Toms River Paddle Race: Express Lane

(photo courtesy of  Mike Goodman)

Given the rich trove of surfski races within two hours of my home, I've been loath to venture outside of my regional comfort zone.  Sure, there have been the odd trips to alien waters, but these events have been "National" in character - The Gorge, Chattajack 31, US Surfski Championships, etc.  That is to say, big enough that a lousy relative performance would be lost in the noise.  Given the continuing influx of paddlers willing to make the arduous trek to New England from exotic locales, however, I felt obligated to reciprocate.  New Jersey's Toms River Paddle Race seemed like the natural choice.  Recently reinvigorated by director Melinda Edward (Schlehlein), this open water race promised the most impressive field of surfski paddlers in any East Coast competition this year.

The race portion of Toms River is mostly a broad tidal estuary that opens into Barnegat Bay.  Our out-and-back course would start near Mathis Plaza in the town of Toms River and take us 3.5 miles to where Dixon Creek enters the bay, turning on a inflatable marker to head back home.  Although the course starts and ends in relatively protected waters, conditions can get increasingly challenging as the estuary opens up and weekend boat traffic increases.

There's no rational explanation for why New Jersey is churning out so many top tier paddlers, although perhaps a desire to avoid the ever-present traffic explains their attraction to the sea.  Local surfskiers include Sean Brennan, Rob Jehn, Craig Impens, and Eric Costanzo, to name a few.  As if this wasn't a potent enough brew, they spiked the punch by enticing Ukrainian flatwater standout Andrii Monastyrskyi to resettle in the Garden State.  All of these paddlers were registered, although Craig and Eric would be sharing a boat.  After heated debate, they settled on using a double.  In a beautiful coincidence of timing, two outstanding Florida-based paddlers also happened to be in New Jersey.  Nate Humberston is one of the fastest all-around American paddlers, having represented the US at the World Championships.  Flavio Costa is best known (to me, at least) as someone who once was someone I could occasionally beat.  He might have been injured, though.

Based on past results, the buzz was around the Sean vs Nate vs Andrii contest.  I was guessing that Flavio, Rob, and the Eric-Craig double would be tight on their tails.  Given Rob's recent ascendency to the Next Level, I figured I'd spend most of my race tangling with the Triple-J threat - John Costello (another local), John Hair, and Jan Lupinski.  I've generally gotten the better of the Johns in the past, but the gap has been steadily closing as I get older and they auction off the dwindling remnants of their souls.  With all his recent travel, I didn't know how fit Jan would be.  He was recently disqualified from the Ocean Racing World Championships in the Canary Islands when stodgy officials determined that his cutting-edge boat-free technique violated pretty much all of the ICF rules.  Undeterred, he's currently petitioning to add a "surf bobbing" class to next year's race.  Formidable tandem paddlers Erin and Alan Lamb also figured to compete in our tier.

Roughly 40% the surfskis were disqualified due to illegal "cantilevered flotation attachments".  Just as well, though, since those competitors also coincidentally forgot half their paddles.

It started out with smiles and playful taunts.  It ended up with us bailing Nate and Flavio out of the pokey.

Those of us not confident enough to paddle their fastest boat in all conditions often suffer from crippling anxiety about which surfski to bring for the conditions.  Several forecasts were indicating 15 to 20 knot cross-winds, with substantially stronger gusts.  Playing it safe, I brought my V10 Sport.  In retrospect, I perhaps shouldn't have paid quite so much attention to the notoriously unreliable posts on the social networking app Tweather.

A few years back I started working on my own app that would tell which boat you should choose for a race.  I quickly became bogged down in simulating the myriad interactions between different boat, paddler, and condition parameters - tide, wind, hull shape, stroke rate, water salinity, cholesterol levels, etc.  To simplify matters, I transitioned to a multivariant temporal loop approach - you'd simultaneously race each of your boats in a different timeline, and "then" choose the best result.  As a bonus, you'd get really adept at winning lotteries.  Things looked quite promising, but it turns out that even the most powerful cellphones lack tachyon dynamometers and fall just shy of being able to provide the 1.21 gigawatts necessary to contort the fabric of space-time.  Plus if more than one competitor used the app, there was a 30% chance that the universe would implode.

I eventually settled on a more practical app that tells you which boat you should have chosen for a race.  Just before the start of the event, you enter 12 carefully chosen parameters.  The app then randomly selects one of the boats you left at home.  If you upgrade to the Pro version, it'll also loudly announce "You brought the wrong boat!"  Kinda wish now that I would've used the original prototype to decide if this whole tangent was worth it.  In any event, the app was undeniably correct this day.  The more extreme winds never materialized, meaning that the I brought much more stability than needed.  As it turned out, however, this poor boat choice had zero impact on my finish placement.

On the Friday prior to the race, Melinda had hosted a professional Zoom-based captain's meeting that resembled a Ted Talk more than an improvised PTA meeting - the vibe I'm more accustomed to.  So on race day we were able to proceed directly to the launch, where we underwent a brief screening for the required safety equipment.  The screener told me that the hard hat and fire extinguisher weren't strictly necessary, but clearly he wasn't familiar with my track record.

John H and I decided that lining up to the right would give us a shorter path to the first gentle bend of the river.  Almost everyone seemed to have a different opinion, but we pride ourselves as rebels who will stick to a hastily-contrived doctrine even if that means sacrificing valuable drafting opportunities.  A whistle soon signaled the start.  Andrii established an immediate lead, with Nate, Sean, and Flavio on his draft.  Eric-Craig and Rob were close on their heels.  After holding fast to a right-wing ideology for a solid 30 seconds, John and I abandoned our dogma and united with the leftists, joining them in a rousing chorus of L'Internationale.  John C was heroically pulling at the front of our collective, with Jan, the Lambs, John H, and myself on various drafts.  You might at first assume that we would rotate leaders in the spirit of contribution to our shared struggle, but... from each according to their ability, to each according to their need.  The drafters judged that John C had the ability and we the need.

