discovered that Ross' so-called "teleportation" was nothing more than a parlor trick.  A sleight-of-paddle.  The charlatan was just exploiting minuscule runners to scoot briskly ahead of me.

Once I was onto Ross' game, I figured it would be a simple matter of copying his every move.  Turns out, not that simple.  Apparently there's some skill involved.  I started slipping further back from the downwind magician.  When I noticed a lobster boat angling across our path, dragging behind it undulating mounds of water, I knew the end was nigh.  Ross deftly hopped on the diagonal wake as I struggled in vain to match his proficiency, sliding sloppily back through successive peaks in the wave train.  Within a matter of seconds, what had been a half-dozen length deficit expanded to ten, fifteen, twenty lengths.  All I could do now was resolve to throwing increasingly paranoid glances over my shoulder for the next 8 miles in the hopes of maintaining third place.  It was with great satisfaction that the following week I watched Ross finish an impressive 27th at The Gorge against a world-class field.  A sound beating from such a paddler still hurts, but at least I can show the scars proudly to my kids.  Well... to someone's kids.  Just before I'm taken away in cuffs.

With nearly half the race left to go and the tide increasingly turning against us, there was no shortage of drudgery remaining.  As we approached Eastern Point, the character of the water changed.  What had previously been good-natured ribbing gradually escalated, progressing through name-calling, wedgies, and lunch-money shakedowns.  Certainly not the kind of crimes-against-humanity we've been subjected to in Blackburns past, but unacceptable bullying behavior nevertheless.  I kept searching for the runners that would free me from this abusive relationship, but in the end I just had to weather the harassment until I reached the relative safety of Gloucester Harbor.  Based on the fact that Ross added another minute to his lead during this same span, he'd doubtless characterize the environment as more "nurturing" than "hostile".  When you live in a country where each year more than half the population is eaten by either lions or great whites, you see things with a different perspective.

Andrius and Max had to wait twenty minutes for the schooner Adventure to get into position, but the Blackburn 2020 Marketing Committee thanks them.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

Best finish of the day - John Costello holding off John Redos.  Worst finish of the day - that third helping of mac-and-cheese I had at the after-party.  (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

While their adamant refusal to paddle a double ski should technically disqualify them from appearing in this report, I had to make an exception to showcase the perfect synchrony between Rick Silverman, Phil Sachs, and Mike Sachs (not pictured).  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs).

The final two-mile stretch to the greasy pole is a crapshoot as far as boat traffic is concerned.  You might throw a 7 or 11 and escape scot-free, or you might have to endure a constant stream of dice bouncing painfully off your melon.  I managed to break even on the trip, scoring a few lucky rides and only having to slow down once to avoid being rolled over by a working boat.  During my paddle across the harbor I searched anxiously (or, perhaps, eagerly) for the splintered remnants of Ross' ski, but he rode his winning streak all the way to the finish, beating me by nearly two minutes.  Ian had completed his race 9 minutes before Ross, clocking in at 2:31:29 - the sixth fastest ski time ever recorded, in not particularly favorable conditions.

Scarcely a minute after I finished, Rob and Vadim sprinted in within seconds of one another, with Jake and Matt restaging this last-minute dogfight a minute later.  Melissa Meyer added another gold medal to her season's heap in the women's race.  The SS20+ class win came down to a photo finish between John Costello and John Redos, with the former taking the crown.  In doubles, Eric and Bruce won handily, slotting themselves between Ian and Ross in the overall standings so that South Africans could claim the three fastest ski times of the day.

Despite starting out together in a double, Robin somehow finished a full half-hour before Mary Beth arrived.

I was feeling proud of my Blackburn performance.  I was outgunned by two phenomenal paddlers, but had held off the rest of a talented field to secure a podium finish (he says, conveniently omitting the fact that several of the usual suspects were absent).  Hooray for me!  Hubris has a distinct odor, but somehow through the post-race bouquet of sunscreen and beer, I never noticed it.  So when the Fates wheeled me into the OR for ego reduction surgery only five days later at the Gorge, it came as quite a shock.  As wave after wave of skis passed me, my groggy protestations that "I am a good paddler, I am." seemed more and more ludicrous.  Nothing like a 114th place finish to remind you that there's still a bit of work to be done.

Bruce, Ian, and some American guy.

Because I was so slow to get this report ready, we're now lazily adrift in the race doldrums of August.  For those desperate enough to motor inland in search of competition, the USCA Marathon Nationals in Warren, PA will offer a respite from August 8 to 11.  MB and I will be there.  For the ocean purists, start rationing your provisions - you'll need them to last until Mike McDonough's Nahant Bay Cup, tentatively scheduled for August 31.  Watch SurfskiRacing and Facebook for details.

Check out many more spectacular race photos from Mike Sachs, Leslie Chappell, and Olga Sydorenko.  Also, there are great race reports from Ian Black, Melissa Meyer, and Wesley Echols.

Jamestown Double Beaver: Gnawing Fear

The Jamestown Double Beaver has had a bumpy ride over the past few years as race director Tim Dwyer - suffering delusions of downwind grandeur - monkeyed with the established course.  In fact, 2015 and 2018 were utterly bereft of beavers.  I'm not saying deviation from tradition caused last year's lightning storm, but I did hear rumblings to that effect from several lightly-singed paddlers.  Just as earth's gravity will eventually divert some wayward asteroid to a collision that spells our fiery doom, the weight of tradition was bound to eventually swing us back to the standard Double Beaver route.  Fiery doom might be implausible in this case, but we've all seen Jan Lupinski get into nuttier scrapes on the water.

This year we'd be racing the lite version of the classic course - a 10 mile out-and-back that would take us from Conanicut Yacht Club, past the House on the Rock, around Bull Point, and across open water to the turn-around at the bell buoy off Beavertail Point.  With a 10 knot wind from the southwest, we'd have an upwind-downwind situation on the long stretch between Bull Point and the buoy.  Doubtless the winner would be determined within that expanse.

Although new to the sport, Melissa has already perfected the subtle art of psyching out your opponents via a last-minute rudder change.

Fearing impending bad weather, Tim assembles the hard-top canopy for his ski.

The top five competitors from the Ride the Bull race two weeks earlier would be reprising their roles in this race.  I just hoped that everyone would stick to the script.  I didn't want any of these guys improvising their way into top billing.  There could only be one star (which, coincidentally, was also the consensus of the reviewers of my ill-advised second grade talent show solo rendition of "Ebony and Ivory" - a production that one critic quipped "set back race relations by 88 years").  In retrospect, however, I'm not sure that I should have taken the opportunity during the captain's meeting to introduce Jan, Chris Quinn, Chris Laughlin, and Tim Dwyer as my "supporting cast".  That's the kind of thing that got Caesar into trouble.  Mary Beth, on the other hand, was hoping for a major rewrite in which RTB champ Melissa Meyer's role would be reduced to a bit part.

Without Wesley at the race, we milled about for a good 45 minutes off the Yacht Club pier before eventually realizing that someone else would have to count us down to the start.  Although Tim modestly downplays his abilities in this regard, once he figured out that he had been inadvertently waiting for his heart rate to get to 0, he showed a real flair for marking off seconds.  With Tim's enthusiastic kick-off, we were on our way.

While Kurt may look intimidating, inside he's just a great big teddy bear operating a complicated series of levers and pulleys.  Quite possibly with diabolical intent.

My strategy - and I use the word in a sense so loose that it's likely to slip right off - was to paddle hard and pray that nobody else could do better.  Also, I sacrificed a farm animal.  Not in person, but via one of those Give A Goat/Take a Goat charity programs.  His name was Señor Bumpers.  They sent me some charred entrails from the burnt offering as a keepsake, but given the ultimate result of the race, I think eating them with some pasta might not have gone over well with the gods.

With a solid start that had me convinced that I was the victim of some inscrutable prank, I quickly found myself alone in the lead.  True, Chris L was running parallel to me on an outside line, but I was pretty sure he'd soon fall back to join the others, tittering about my upcoming humorous comeuppance.  He was clearly just a decoy to set me at ease.  As expected, when our lines converged near the House on the Rocks, he joined his fellow rascals behind me.

Rounding Bull Point, we were faced with that make-or-break 3.5 mile upwind stretch to the turn-around buoy.  Fortunately, we had a modest outbound current to help bear the slogging load.  I put my head down as far as was possible (best not to see exactly how far you have left) and started the long trek.  I still wasn't sure what the trailing band of merry pranksters had in store for me, but I'd try to have the last laugh by just staying out front.

You know how you'll be walking alone through the woods and you'll have the sensation that someone is following you, but you don't want to look back to check because you've been experiencing severe vertigo when you twist your neck and you're afraid if you do look back you'll lose your balance and fall sideways into some brambles, but then you eventually get so weirded out that you do look back and you see a completely shaved shirtless guy 20 feet behind, chasing you while wielding a bizarre whirling truncheon of some sort?  So you can empathize with my terror.

My pursuer, of course, was a demented Chris Q.  And based on my impression of a vague Polish shape behind him, he had brought Jan along for support.  As we made our way towards Beavertail Light, I periodically checked back to make sure I was still using the correct pronoun to indicate our progress.  Always, oui.  The waves had been generally head-on over the initial couple miles of the upwind haul, but the conditions became more confused the nearer we approached to the rocky shore of Beavertail Point.  The random undulations generated by the reflected waves were manageable, but every so often they'd be supplemented by boat wakes that somehow warped the space-time continuum to add a tricky 4th dimensional displacement to the mix.  At one particularly sketchy point, I remembered being inside out next Tuesday.

The agitated waters off the point had one positive effect - they disengaged Chris and Jan from my tail.  Given the relentless pace I was maintaining, it seemed safe to believe that without the largess of my draft, the pair would immediately drop by the wayside.  In fact, be swept by the wayside.  Inexplicably, they instead surged to pull even going into the buoy turn.  I briefly entertained the notion that my pace was actually somewhat shy of relentless (maybe just "dogged" or "unforgiving"?), but my ego quickly swatted down that absurd hypothesis.  Chris and Jan were defying logic, end of story.

After bashing into the waves for the last half-hour, I was looking forward to the inevitable downwind paradise.  It wasn't quite the nirvana I had hoped for, but then again, I can't say I've really put in the soul-scrubbing necessary to prepare myself for the ultimate reward.  Nevertheless, there were plenty of good rides available provided that you were willing to work for them.  Over the next couple of miles, the the three of us traded leads while weaving amongst each other chasing bumps.  Jan eventually asserted himself as the alpha surfer, slowly widening his lead as he hopped on runners that Chris and I missed.  For a while it looked as if Chris might also outdistance me on this leg, but with a half-mile left before Bull Point, he started to flag and I was able to pass him.