Alas, our cohesion couldn't last forever.  John H and Jan had second thoughts about their commitment to the cause and veered off to pursue independent paths.  John C and I eventually had some ideological differences about the party line and similarly formed our own factions.  I kept the Lambs in the brokered settlement, but soon realized that they were wolves in sheep's clothing.  If I let them hang on too long, Erin and Alan would doubtless turn on me.  I made several unsuccessful attempts to shake them before finally breaking free.  I was now paddling roughly abreast of John C, who was 20 meters or so closer to shore.  I could see John H slightly off the pace, maybe 50 meters further out than me.

By this point, the leaders had broken into two groups.  Nate, Sean, and Andrii were at the front, with Flavio, Rob, and Eric/Craig now in pursuit.  However, when Andrii veered off-course on a passing boat wake, Nate and Sean wasted no time in dropping their aw-shucks, please-and-thank-you, why-no-I'm-not-a-dead-eyed-killer off-water facades.  Smelling the blood in the water, they thrashed forward with a merciless series of shared intervals, leaving behind the bloated carcass of Andrii awash in a trail of no-longer-needed hyphens (minus a few the ne'er-do-wells hung onto).  I don't know if the light chop and boat wakes were getting to him, or if he just decided to relinquish his powers to see what it was like to live as a mortal, but Andrii slowed dramatically and was passed by the second group.

Just before the halfway point Nate and Sean had finally managed to drop the jet ski. (photo courtesy of  Mike Goodman)

A half mile before reaching Long Point, where we'd angle north for a half-mile of downwind, I merged with John C.  After catching my breath on his stern draft for what I'd estimate to be no more than 15 seconds, I pulled alongside.  I figured our brief downwind would be my best chance to break free.  We caught Andrii (by all appearances paddling at about 10% capacity) just as we reached the point.  The lighter-than-expected wind wasn't exactly providing rip-roaring rides, but I managed to convince myself that I was milking each wave, leaving John wallowing in my spray.  Empirical evidence had convinced him otherwise, however.  Seeing John less than a half-dozen boat lengths at the turn, I was reluctantly forced to concede the point.

The return trip started mostly into the wind, swinging to a port quarter wind once we rounded Long Point.  With an incoming tide, it made sense to make for the channel.  I glanced back occasionally, using local John C's relative position as a gauge for my line.  I appeared to be prying open a little space between us, but I could also see John H, the Lambs, and Andrii in pursuit.  Apparently a pretty good battle was brewing amongst them until a large yacht wake tipped the balance.  And John C.  Despite a fast remount, the others took advantage of his upheaval to move ahead.

Sean and Nate enjoy that magical bonding time between finishing a hard-fought battle with a worthy competitor and once again being forced to rub elbows with the huddled masses. (photo courtesy of Mariano Elrick)

As I made continued my way up Toms River, naturally I was periodically monitoring my pursuers.  I could no longer see Rob, Flavio, and Eric-Craig up ahead, a fact I attributed to the winding estuary, despite the galling lack of any actual curves.  With just under a mile left, I judged that Andrii (in his recognizable red boat) was well over a minute behind - more than enough margin to secure my current 5th place position among the singles.  At seven-eighths of a mile, I figured he was perhaps a minute back.  At three-quarters of a mile, I started to panic.  By this point, I was really regretting that bloated carcass metaphor I had so blithely concocted earlier.  Apparently he took some umbrage.  Every hysterical glance over my shoulder revealed that Andrii had somehow jumped another half-dozen lengths closer.  It was like leafing through one of those animated flip books, but with 90% of the pages torn out.  And a lot more menace than whimsy.  Fortunately, before Andrii had the chance to reach maximum warp, the finish line intervened to save me.

Nate and Sean had both blistered through the course in less than 55 minutes, with Nate taking the crown by about 20 seconds.  In the 8 minutes longer it took me to finish, they had managed to once again camouflage their genuine natures beneath hail-fellow-well-met veneers, greeting me with their customary terrestrial bonhomie.  Of course, Flavio (3rd) and Rob (4th) had also completed the course well before me, posting times just under 57 minutes in the closest finish of the race.  Given that a couple of months ago I had been a mere half-minute behind Rob at the longer Sakonnet Race, the 5 extra minutes he put on me in NJ has left my faith in a benevolent deity shaken.  The women's race had an exciting finish, with Steph Schell and Mary Beth battling the entire course before Steph seized the lead for good.  Loukia Lili rounded out the podium.  The double of Craig & Eric battled with the singles of Flavio & Rob for much of the race, finishing about 15 seconds behind (5th overall).  Erin & Alan had a strong race as the second double (8th overall), finishing just ahead of John H and John C.

Paddler X asked that he not be identified.  His dominating sprint performance, distinctive accent, and Ukrainian name really gives him away though.

John was getting restless after the race, so we gave him an arts & crafts project to keep him occupied.