Entering the protected 1.5 mile finishing stretch, Jan had a lead of perhaps a dozen lengths.
Hoping to whittle this down to nothing before he even realized I was closing, I honed my technique to as sharp an edge as it would take (I'd estimate halfway between butter knife and wooden spoon) and started carving ragged strokes through the bay.  I tried to hide my progress behind moored boats so as to not alarm the skittish leader, but when I got to within a few lengths, Jan must have spotted me.  Or perhaps heard my death rattle (dammit - I should have paid that extra $15 for the sonic dampener).  In any event, he picked up his pace.  For the last half mile, I had no real hope of catching Jan, but by sacrificing a few million neurons to oxygen deprivation I was able to maintain a credibly threatening pursuit.  No reason why we shouldn't both suffer.

Jan finished several lengths ahead, hopefully cursing me for pushing needlessly through the finish.  Chris Q pulled in a few moments later to take third.  As at the Battle of the Bay, Chris L and Tim rounded out the top five.  Melissa looked strong in taking the women's title (in the eighth overall spot), with Mary Beth in second.

The top paddlers were awarded beautiful prints of the eponymous lighthouse of the race.  I'm going to hang mine in my bedroom so that when I awake from nightmares of rougher years off Beavertail Point, I can keep screaming for a few extra seconds.  Raffle prizes included spiffy Y Knot hats (produced by Alyce and Gaelyn) and sandwiches.  Everyone went home with something.  Bob Wright's new hobby is apparently finding odds-and-ends in his basement and converting them into elaborate trophies.  I don't think that's actually a thing, but if it'll finally keep him out of the cock-fighting dens of Woonsocket, more power to him.  By correctly predicting his race time, Kurt Hatem was the first to benefit from Bob's newfound passion.

Bob's a whiz when it comes to working on all things mechanical, but complained that he was having a hell of a time figuring out his new microwave.

To the victor go the spoils.  Afterwards, a tearful Jan confessed that all he really wanted was for certain insensitive clods to stop poking fun at his hilarious accent.  I may have added the "hilarious".  If he had actually said "hilarious" - just imagine how funny that would have sounded!  Say it in your head now.  See?

Coming up on July 6th is Eric McNett's Casco Bay Challenge.  In a continuing tradition, four participants will be randomly selected to get hopelessly lost.  Don't miss out on that chance to finally see Nova Scotia!  Register at PaddleGuru.  If the current forecast holds, it should be a cracker downwind blast.  And if you don't already have July 13th circled on your calendar, that's presumably because you haven't actually used (or even seen) a real calendar since 2004.  Of course, that's the date of New England's greatest aquatic suffer-fest, the Blackburn Challenge.  Registration closes on Wednesday, July 10th at noon.

One last item.  Who amongst us couldn't use a tune-up on our paddling technique?  Or, in some instances, a complete tear-down and rebuild?  Ian Black, a world-class South African paddler sponsored by Stellar, will be giving a two-hour surfski clinic at 4pm on July 11th - just in time for the Blackburn.  Cost is $50.  Contact Michael Duffield (father of Sam) of Newbury Kayak for registration and additional details (newburykayak@gmail.com, 978-465-0312).

I've just been reminded by my editor that with the Blackburn Challenge approaching, it's time to start tapering.  As such, I should maintain blog intensity, but reduce volume dramatically.  Oops.

Ride the Bull: Running the Gauntlet

Just moments after we pulled into our driveway after returning from the Sakonnet River Race, it was time to turn around and head back to the state affectionately known as "Massachusetts's Dewlap" for Wesley and Tim's Ride the Bull race.  After underbidding all other syndicates, we had been awarded the lucrative contract to transport Ryan Bardsley (with "associated racing paraphernalia transportee deems necessary") to Jamestown.  This necessitated installing an additional rack on our car.  Through a series of miscalculations and engineering blunders, this process involved stripping our Subaru down to a bare chassis before reassembling it to a rough approximation of its original state.  But with a third V rack.  As long as Mary Beth kept her seat belt on and I wasn't too aggressive on left-hand turns, I figured there'd be at least an 80% chance of her remaining in the passenger seat the whole trip.

With race-time winds of 15+ knots from the SSE, the normal Ride the Bull course was likely to be a mix of significant beam waves and frothing clapotis (second in severity only to dysentery among incontinence-related afflictions).  Although the race was expressly designed to test our resilience against scrapes, fractures, and contusions while being pounded against the picturesque rocky shore, Wesley and Tim decided that the lamentations of the guilt-ridden survivors might draw unwanted attention from the authorities.  Tim claims to have some powerful local connections, but even James Taylor would have trouble making multiple manslaughter charges go away.