The day wasn't quite over.  Melinda had appended a knock-out sprint tournament to the race.  Sean and John C prepared the brackets and set up a 100 meter course in the protected canal adjacent to Huddy Park.  I found myself paired against Andrii in the first round of the sprints, swapping my V10 Sport for a Stellar SEA generously loaned to me by Dave Thomas.  Given that Andrii had recently put up a top five time at the 200m US Olympic team trials (as a guest international competitor), my only hope was that he would break a tie rod and crash into the canal embankment.  Sure enough, Andrii's starting strokes seemed more like a Special Attack from a fighting videogame (Windmill of Death?  Whirring Doom?) than anything an actual human could muster.  After accelerating through the first 25 meters he shut it down and popped his drag chute.  I had anticipated a fair fight, but hadn't taken into account my ingrained deviousness.  As he all-but-coasted toward the finish, I burst a few blood vessels trying catch him by surprise.  Of course, this didn't work, but if you only saw the last 10 meters of the race, it looked sorta close.  As expected, Andrii went on to win the tournament, with Alan (now in a K-1) making short work of his opponents before succumbing to the inevitable.  On the women's side, Steph and Mary Beth repeated their 1-2 finish.

The Toms River Race promised to be the most exciting of the season, and it delivered with a great field and a series of crackerjack head-to-head matches.  Many thanks to Melinda and her crew for ushering the race into an exciting new era.  She promises that next year she'll apply her considerable logistics acumen to taming the metro-area congestion.  For a more fact-based account of the race, check out Melinda's report.

She was too polite to say anything, but Melinda was disappointed that everybody else ignored the "casual elegance" dress code.

Steph, Mary Beth, and Loukia were gracious enough to pose for a podium picture.  The prima donna men demanded an appearance fee and 30% of any downstream revenues. 

Next up is the New England Marathon Paddlesport Championships in Hinsdale, NH on Sunday, August 1.  This is a 12 mile flatwater jaunt on the Connecticut River.  And, of course, the weekend after that is the Blackburn Challenge.  Although there won't be any official timing this year, Wesley Echols is organizing an informal time-yourself start at 8:00am for all surfskiers (see here for details).

Sakonnet Surfski Race: Head Start

The newly rechristened Sakonnet Surfski Race is the prescribed venue for New England paddlers to ease into the open water season.  It's much like the fable in which a frog won't notice he's being boiled alive if you slowly raise the temperature.  The Sakonnet is a skinny bay that might be called a "loch" or "fjord" in another land, or a "river" in the deranged mind of some 17th century cartographer.  In any event, the shore's never too far away.  And if the wind is from the south, like it was for the 14th running of Wesley Echol's classic race, in a worst-case scenario you'll eventually wash up on a sandy beach, complete with several seaside dining options.  Which is nice for the EMTs.

We'd be running a slightly modified version of the 2020 course.  From Island Park Beach, we'd chug 4.5 miles south to Sandy Point, where we'd turn 90 degrees counterclockwise around a mooring buoy, pointing us towards a red nun further away from shore.  Reaching this buoy, we'd turn another 90 degrees and head back to the start.  With a southerly breeze stiffening over the course of the race, we'd pay our dues during the first leg.  For those wise enough to set aside some reserve funds for the second half, the all-you-can-eat downwind buffet would be open.  The rest would be given a complimentary packet of oyster crackers and left to fend for themselves.

It's taken John years of trial and error to get just the right amount of tequila in his "margarition" (TM) system.

We didn't want Rob to feel bad, so we all told him it could happen to anyone.

When they arrived, the cops told us that someone had reported that "some creep was hanging out taking pictures".  They let me listen to the 911 call at the station.  Not cool, MB.

The field was popping with talent.  Despite the Sakonnet not being a loop course, standout NJ paddler Sean Brennan might well lap the field.  People think of Sean as enigmatic and brooding, so they're always surprised to find that he's actually mysterious and meditative.  Plus kinda goofy.  Since fellow Garden Stater Rob Jehn developed an unfortunate taste for New England glory, we've been unable to keep the pest away.  It's like if Brood X crawled out of the ground every 3 weeks.  The Three Johns (Hair, Costello, and Redos) brought their show (mostly puppetry, but also some mime work) on the road from Points West.  Local contenders included South African Gary Shaw (paradoxically), Matt Drayer, and Tim Dwyer, among others.  I expected we'd have a particularly dynamic race in which downwind specialists might zoom by less adept surfers who had made the mistake of getting to the red nun first.  With scores of Miller's Runs under his belt, Gary would be a huge threat on the downwind leg, regardless of how much of a head start he might spot me.  From past experience, I knew that I couldn't ignore Matt or Tim either.

Wesley walked us through the course at the captains meeting, stopping only when the water got over his head.  We'd have to figure it out ourselves past that point.  The 23 boat field soon lined up off the beach - faster paddlers stacked to the right - and was counted down to the start.  Sean roadrunnered off the line, leaving the rest of us in a cloud of mist.  I got out to one of my better starts, but was still unable to match Rob's initial sprint.  Gary managed to grab onto Rob's draft, but dropped off after a short while.  Unsurprisingly, John C, Chris Chappell, and Matt were also in the mix.  I was feeling strong, however, and managed to transition into 3rd position within the first couple minutes.  The field quickly began to string out as we pushed upwind.

This is why you should never talk politics at the captains meeting.  For every Kirk and Jeff on your side, there's an Andy and John left seething.

The last anyone saw of Sean.

Occasionally in a movie or TV show featuring a genius protagonist in dire straits, their problem-solving thought process will be dynamically superimposed on the screen - the complex series of glowing equations and diagrams needed to calculate, say, the trajectory of a thrice-ricocheted bullet into the forehead of Inspector Blanchard (don't feel bad, he was a double agent).  I had that kind of deal going as I tried to figure out whether it made sense to pull shoreward to tuck into the lee of McCorrie Point.  Except that my illegible computations were done in crayon, relied almost exclusively upon astrology, and included a pretty good drawing of a doggie.  My conclusions were muddled, but at least I now knew that it was an inauspicious day to start a new business venture.  Lacking any navigational insights, I decided the safest bet would be to average the straight line and shore-hugging paths.  Only in this way could I definitively eliminate the advantages of either.

It seems that roughly half the field followed the path of compromise, while the more stalwart paddlers (including both Sean and Rob) blasted straight from the start towards Sandy Point.  The general consensus among the faint-hearted was that while we may have been shielded from some waves, low-lying McCorrie Point did little to protect us from the headwind.  Once we had passed McCorrie, however, the westward curve of the shore afforded us more shelter (particularly from waves) on the way to the turn at Sandy Point.  Maybe.

As forecast, the wind was gradually increasing its intensity.  My GPS was dutifully recording the meteorological slow front as it passed through, dropping from 7 mph at the start to 5.5 mph (let's say) with a mile left to the turn.  I pulled up my mental whiteboard again to calculate if I'd actually be going backwards before reaching Sandy Point, but got sidetracked adding a doghouse for Mr. Flappers.  By this time, Sean was no longer visible.  Presumably he had completed his transition to pure energy.  Rob was clearly ahead of me, but the extent of his 15 boat length lead wasn't apparent until we converged for the turn.  I glanced back as I turned away from the shore, but didn't see anyone.  There were doubtless paddlers not too far behind me, but I didn't have the stomach to look too closely.

No special comment.  It's just nice to see a full field of paddlers again. (photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Wesley had assured us that after we turned 90 degrees clockwise at Sandy Point, we'd be pointed directly at the red nun that marked our next turn.  "You can't miss it" - his exact words, I believe.  You know how when a scientist is trying to convey how incredibly powerful the Hubble telescope is, they'll say something like "If it were in San Francisco, it could read the year on a penny in Philadelphia".  With de-orbiting costs what they are, seems like it'd be more cost-effective to just call up the guy holding the coin in Philly and ask him the year.  In any event, you see where I'm going with this.  The buoy was eminently miss-able, even if you happened to have a 2.4 meter parabolic primary mirror mounted on your boat (make sure you opt for the high volume ski - those things are heavier than you'd think).

I couldn't know if Rob had spotted the buoy or not, but he seemed to be paddling in a direction other than 90 degrees around the turn.  I never seem to have a protractor handy when needed, so I'll just estimate his angle more in the vicinity of 45 degrees.  Using Rob's heading as a cue, I adjusted my search grid.  After several unsuccessful scans, I finally spotted a tiny red dot that I'd characterize as "way the hell out" in the middle of the bay.   In Wesley's defense, he had said that the buoy was 0.3 miles from the turn, but how am I supposed to know exactly how miniscule a small navigational buoy would appear from more than a quarter mile away?  I mean other than the 15 years of ocean paddling experience.  Plus it was actually 0.4 miles.

After paddling directly upwind for the last 45 minutes, it took a few minutes to adjust to the quartering conditions we had to traverse to reach the turn buoy.  The waves looked promising for the downwind leg, however, so I didn't begrudge being tossed around a little.  I reached the turn still 15 lengths behind Rob.  This time I was able to spot 3 or 4 pursuers a couple minutes back.  Although I couldn't positively identify the individual paddlers, the ominous Terminator drumbeat was echoing in my head.  Gary's eyes were likely starting to glow at the prospect of hunting me down.  Wouldn't be surprised if Matt and Tim D weren't also feeling the blood lust.

For the first mile or so, the downwind runs were excellent.  I figured as long as I didn't miss a single runner and consistently linked each launching wave into at least a dozen more, I stood a fair chance (say 12%) of managing a podium finish.  Rob and I again took different lines - his ludicrously far to the left (from my perspective) and mine ludicrously far to the right (from his and my GPS track's perspective).  We quickly diverged to the degree that it became impossible to gauge relative progress.  Not having any reliable data on our relative downwind competence, I instinctively figured my superior skills were allowing me to catch and pass Rob.  This relieved me of some of the Gary-induced anxiety, since I'd still claim bronze even if overtaken by the South African menace.

As we progressed deeper into the bay, some combination of changes related to wind, tides, seabed topology, and Venus (it's in retrograde, after all) conspired to degrade the downwind conditions.  There were still plenty of rideable waves, but they lacked punch.  Although disappointing at the time, this probably played to my advantage.  Of course, I hadn't actually been working the conditions any better than Rob.  But, according to eye witness accounts from Matt and John H, Gary had been putting on a downwind clinic.  After the turn at the nun, he had quickly passed them, working diagonal lines to wring every ounce of potential from the waves.  But with the smaller conditions limiting the liquid energy available, and Gary feeling a little underconditioned himself, his comeback effort fell short.

With a mile to go, I reassessed my situation vis-a-vis Rob.  In good conscience, I could no longer maintain the delusion that I was catching him.  "Limit the damage" became my new mantra.  Not the most aspirational of mantras, perhaps, but given how drained I was feeling, I think I deserve some credit for not just going with "Screw it".  Rob finished 25 seconds ahead - damage that would have otherwise been 2 or 3 seconds less limited.  Sean had won the race, of course, but had the grace not to remind us that he was finishing while Rob and I were still in diapers.  Gary claimed the 4th position, but the highlight of the race came shortly after - Matt and John H surfing to the line on the same wave, with Matt nosing in just ahead.  A few moments later, Tim D. managed to get nearly his entire head in before John C and Tim Hacket.  Mary Beth claimed the women's title, in part due to her almost pathological adherence to navigational guidelines.