Despite strict warnings against conviviality, pockets of amicable conversation kept flaring up. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

We forgot to tell our car-pool passenger about the carbon monoxide leak in the back seat, but Ryan eventually recovered enough of his cognitive abilities to solve this conundrum.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Putting their heads together (in a Laurel and Hardy fashion, while simultaneously leaning forward to study a chart of Narragansett Bay - at least in my imagination), a slightly concussed Wesley and Tim devised an alternative loop course in the bay to the east of Jamestown.  We'd first slog upwind 1.5 miles past the House on the Rock to round Bull Point Rock, then head on a glorious 4.5 mile downwind to the north end of Gould Island, then claw our way the 3 miles back to the start, realizing that we had flagrantly misused the term "slog" on that initial leg.  The new course would virtually eliminate any chance of being dashed against rocks, while ensuring that we'd instead be run down by the hundreds of predatory sailing vessels on the bay.  Of course, this shifts the liability for any "accidents" from the race coordinators to the offending boat captains.  Don't feel too bad for the yachtsmen, however - they doubtless can afford lawyers good enough to get any charges reduced to "depraved indifference" with a slap-on-the-wrist $50,000 fine.

A good portion of the usual gang showed up - Timmy, Jacko, Rotgut, Li'l Slipper, The Fez... hold on, that can't be right.  Probably shouldn't be half-watching the Jimmy Cagney marathon on TNT while I'm writing this.  Sixteen paddlers would be racing.  We would have had one more, but Chris Chappell showed up, took one look at the swarms of sailboats on the bay, and rushed over to Newport to get in on the betting for who'd rack up the highest tally.  Since the 2nd through 4th finishers from the Sakonnet River Race couldn't suit up for this race, three equally robust threats were subbed in as replacements - Jan Lupinski, Chris Quinn, and Chris Laughlin.  Given the conditions, I was particularly worried about the renowned skills of these gentlemen in rough-water handling, downwind paddling, and collision-avoidance.

Melissa and Jim wisely chose the "toe-to-head" carry to prevent any cross-brand funny stuff.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

We milled about for a 1 p.m. start, paddling slowly upwind amidst the moored boats while awaiting the start signal.  On another day, I might have joined Kirk Olsen in his playful pre-race antics - leaning forward to fiddle with your foot-strap until you topple off your ski is right up my alley - but figured I should save my energy for less frivolous remounts.  Soon after Kirk regained his bucket, Wesley counted us down to the gun.

Split up by obstacles in the mooring field, Jan led one small group to the left while Chris L spear-headed the main push closer to land.  Pushing through the chop, I soon found my way abreast the latter, casting wary glances to my port to assess the relative progress of Jan.  As our lines inevitably merged, Lupinski assumed a half length lead while Laughlin dropped slightly back.  To maintain the proper Chris equilibrium, Quinn moved in to take his place.

Five minutes into the race we encountered our first significant hurdle, our path taking us right through the gyrating core of a fleet of 35' sailboats jockeying for position prior to their own regatta.  Like the puffer fish inflates itself to fool its predators into thinking it's larger and fiercer than it actually is, I huddled close to Jan in an attempt to deceive the fast-moving craft.  I fear this may have back-fired, as several boats veered our way to attempt a two-fer kill.  Fortunately, our pack made it through unscathed.  Physically, at least.  As for the rest of our field, I just hoped our crazed dash through the gauntlet had distracted the sailors long enough to allow their safe passage.

Let the culling begin!  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

The remaining upwind trip was uneventful for me, largely because Jan acted as my coal mine canary, plotting a path through the shoals near the House on the Rock and helpfully identifying some tidal eddies by spinning out in front of me (with a little help from me pushing his stern, natch).  As we transitioned to the downwind portion of the race at the back of Bull Point Rock, Chris Q and I pulled even with Jan.  That arrangement lasted all of 45 seconds, at which point Jan's superior downwind skills asserted themselves and began to pry him inexorably from our grasp.  I never saw Chris L on the downwind leg, but based on the results, he couldn't have been too far behind.

I began calculating how much of a lead I might be able to overcome going into the upwind return leg, but my math (and grammar) must be rusty because I kept coming up with the same disheartening answer: none lead.  Jan had paced me (some might say pulled me, but that's just quibbling) on the opening upwind leg, so what made me think I could beat him in similar conditions over the final few miles?  Hubris, sure, but I couldn't figure out how to shoehorn that factor into the computation.  Looked like I'd just have to get out front by the end of Gould Island.

Never a team player, Jan didn't appear down with the plan.  For the next few moments he continued to pull away from Chris and I.  His lead grew to about 10 lengths, but at that point the gap stabilized.  We'd accordion back and forth as we caught different waves, but the net effect was a wash.  This delicate equilibrium reigned for a couple of minutes, but then I started to pull Jan back.  A key component of this transition was recognizing that we weren't "surfing" so much as "paddling in the direction of the waves".  I'm clumsy and inefficient at the former, but... marginally less so at the latter.  Once I stopped consciously trying to read the marginally surf-able waves and just started putting one blade in front of the other (on alternating sides, I eventually figured), that's when I started to make progress and identify bumps to boost me along.

The waves were offset by a few degrees to the east of our straight-line direction to Gould, so the three of us swung wide into the center of the bay.  Maddeningly, this is where some pasty-faced bureaucrat (who wouldn't know a fo'c'sle from a bosun) chose to randomly place the shipping channel.  Race officials must have radioed in our course, though, because commercial traffic gave us a wide berth.  I lost track of Chris as I closed the gap on Jan, but felt reasonably confident that he hadn't passed me.  About a half-mile before reaching the Newport Bridge, I moved into the lead.