Maybe just a little less booze next time, John. (photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Given that Leslie wasn't even in the race, she finished surprisingly well.  (photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

The post-race debrief continued on the beach for quite some time before migrating to Flo's Drive In, just a short walk away.  I must have had one too many stuffed quahogs, because I found myself trash-talking Rob.  Despite the fact that he's beaten me 5 of the 6 times we've raced, I made the assertion that under certain conditions (flat water, him in V12, me in V14) that I'd "wipe the course with him".  When making such an outrageous claim, it's a good idea to ensure that it can never actually be authenticated.  Unfortunately, the exact conditions of the challenge will be satisfied when we meet in September at the Great Stone Dam Classic.  Oops.  Yet another in a long series of mollusk-induced blunders.  Doubtless, Rob will spend his summer training for this meeting.  I, on the other hand, will spend my summer crawling through the underbrush in an attempt to contract Lyme disease.

Thanks to Wesley for an extremely satisfying race.  Having tuned our ocean skills at the Sakonnet, we're now ready to be thrown into the atonal waters of the Ride the Bull race on June 26th.  The race is free, but you must preregister at PaddleGuru.

Battle of the Bay: Fine Line

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Narrow River Race: Redux

After months of intensive lobbying of race director Tim Dwyer, I managed to have last year's Narrow River Race expunged from the records.  Delayed from April to October by COVID and subsequently capped at only 10 paddlers, one can hardly tolerate such an illegitimate farce disgracing the official annals.  I felt bad that Mike Florio's first-ever surfski victory would be coincidentally voided, but the common good must prevail.  He'd probably want his inaugural gold medal to be by more decisive a margin than a mere five and a half minutes anyway.

With less stringent gathering restrictions, it looked like the 2021 run of the Narrow River Race would be fully sanctioned.  Pending suitable results, of course.  Nearly the entire field of last year's pseudo-race responded to their summons for a rematch, to be joined by a dozen other paddlers, including the first ever C-2 entry.  Even though he was quick to play the "I haven't been training much" card (adding it to the growing pile), all eyes were on Mike.  Having worked out recently with Chris Chappell, I knew he'd be a serious threat as well.  Vibrantly named newcomers Loukia Lili, Josco Catipovic, and, er, Jeff Tucker chose the Narrow River for their first surfski race.  Loukia, a national-caliber amateur triathlete, celebrated her 40th birthday by driving 5 hours on a whim to compete with us.  That kind of vigor and enthusiasm might be inspiring to some, but sent several of the more world-weary competitors to pre-race naps in their cars.

Carole graciously offered to provide sign language interpretation, but Tim's gesticulations left no room for confusion.

After years of yoga and meditation, Wesley finally achieved inner bliss just moments before the race.  Unfortunately, he lost it 3 minutes after the start.

With the post time rapidly approaching, Tim called on us to "huddle up" for the captains meeting.  He made beckoning gestures with his open arms, but the rest of us collectively decided to maintain a reasonable social distance.  Because of the pandemic, we told him.

We'd be running the standard 8 mile course.  After heading upriver for 3 miles, we'd turn at a rowing club dock, reverse our way back past the launch, turn on some pilings a mile downriver, then finish back at the start.  With temperatures in the 50s and only a light breeze, conditions were perfect.  From the shore, it was difficult to tell whether the notoriously depth-challenged river contained enough liquid for safe passage.  For a change, I couldn't see any writhing fish struggling to keep their gills immersed, so perhaps we'd be OK.

I felt kinda bad for hazing Loukia by telling her that newbies were expected to perform an interpretative dance at the captains meeting, but she really knocked it out of the park.

We hit the water.  A nucleus of fast-twitch paddlers formed on the left side of the line, to be quickly surrounded by a buzzing shell of hangers-on attracted by the prospect of getting pulled along for the ride.  I chose a neutral path to the far right - too proud to wring ill-gotten gains from the sweat of my competitors.  That's how I'm couching my tactical positioning blunder, at least.  In the soothing tones of a time-and-temperature operator, Tim counted us down to an incongruously low-key start.  After a moment of disorientation, I shook the sleep from my eyes and launched immediately into a recurring nightmare.  You know the one: Everyone else is off to a great start, you can't remember how a paddle works, and you're pants-less.  In a horrific new twist, however, the velcro on one of my pogies had also come loose, leaving it free to slide up and down my paddle with every twitchy stroke.

As expected, Mike and Chris C led the charge on the left, flanked by John Costello in a boat several notches less streamlined.  Mark Wendolowski, Chris Quinn, Tim D, and Tim Hacket followed closely behind.  My vantage point from open water to the distant right provided a welcome detachment from the crushing sense of inadequacy I usually feel when falling behind early.  It was almost as if I was floating in my boat, watching the race from far away.  Lest I were to drift even further into reverie, I forced myself to focus (with a little help from those old friends, lactic acid and panic) and join the fray.  I angled alongside Tim D, and, after exchanging some pleasantries with our host, started to work slowly up the rankings.  I moved past Chris Q (uncharacteristically shirted) and Mark (not generally a saltwater paddler, but adapting well to the brackish conditions).  By this point, Mike was out to an 8 length lead over Chris C, with John now struggling to stay on Chris' draft.

While closing the 3 length gap to John over the next couple of minutes, I marveled at his power and efficiency.  Despite taking a single stroke for every 14 of mine (give or take), he was pushing a V10 Sport at practically the same speed as my V14.  I'm just hoping that restraining order against his beam remains in place at 19".  I tried to slip by John as quietly as possible, much as you'd tip-toe past a hibernating bear.  I made it by, but wouldn't really feel comfortable with him behind me until I had put a sacrificial offering between us.

After one too many close shaves with duck hunters, Chris now errs on the side of caution.  (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

It took me several minutes to catch Chris.  Since he had shown me such generous hospitality in the past, I figured on settling in the unused plot immediately behind him.  I'd squat there temporarily - at least until my application for permanent residency was approved.  Maybe I'd pop alongside Chris every now and again to borrow a cup of sugar, but mostly I'd just keep quarantined in my cozy new home.  You can imagine my surprise, then, when my hunkering was interrupted by sharp pangs of conscience.  My shame threshold is pretty high, so for feelings of guilt to reach the surface requires some truly disgraceful behavior.  Apparently, I'd be expected to show some integrity.  Frankly, the better angels of our nature can be a real drag.  Reluctantly, I abandoned my newfound shelter and tried to pass Chris.

We paddled side-by-side for several minutes as the Narrow River widened into a slightly less narrow lake.  Our race-within-a-race was soon embedded within yet another race, as we found ourselves unwitting participants in a pairs sculling contest.  Given that the other racers had cleverly devised a method of applying power simultaneously on both sides via a mind-boggling lever-and-fulcrum mechanism and managed to shoehorn 2 people in each boat, I didn't like our odds.  Chris and I leveled the field a little bit by charging down-course well before the starting gun, but within seconds the sculls had erased our handicap.  Fortunately, we were gently nudged to one side by the race director's bullhorn before the rowers were able to dismount us.  Twenty-five lengths ahead, Mike showed himself impervious to those same amplified commands, but his line to our turn-around naturally diverged from their course well before any blows could be exchanged.

During the interdisciplinary excitement, I managed to start pulling away from Chris.  I reached the turning point several lengths ahead, buoyed by the (quite possibly sarcastic) cheers from the crew club supporters lining the docks to applaud their racers.  Heading back down the lake, I saw John perhaps 15 lengths behind Chris, with Mark and Chris Q back again as far.  Now working against a light wind and mild current, my speed dropped a little, but not to the extent I had feared.  Based on a few quick glimpses of Chris back over my shoulder, I seemed to be prying open the gap.

I mentioned that I had suffered a catastrophic pogie failure back at the start.  For the last 30 minutes the partially attached pogie had been flapping against my left hand, but I couldn't afford to stop and remedy the situation.  It was becoming clear, however, that the situation had ripened from an annoying distraction to a life-threatening predicament.  Because of a genetic abnormality (self-diagnosed, but nonetheless completely not made-up), my skin lacks the polyproline IIIa collagen necessary to fend off minor abrasions and irritations.  I'm a very sensitive fellow.  In the absence of any more estimable character traits, my cruel high school classmates voted me Most Likely to Chafe.  Over the years I've been referred to a succession of specialists, all of whom strongly advised that I avoid any leisure activity that involved repetitive motions while clad in neoprene.  That kind of thing wasn't really my groove anyway, so I got into paddling.  Despite applying ample space-age lubricant, I've grown accustomed to the angry abrasions that circle my waist during the paddling season.  I'm happy to endure second-degree chafing over 30% of my body to secure a podium finish, but I was pretty sure that I could now see bone where the flopping pogie had rubbed the skin off my thumb.

Off the course... nicest guy you could meet.  On the course... diabolical supervillain.  Cool costume, though. (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Having put some distance on Chris, I decided to risk a quick stop to salvage enough dermis to accept a graft (donations welcome).  I figured that removing the pogie entirely would be quicker than reattaching the loose side, but I hadn't anticipated that the remaining velcro would have the cohesive strength of welded steel.  Twenty-some minutes later, I managed to detach the cursed thing and fling it disgustedly in my footwell.  My lead on Chris had been reduced to a dozen lengths, but at least I'd managed to save my fourth most cherished extremity (list available upon request).

Progress downriver continued at a reasonable pace until I approached the launch area, where the river straightens and widens into a marshy stretch.  This revealed the extent to which the winding river had been protecting us from the growing southerly breeze.  More critically, however, with an expansive floodplain to enjoy, the water abandoned the constrictions of a navigable channel and kicked back in the shallows.  Knowing the suck water was coming, I braced for the sudden deceleration, making sure both knees were slightly bent to better absorb the impact.  Physically, I suffered only a mild case of whiplash and a couple of lost fillings.  But how does one measure the toll on the spirit?

I had suddenly lost about 15% of my former speed.  My energy and morale reserves were bottoming out (which was also a constant threat to my ski), but I eventually made it to the downstream turn.  Nearby, a couple of fisherman were standing in holes they had dug in the riverbed to try out their waders.  One needlessly apologized for casting in my general vicinity.  Given that he wouldn't be able to unsee the horror of my cross-current turn, I assured him that he was more sinned against than sinning.

Even after we explained the paradox to him, Bob insisted on trying to get a shot of himself finishing.

Clad completely in unbreathable fabric, Dave had limited options for shedding excess heat.

For the final mile back to the finish, I waited in vain for some help from what was now a stiffening tailwind.  The relentless pull from the shallows was trumping any assistance from wind or current.  Not until the final quarter mile was I able to loosen the shackles enough to exceed "brisk walk" pace. Although it was impossible to measure exactly how much earlier Mike had finished due to his warping of the space-time continuum, my best guess is that he was 5 minutes or so ahead - just off the course record he had set back in the fall.  Gold at last for Mike!  Chris C finished roughly a minute behind me, with John, Chris Q, Mark, and Tim following over the next few minutes.  First-timer Loukia broke her winless streak as the first female finisher, with Mary Beth taking second.