Taking a cue from the "invasion stripes" painted onto Allied planes for D-Day, Tim decorated his boat with a predetermined pattern to eliminate friendly fire incidents from his sailboat skipper cronies.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

I understand that every Zen boat comes with a personalized mantra to repeat while paddling.  Based on what I heard from Wesley at the end of his race, he got "Uuuurgh".  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

The remaining downwind portion went by too quickly.  With a mile left, I had started preparing myself mentally for the grind lurking at the north end of the island.  So when the GPS gleefully started blurting out speeds 2.5 mph slower (I knew putting AI in those things was a bad idea), my bow began slapping over the waves, and my paddle fluttered in the wind, I was only 90% demoralized.  I had gotten a vague glimpse of a group of 2 or 3 paddlers perhaps a minute behind at the turn, but that'd be the last chance I'd have to check on the competition - an over-the-shoulder glance might well transform into an over-the-gunwale tumble.

You don't realize just how big the Newport Bridge really is until you watch it not get any bigger while paddling interminably towards it.  Eventually, however, the bridge started to loom.  I took this as a strong indication that I might actually reach it.  My hopes were not unfounded.  After passing under the bridge and then cursing through a long half-mile into some particularly obnoxious gusts, I finished the race.  Providing empirical evidence that my calculations regarding our relative upwind performance were spot on, Jan pulled in 70 seconds later.  Chris Q nipped Chris L a half-minute later to nab the final podium spot.  On the women's side, Melissa Meyer took the win.  Although Mary Beth had arrived at the finish almost an hour earlier, under cross-examination she cracked and revealed that she had skipped half the course because "riding back home with Greg will be enough drudgery".  I'm going to interpret that as an implicit aspersion on our passenger, Ryan.  Burned, buddy!

Paddlers anxiously await their relay partners.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Max Yasochka generously handed out alfajores - a traditional treat from his an ancestral homeland, Argentina.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Thanks, Wesley and Tim, for your work as co-directors.  Most paddlers figured the downwind leg of the race was ample compensation for the bookend slogs, although I'd have felt a little better about it had the guys slipped us each a crisp $20 bill to cover pain and suffering.  Something to think about for next year... 

For those rattled by the boat traffic in Narragansett Bay, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you.  With zero verifiable strikes logged this past weekend, the yachtsmen "kill pot" carries over to the Jamestown Double Beaver on June 29.  Register at PaddleGuru for your chance to lose!  Like war-time medics steel-wooling the red crosses off their helmets, you might want to consider toning down those fluorescent PFDs.

For more of Olga's great photos, see here.

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.

Essex River Race: Winner to Swimmer

I hold the Essex River Race responsible for getting me in a surfski.  When I first wondered "what is that?" while racing in a sea kayak in the early aughts, who knew that I'd end up spending my final years obsessing over loggerhead shrikes and red-winged scrub jays!  I'm assuming that I'll eventually move on to a new hobby.  For now, however, the ERR holds a place of honor in my heart.  And owes me about $25K in accumulated ski reimbursements.   Wesley, you can probably expect to be named as a co-defendant in the forthcoming lawsuit.

The race is a 5.75 mile out-and-back lollipop course with Cross Island as the delicious candy treat  (not lime, obviously, which would make it neither delicious nor a treat) and the Essex River as the unusually sinuous stick.  This year, there would be 25 skis sharing the winding river with 100 other self-powered watercraft of varying descriptions (with "ponderous" and "unsteerable" being two of the more worrisome).  You gotta be able to bob and weave your way out of trouble, but you better also have a good corner-man ready to clean you up after taking an unseen oar to the noodle.  With perennial thorn-in-my-side Jan Lupinski making his New England season debut and Mike Florio reprising his role as a somber reminder of lost youth (not mine specifically, as he highlighted by paddling shirtless, but someone's), the non-lethal competition was also intimidating.  And there's now also this other guy...

A couple of years ago, I received an email out of the blue from a young kayaker who had seen some of my race reports and was looking for some advice about getting into a surfski.  Obviously he hadn't read my blog too carefully, or he'd have known that my true expertise lies in getting off of a surfski.  Nevertheless, I responded to "Janda Ricci-Munn" (the humorous pseudonym he had chosen for himself ) with a few tips and a liability waiver.  If only I had read the signs and instead answered with a rude dismissal!  Instead, I unknowingly invited into our midst the fiend who may one day destroy us all.

Janda was a national-caliber 70.3 (Half-Iron) triathlete with a PR of 3:57:53.  For context, that's slightly less time than it takes me to get out of bed most mornings.  After retiring from triathlons a few years back, however, Janda let his fitness level slide from inhuman to merely superhuman.  Searching for an outlet that would combine fitness, the outdoors, and friendly competition, his unwavering gaze eventually settled on surfskis.  Think Sauron, but more personable and with an actual body.  He's committed, hyper-fit, knows everything there is to know about training, and won't rest until the Fellowship is broken.

Of course, once I realized my mistake in opening the portal to our doom, I did everything I could to mitigate the damage.  To myself, I mean.  In exchange for periodic demonstrations of paddling mistakes to avoid, Janda has guided me through the physiological underpinnings of effective training techniques.  Despite his hurtful jokes about my "VO2 Min", he's been the best lactate consultant I could ask for.  And, in return, I expect he lays much of the credit for his success in last year's Blackburn (3:00:20 - in a V7, for the love of Pete) on not doing those things that I painstakingly showed him.  He'd be churning through the field on a V10 Sport for his first race of the season.