Since our normal post-race venue wasn't open for outdoor dining, we contented ourselves with hobnobbing in the parking lot.  At least until the vice squad showed up to break up the depravity.  Thanks to Tim for hosting another fine day on the water.

In a normal year, the Run of the Charles and the Essex River Race would be next on our agendas.  Due to COVID, however, the former is being run as a virtual race, while the latter has been shifted to early October.  The vacuum left by these changes has sucked Tim's Battle of the Bay from mid-summer to mid-spring.  The race will be held on May 15 at its new (as of 2020) Goat Island home.  Register at PaddleGuru.

Narrow River Race: New Order

The Narrow River Race typically serves as a gentle introduction to the New England racing season - a controlled opportunity for us to get our feet wet.  Indeed, the winding tidal estuary is so shallow that it'd be impossible to get any other part of your body wet without lying down and rolling in it.  But as if in fulfillment of some arcane prophecy ("That which was first shall be last..."), this year's race was mystically displaced from early April to Halloween.  I suspect that co-directors Tim and Wesley are responsible, but for liability reasons, they deny all involvement.

On the eve of the race, Rhode Island's governor slashed the state's outdoor gathering threshold from 15 to 10 - mostly in response to complaints about rowdy surfski gangs ("fetid hooligans" in the press release) terrorizing local boaters.  Wesley scrambled to cull the field, deftly finding volunteers willing to sit this one out in lieu of "future considerations".  The more canny ex-participants, realizing they had some leverage, managed to extract more concrete guarantees.  So we can expect (for example) to see Dave Thomas pipping Tim at the line to take bronze in next year's Ride the Bull.  Congrats on that podium finish, Dave!

Running on a tight schedule, Wesley came directly from his town crier gig.

As an aging competitor, I must rely more upon wits than vigor to have any hope of restoring the vibrant hues of my faded glory.  Quibblers will point out that - at best - I peaked at mauve.  Even so, to certain species of bees I was dazzling to behold!  In any event, a key strength these days is a network of informants who keep me apprised of the latest paddling scuttlebutt.  Since late spring, alarming reports about Mike Florio's training had been flowing in from my snitches, filled with adjectives like "hell-bent", "maniacal", and "chiseled".  Results from virtual races during the summer revealed that his work ethic was paying handsome dividends.  Although we've had quite a few close races, I've always managed to finish ahead of Mike.  Like any self-respecting coward, I naturally prayed that I'd be able to avoid in-person confrontations this season.  Mike could beat me from here to next Thursday in theory, but nobody will remember hypotheticals when they're poring through results 100 years from now. 

With all the shoulder season flatwater races cancelled, it looked like I might slip through the year without losing to Mike - open water isn't exactly his kryptonite, but when he wants to temporarily feel like a human, that's where he heads.  The announcement that the Narrow River Race would be rescheduled for October therefore came as quite a blow.  Fortunately, it came early enough for me to ramp up my training.  Each day I would stretch Mike's imagined victory gap a littler further, thereby gradually extending my tolerance for obsolescence.  With any luck, this enhanced flexibility would prevent my ego from snapping on race day.

As Tim reviews the race rules, non-partisan observer Sam monitors for inconsistencies, misconduct, and improprieties.  Look for his multi-volume report soon.

The 8 mile course was familiar.  We'd head up the Narrow River for 3 miles, reverse back down a mile past the launch, then turn and finish back at the start.  The downstream turn would be around a buoy, but the upstream turn would be at a rowing club dock.  With a particularly high tide, most of the course would remain moist enough to qualify as liquid.  Although we had received 6 inches of snow the previous day at home north of Boston, we'd be racing under sunny Rhode Island skies with temperatures in the 40s.

After a cursory captain's meeting ("Everyone cool?  Cool."), we hit the water and warmed up.  My only real chance at beating Mike was to latch onto his wash and hope he snapped a rudder cable just before the finish.  I hoped to use Chris Chappell's typical explosive start to launch myself into Mike's orbit.  I'd hitch a ride with Chris until this first stage ran out of propellant, then switch neatly over to Mike as he rocketed by.  Wesley counted our intimate group down to the start and we were off.  Before I managed to finish my first stroke, Chris had already thrown cold water on my ambitious drafting plans.  I had neglected to observe the clearly marked "Blast Zone" demarcations and thus found myself immersed in Chris' waste-water torrent.  Sputtering under this chilly dose of disdain, I watched helplessly as my booster pulled away without me.  On the far left of the line, Mike had also got out to a strong start.  I briefly jockeyed with Wesley and Jerry Madore before breaking free to pursue the leaders.

Mike enjoys a last moment of his innate pre-race humility, knowing he must soon adopt the haughty arrogance we expect from a dominant champion.  Don't let us down, Mike!

It looked like Chris might grab onto Mike as their paths converged, but years of lifeguarding had left the latter with a permanent sheen of glistening sunscreen - the guy is as slippery as a greased eel.  Chris lunged at his wash, but came up empty handed.  I needed to generate a revised action plan.  I can usually think quickly on my feet, but that seemed inadvisable in the V14.  The best I could come up with from the safety of the bucket was to catch Chris and then work together to reel in the rapidly receding upstart.  It took a half mile to accomplish the first part of the strategy, the effort of which made me abandon the second part as a foolish fantasy.  Mike had already left the stratosphere.  I settled in behind Chris as we wended our way upstream.  