Ryan's outfit is the primary reason we find it difficult to attract young paddlers to the sport.

At low tide on the estuary, wind speed would be immaterial to stability - waves can only get so big over a fetch of 40 feet.  And most boats would be firmly grounded anyway as they searched fruitlessly for the even narrower channel.  At high tide, however, the river converts into a featureless expanse with enough fetch to make for choppy conditions.  Not exactly rough water, but syncopated enough to throw my carefully calibrated V14 stroke into arrhythmia.  With a forecast for winds out of the northwest at 12 mph with gusts in the 20s, I agonized over which boat to bring, then finally threw my V10 on the car and headed to the start.  At the last moment, I remembered that Mary Beth would probably want a ride too.

I'd spend the next couple of hours second-guessing that boat choice as the forecast mellowed, trying to decide if I should make the 5 minute drive home to swap boats.  Finally, with Bruce Deltorchio assuring me that the estuary would be "smooth as gravy" (weird, but whatever), I dashed back to the house and grabbed the 14.  After launching and warming up, I ran into Bruce on the water.  He was shocked that I had switched boats given that it would probably be "loose and wavy" out there.  Nobody believes me when I tell them how devious Bruce is, but surely this embellished example must finally convince them.  I only had time for four more trips home before ultimately settling back on the V14.

We all mocked Wesley, but ended up feeling pretty foolish about 36 days later.  38 for Chris.

Unbeknownst to me, the minute immediately preceding the start had been shortened to 30 seconds - some type of leap-half-minute clock correction, probably.  As a result, I found myself a few boat lengths behind the line as the starter announced 5 seconds left.  Unsure of the protocol regarding running starts, I took a series of nothing-to-see-here half strokes during the subsequent countdown in an attempt to casually close my pre-start deficit.  I shouldn't have bothered, given that my post-start acceleration was so anemic that I actually experienced a few seconds of zero-g weightlessness.  With an immediate bend in the river compacting the group in front of me, I found myself squeezed between Mike and Janda.  My execution was appalling, but you have to admire the dedication - during the middle of a race providing another instructive example of lousy paddling.  I slipped up a bit though by eventually doing the right thing - easing back and ceding the right-of-way.

In the ensuing straightaway, I managed to swing wide of the pack and start working my way up toward the leaders.  Chris Chappell had vaulted to an early lead, with Jan and Mike in pursuit.  As I eased past Ryan Bardsley, 18 inches to his starboard, we showed off some of the exquisite paddle synchronization that saw us through the first three rounds of America's Got Talent.  I'd had limited rehearsal time with Tim Dwyer, Mike McDonough, Wesley Echols, and Timmy Shields, however, so I gave them a much wider berth.  A half-mile into the race, I was clear of the main pack and in pursuit of the lead trio.  I cued up some motivational music in my head, but the ripples from the boats ahead caused the track to repeatedly skip back to the beginning.  Gotta update that technology so that I can finally find out who's peekin' out from under a stairway and calling a name that's lighter than air.

Just joking.  Everyone knows it's Windy.  On an unrelated note, my advertisers have asked me to target a reader demographic that hasn't yet been involuntarily committed to assisted living facilities.  If anyone has ideas along this front, please shoot me a telegram.  Or whatever it is the younglings are using to communicate these days.  A Grindr poke, maybe?

A couple of minutes later, I passed Mike and latched onto Chris for a breather.  These being my home waters, I had a pretty good idea of the course I wanted to navigate through the river bends.  Apparently, so did Chris.  I base this assumption on his uncanny ability to block me from my preferred heading without ever even looking back to see where I was.  If I wanted to go left, I somehow found myself on his starboard side.  If I wanted to head right, he'd magically appear on that side to corral me like a stray dogie.  And if I wanted to pass him on a straight-away, Chris stubbornly insisted on going faster than me.

Eventually I thought about going one direction and then juked the opposite way.  This mind-feint threw off his ESP long enough for me to pull even with Chris before he could steer me back into the fold.  He appeared surprised when I triumphantly taunted him with "Where's your prescience now?" which just underscores the extent to which his supernatural abilities had been compromised.

We've barely heard a peep about Jan thus far.  This uncharacteristic reserve from one of the biggest personalities on our stage is starting to make me nervous, so let's catch up with his shenanigans.  While I was trying to out-maneuver Chris, Jan was soldiering along to our left, paying absolutely no heed to the thrilling game of cat-and-mouse that I imagined was going on.  The lack of drama coming from his direction was deafening.  After a few moments of this eerie impassivity, I couldn't take it any more.  Swerving to avoid some weedy shallows (Chris' oaths from behind revealing that he'd utterly lost his gift), I threw in an interval to separate myself from Jan and the others.

Like Old Faithful, I can be expected to go off at regular intervals.

The tide-enriched river opened into a marshy lake devoid of navigational landmarks.  Fortunately, the reconnaissance heats we had sent out in advance had heroically sacrificed their times sussing out the shortest navigable path.  By following the string of paddlers ahead, I was able to skirt the shallows.  Despite their critical service spotting obstacles from high altitude (up to 6 feet, in some cases), I couldn't help muttering curses at the SUP corps as they zig-zagged randomly into my path.  I know that they also serve who only stand and wade, but couldn't they do it somewhere else?

Once I had cleared the tide-induced chop near Conomo Point, the remainder of the course was relatively smooth sailing (although, in my defense, I also threw in a few strokes from time to time).  The primary challenge was maneuvering around all the slower craft once I was back in the river proper.  I'm referring, of course, to the motorboats returning to Essex.  Constrained in speed by no-wake rules (with varying degrees of compliance) and in course by the channel, I'm sure they were muttering their own curses as I zig-zagged across their paths.  It all comes full circle.

I made it back to the finish without being shot by an irritated yachtsman with a flare gun, taking my first win of the season.  A few moments later, Jan and Janda arrived just four lengths apart to claim the other podium spots, with Mike only 15 seconds back despite having stability issues behind Cross Island (not a euphemism).  In the women's race, Leslie Chappell pulled ahead at Conomo Point and never looked back.  If she had, she'd have seen Mary Beth shaking her fist in fury and vowing revenge in the next race.  MB then continued paddling to take second prize, with Jean Kostelich in third.  Gary Williams and Robin Francis seized the double's crown, and refuse to give it back until their demands are met.

Ja! Jan, Janda und Greg.

Oui! Leslie, MB et Jean.

Back in 2016, I managed to tumble from the bucket of my V14 just seconds before the start of the Essex.  I'm proud to announce that I've now book-ended that feat by capsizing just minutes after the finish.  While the boat was stable enough for the race, it's apparently not quite a secure enough platform to turn my head to answer a question while stationary.  Assuming there will now be a betting pool on when I'll take a swim during the race itself, put me down for $100 on 2020.

With an assist from the finest weather of the spring, the Cape Ann Rowing Club threw another crackerjack race.  Thanks to all the volunteers for their devotion to providing the rest of us with a memorable day.  And pizza.

If you're going to do just one race on a "river" this year, why not make it at the Sakonnet River Race on June 1?  Wesley has assured me that by the time of the race, the Sakonnet will be piranha free!  He actually said 95% free, but what's a toe or two?  You must preregister at PaddleGuru.  If you live within reach of Beverly, MA, you should also consider joining us on Tuesday nights for the 14th season of the Salem League races.  As the old adage goes... there's no better training for ocean racing than listening to Bill Kuklinski grumble about ocean racing.

We may need to rethink our post-race party.  This photo was taken Tuesday morning.

Run of the Charles: Course Adjustment

(Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

For many New England paddlers, the Run of the Charles is the first race of the season that is commonly referred to by acronym.  Besides that important distinction, the 6 mile ROTC is also one of the largest flatwater races in the area, drawing 20-some skis in the past few years.  A week and a half ago, Mary Beth and I greased a few of the right palms and weaseled a pair of coveted invitations into that pack.  I was surprised at the $700 "expedited entry fee" that organizer Mark Jacobson asked for on a shady bank of the Charles a month earlier, but I guess that's the going rate.

Between Mary Beth's recent retirement and my need to stay one step ahead of federal mail fraud investigators (there's some debate about the technical definitions of "non-profit" and "miracle hair growth lotion"), we've been forced to spend a lot of time away from home.  It's tough to find time to craft a finely honed race report when you're jet-setting around the world.  And, apparently, also when you're lounging on your parent's couch in Western New York, trying to figure out if you can stuff yet another slice of banana bread into your pie-hole.  The answer is always yes, by the way.  So that's why this report is less than timely.

Those years of working car shows really paid off for Andrew.

Veteran racers of the 6 mile course are as familiar with the 5 bridges on the route as they are their own remaining teeth.  Eliot, Anderson, Weeks, Western, and Cambridge.  For some, this was just never enough - especially with the BU bridge looming tantalizingly close to the downstream turn-around.  After years of ignoring relentless demands from an anonymous participant, the Charles River Watershed Association finally acceded to my appeals.  We'd now pass under the BU span!  And in a move clearly designed to eliminate any future crayon-written screeds about the meager bridge count, the organizers sweetened the deal by adding an unnamed railroad trestle.  That's 40% more bridges, folks!  Even without counting the return trip.

Unlike previous years, in which the 6 mile race involved downstream and upstream turns, the newly bridge-enriched course had a single downstream turn.  We'd proceed 3 miles towards Boston, round an inflatable orange marker, then return to the start.  Perhaps due to the increased bridge permit costs associated with the shorter race, the 19 mile course was eliminated, replaced by a 12 mile race with a dozen fewer overpasses.  Here's hoping they save up that surplus for deployment down the road.

You!  Hey!  You with the camera!  For the last time... please put on some pants.

While John and the rest of the paddlers listened with grim determination to the course instructions, Sam burst into giggles every time the race director said the word "abutment".

God only knows what would have happened had Leslie not noticed that I was preparing to take a photo.

From rereading past reports, I find that we've occasionally had nice weather on the Charles.  That won't dissuade me from affirming that it'll be a cold day in Hell when they finally choose a warm day for the race.  But I suspect they'd then relocate to that nether realm to maintain their unbroken tradition of frigid races.  I'll admit that my perspective on this year's temperature may be skewed by an unanticipated dipping of my own nether realms when I slipped on a mossy rock while launching and took a clumsy seat in the river.  Fortunately, I already had my GoPro turned on to catch my manly squeal of shock.  I can affirm that it's not the lack of heat that gets you, but the humidity.