Entering the lake-like section of the course where the Narrow River isn't, I finally pulled even with Chris and prepared to drop him.  We'd had a good thing - perhaps a bit one-sided, sure - but it was time to move on.  I planned on letting him down easy - you know, "It's not you, it's me." and "I need some time off to work on myself."  I didn't have the guts (or balance) to look him in the face while I delivered my spiel, but I said my piece and ramped up the effort.  Although he didn't reply vocally, Chris' actions categorically stated that no, we were going to remain joined at the gunnel until he decided otherwise.  Although he appeared to have reality bolstering his argument, let's just say we agreed to disagree about our continued relationship.

Last year I miscalculated my arcing approach, botching the turn so badly that a drafting Chris Q nearly went down in the Narrow River annals as its first-ever maritime disaster.  Quinn was too polite to remind me of my role in the near-catastrophe before the race, but at the starting line I couldn't help but notice the crude repair of the divot in his V12's bow - a silent rebuke to my incompetence.  Wary that a repeat performance - even with a different Chris - might lead to a post-race censure and/or beating, I made sure to adopt a different approach trajectory from this year's draft companion.  The result was that Chris and I spirographed radically different loops by the dock.  My radius setting was miscalibrated, however, which put me back several lengths once we were both pointing back downstream.  I saw Chris Q and Tim dueling it out heading towards the turn, perhaps two minutes behind us.

I had ample opportunities to hone my lurking skills.  (Photo courtesy of Jan Lupinski)

I caught back up to Chris about halfway down the lake, settling in on his side wash after an anemic attempt to muscle past him.  I'd spend the next 3 miles yo-yoing between side and rear drafts, spiced with a couple brief periods of panic falling off the back.  Readers with a delicate sense of justice (and smell) may be picking up the distinct scent of weasel emerging from the page.  Combining the upriver and downriver legs, I've admitted to spending at least 4 miles on Chris' draft, while claiming I pulled him for a mile.  But given an allegiance to the truth generously categorized as "casual", it's probably safe to assume that even these values were fudged to make me look less parasitic.  In my defense, I made a couple of disingenuous efforts to take a turn in the lead - in much the same way a post-dinner Thanksgiving guest might offer to help with the dishes while lowering himself into the recliner, unbuttoning his pants, and strapping on a sleep mask.  Perhaps sensing my need for a nap, Chris graciously declined my proposals.

As the end of race drew close, my conscience started to kick in.  Did I really want to be the bloodsucker who drafts off some unwitting host for the whole race and then darts ahead in the final 100 meters?  I plumbed the depths of my soul for an answer.  Fortunately, the oily waters therein were as shallow as the Narrow River, so I quickly found the response.  Wasn't even fully submerged.  Yes!  I definitely wanted to be that guy!   Lesher.  Leecher.  I was born for it!  There was only one problem.  I lack the fast-twitch power to execute such a gloriously underhanded plan.  Even fatigued from all the heavy lifting he'd been doing, Chris would swat away any last-second challenge I could muster.  I'd have to settle for the (marginally) less ethically dubious approach of making my move with a mile or so left.

The downriver turn seemed the ideal place to repay Chris' magnanimity with treachery.  I hadn't inspired confidence in my turning ability at the upriver turn, which perhaps lulled my competitor into a false sense of security approaching the buoy.  Chris went slightly too deep on the turn, allowing me to carve a path inside of him and seize the lead.  Lest you get some romantic NASCAR vision of this maneuver, what it really looked like was two blokes of advanced years, balanced precariously on 20 foot boats crosswise to the current, desperately flailing on one side to get their noses pointed upstream while keeping their bodies pointed above stream.  Since I emerged first from this exercise, I guess Tom Cruise will get to play me in the movie.

After our comical phase of blunders (groan through the pain), I held perhaps a three boat lead on Chris.  After being ferried along for so much of the race, you might imagine that I'd have a virtually untapped store of energy to propel me through the final mile.  But the truth is that even while drafting, I had been hurting.  In the final stretch, I tried to concentrate on form to compensate for waning strength and stamina, but I think most of my rotation came from craning around to see if Chris was gaining.  Despite a dreadful case of noodle arms, I seemed to be maintaining my lead.  Presumably Chris was suffering too, and with better justification.

I must have blacked out for a while, because my next memory is gnawing on a banana next to my car with Chris congratulating me - sarcastically, I imagine - for a race well run.  We agreed that without spurring one another on, Mike would have had an even more dominating performance.  As it was, he finished more than 5 and a half minutes ahead of us, covering the 7.98 miles of the course in 1:01:12.  That's an average of 7.82 mph - on a roundtrip course that includes shallow suck-water, fickle currents, and two 180 degree turns.  For perspective, that breaks Borys Markin's Narrow River record for pace.  We better keep an eye on this fledgling.  Or at least on the blur we suspect may be him.

For glory, honor, and - most importantly - that extra SSR series point.

Mary Beth and Igor Yeremeev gave us the best finish of the season.  Although Igor appeared to have their head-to-head race locked up with less than a mile to go, he unwisely chose the optional portage route, setting up a quarter-mile drag race to the line.  On the shore, I crouched to get a water-level view of the finish as other spectators cheered on the duo.  I'm proud to say that I didn't let my deep affection for Igor cloud my judgment - Mary Beth literally inched out the victory, taking the women's crown in the process.

Well, that's it for the 2020 season.  My deepest thanks to Wesley and Tim, without whom the last race of 2019 would have been it for the 2020 season.  With any luck, we'll see everyone for the second match of the Narrow River double-header in April.

Sakonnet Race: A Turn for the Worse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

None of the above.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The closing ceremonies were quite moving.

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