Despite persistent rumors that Chris Quinn would show up at the last moment to break my spirit, he was nowhere to be seen as we jockeyed for starting position.  ROTC mainstay Craig Impens was also conspicuously absent.  Despite my best efforts to pretend Mike Florio didn't make it either, however, he bobbed next to me at the line.  As the starter counted us down from shore, Mike seemed a little twitchy.  I couldn't tell if his slight wobbles were a sign of nerves, instability, or one too many of whatever adrenaline-laden drinks he secretly quaffs to maintain his boundless energy.  To be safe, I helpfully reminded him to watch out for abutment eddies (distant snicker from Sam), tidal standing waves, and rabid beavers.  It's the seasoned racer's duty to destabilize the confidence of younger paddlers.  If you can also throw a few "I'm just adjusting my seat pad" waves their way as you spasmodically rock your boat, so much the better.  In fairness, I should probably point out that Mike made his way into a V14 about 6 years sooner into his racing career than I was able.

Twenty-four skis started the race, but only six would finish without wondering how the wind could be against them both ways.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

Hank Thorburn, shaking off a long winter's hibernation in Maine, exploded off the line like an ebullient bull moose.  Feeling a little woozy after this initial effort, however, he quickly snuck back to his burrow for a nap.  Hank was never very good at zoology.  Chris Chappell also started fast, but eased off the accelerator earlier than we're used to seeing from him.  This left two unknown paddlers in the lead - an orange Stellar SES and a vintage Epic V10L.  The former soon dropped off, but the latter continued at an unrelenting pace.

I discovered that the leader was youngster Augustin Reboul, who would go on to have been the 2017 ICF Junior World Wildwater champion from France (while the orange Stellar was powered by his father, Pierre).  At the time, however, he was just some dumb kid who had more youthful exuberance than sense.  He'd fold after a half-mile and limp through the remainder to the finish in 23rd place.  As luck (or destiny, if you insist on accuracy) would have it, I had chosen the wrong day to make baseless assumptions about an unknown paddler.  I was working as hard as I dared, but Augustin's lead slowly grew as the bridges ticked by.  As a defense mechanism, I was forced to recategorize the kid as an "Elite" paddler, which allowed me to jump suddenly to the lead of the "Normals".  Mike had been on my draft for a few minutes after the start, but he had dropped off some ways back.

I had a brief moment of classification doubt as Augustin attempted to round the downstream buoy.  As he started to turn he came to the kind of unnaturally abrupt halt usually reserved for long-suffering cartoon coyotes.  From 20 lengths back, it was difficult to make out exactly what happened, but I believe his squared-off bow caught the buoy's anchor line.  That felt more like something I'd do than would an implacable paddling machine, so despite my best intentions, hopes for a second-half comeback rose.  By the time Augustin recovered from his stumble and regained his accustomed pace, I had closed a depressing number of lengths.  Let's be generous and say that number was 5.  Those fickle hopes - already dimming.

Starting back upriver a few moments later, I patted myself on the back for deftly avoiding the buoy.  I saw Mike maybe a minute back (nervously glancing around for foam-mouthed aquatic rodents), with Chris and Doug Howard back again about the same distance.  Doug isn't allowed out of Vermont very often, but appeared intent on making the most of his paddling furlough.  John Costello, Tim Dwyer, Wesley Echols, and Pierre were chasing.

You'd think that Augustin would have the decency to at least pretend to be working hard for the win.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

They were neck and neck coming into the finish, but Chris was able to out-grimace Doug at the line. (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

God only knows what would have happened had Mary Beth not noticed that I was preparing to take a photo.  Kind of a wasted opportunity.  I definitely would have deleted it, Sweetie.

The trip back to the start was uneventful.  Even with the rush of excitement provoked by the extra bridges, I couldn't muster any additional speed.  I lost not only the ground gained on Augustin at the turn, but ceded a vast expanse of additional territory under his ruthless advance.  Unconditional surrender was my only option.  Although I pushed hard through the finish, I was only fighting to maintain second place.  Mike came in a couple of minutes behind me, followed a moment later by Chris and Doug.  In the women's race, an evenly-matched Mary Beth and Leslie Chappell escorted one another for the entire course before deciding via rock-paper-scissors who would take the honors at the finish.  That's what MB is making me write, at least.

Just as polar bears are gradually adapting to the loss of sea ice (mostly by eating unsuspecting eco-tourists - a truly self-sustaining industry), ROTC paddlers must come to terms with the increasingly erratic presence of Bob Capellini's pulled pork.  Once a dependable staple of the post-race party, the crop has now failed in 2 of the past 4 years.  Bob probably has had solid excuses for not making the 4+ hour drive, but given that FedEx now offers special same-day delivery rates for barbecued meat products, it's hard to see why we have to continue to suffer.

For a moment it appeared that the tragic rift between Phil and Chris would finally be mended, but after silently staring at each other for several moments, each turned and walked away, dark glasses hiding their tears.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

Don't forget to register for the Essex River Race, held on May 18.  This is our hometown race, so please remember to treat Mary Beth and I with appropriate deference on the course.  While not strictly prohibited, passing without curtsying would constitute a serious breach of etiquette.  Paddlers of all ilk are invited to stop by our place after the awards ceremony for beverages and snacks.  However, we do ask that SUP-ers provide a note from their physician indicating that they're no longer contagious.