Ride the Bull: Longest 8 Seconds Ever

Nobody finishes the Blackburn Challenge or the Essex River Race and says aloud "Man, was that fun!"  That was the universal refrain after the inaugural Ride the Bull race, however.  Actually, one of the paddlers did tell me mid-race that he "wanted to go home", but since said home is in New Jersey, I assumed he was just kidding around.  Remember, kids, you don't have to live in New York to make fun of Jersey.

Tim's course instructions proved about 90% effective.

Wesley and Tim had crafted a diabolic course that promised to test our paddling skills by forcing us to keep tight to the south shore of Conanicut Island at the mouth of Narragansett Bay, where the prevailing southerly winds pile disorderly heaps of water.  After launching from spectacular Fort Wetherill State Park ("You'll come for the views.  You'll stay because you're a German prisoner of war."), we'd travel west into Mackerel Cove and Hull Cove.  After turning around in the latter, we'd retrace our steps back to the start.  We'd then (and, as it turns out, that "then" is important) continue past the start to the east, paddle by the famed House on the Rock ("You'll come for the views.  You'll stay because how exactly are you planning on leaving?"), turn around a green channel marker and return to the start.  And then go to the next cove.  Hudyncias would be placed liberally around the course as navigational aids.

With all the hype around how rough the conditions might be at Ride the Bull, I was gonna be disappointed if I didn't end up flipping end over end.  At the very least, I thought, I'd probably have to hide in a barrel at some point.  It wasn't quite the boat crushing mayhem that I had nightmares about in the days leading up to the race (nor was I covered in mustard), but it definitely lived up to its billing as a challenging and exhilarating course.  Loyal readers won't be surprised that I chose my Huki S1-R for this particular adventure, but they may be astonished to know that I'm missing a knuckle on my fourth toe.

Eighteen paddlers (and a couple of just-in-case reserves) gathered before the race for the mandatory scuba training.  You can never be too safe.  In addition to a good crop of regulars, we had a few abnormals.  Curiously, they were all from Down Under (and Over a Bit).  Murray Lord, originally from New Zealand but relocated to New England, gamely showed up for his first ski race in nearly 5 years. Tina Leone and Lance Roozendaal, currently from New Zealand but visiting family in the US, would be paddling a Huki double.  Despite being in an unfamiliar boat and unknown waters, Tina and Lance would end up with the best time of the day.

Waiting for da' go.

After Tim familiarized everyone (well, most people) with the course, we gathered on the water in a protected cove.  From a slow roll, Wesley counted us down to the start.  With an immediate right turn into confused but sorta downwind seas, it took several minutes for the jumble of colorful boats to sort themselves into some semblance of order.  Borys and the Kiwi double were clearly in the lead, with Eric McNett, Flavio Costa, Francisco Urena, and I chasing.  There were some nice rides available if you could pick them out from the lumpy stew.

Tim and Wesley had purchased race supplies several days before, including turn buoys and anchoring lines.  I searched in vain for the marker that would indicate our first turn as I tried to milk everything out of the runners (cue the old joke about that not being a cow, son).  When I finally spotted the first buoy, my initial thought was that the guys had really splurged - that orange ping-pong ball must have cost them a fortune.  I'll admit that my heart hardened against the duo.  Typical Rhode Island cheapskates, I thought.  That's a thing, right?  Of course, as I got closer I realized how unfairly I had maligned our hosts.  The marker was of more than adequate size - a reminder of how difficult it is to spot anything from a vantage point of 3 feet off the water.

Jockeying for position shortly after the start (photo courtesy of Betsy Echols).

After clearing the first buoy, we made our way around the point that marks the eastern edge of

Mackerel Cove.  Once we entered the long bay, the wind was at our backs and you could get some reasonable bursts of speed from the larger swells.  With the Kiwi double and Borys out front, Eric and I rode downwind together, exchanging salsa recipes and reminiscing about our favorite episodes of Family Feud, until I eventually managed to pull ahead and put a boat length or so between us.

Tim's directions for Mackerel Cove were very clear.  Proceed along the right coast until you encounter a floating gray platform (on which, I assumed, snacks would be available).  As Borys and the double got deeper into the Bay, I began to wonder if everyone had missed the platform.  Or worse, if the lead few paddlers had missed the turn, but the remainder of the pack had turned a half-mile back and was already heading out of the cove, cackling at their good fortune.

We were quickly running out of cove.  I was just about convinced that Borys was going to attempt to skim right over the narrow isthmus that separates Mackerel Cove from neighboring Sheffield Cove to the north, when I heard a lot of yelling.  Tim and Wesley were directing the leader to turn.  I relayed the message: "Turn, you crazy bastard!  For the love of God, turn!"  I may have punched up their original wording a bit for effect.  Borys looked confused for a moment - or, at least, as confused as a dot can look.  With a troubling lack of platforms in his immediate vicinity, he chose the next mooring buoy and turned to head back to sea.  After the race, Wesley informed us that the dog ate his platform.

I was keenly aware that with mild conditions in the cove, going upwind in my Huki I was going to give back some of my rough water lead to the guys in faster boats.  At the turn, I had seen Flavio and Francisco close behind.  The F's can apply some serious hurt.  I couldn't actually see them as I was paddling out of Mackerel Cove, but I sensed their lurking hunger behind me.  I could see Eric, however, well off to my right trying to escape the head wind.  After a long trip out of the cove, we began rounding the point that led to Hull Cove, where our turn-around point awaited.

Eric was consistently taking lines so crazy close to the jagged shoreline that I began to wonder if he had left a note for us back in the parking lot.  "Don't mourn me," it might say.  "I went out doing what I loved... demoralizing younger guys in faster boats."  As a surfski dealer and an expert in composite repair, I suppose Eric may worry slightly less about boat damage than the rest of us, but that doesn't really explain his steely-eyed courage at the prospect of being pulped against the rocks.  I happily ceded the inside line, knowing that at least I'd survive to see my wife and kids again.  Don't tell Mary Beth.

Me and my Huki (photo courtesy of Betsy Echols).

Having adjusted my expectations to look for a pea-sized orange mote bobbing on the surface, I had less trouble spotting the final turn buoy in Hull Cove.  This buoy also came with an audible indicator in the form of Tim Hudyncia, who helpfully shouted directions to the leaders from a small outcropping.  At the turn, it was Borys, the Kiwi double, me, Eric, F&F, and Beata Cseke.  We'd now reverse our course back to the start (and then some).

Everyone likes Jan Lupinski for his sunny disposition and easy-going manner.  Unless you're looking to have a piano fall on you, however, you know to maintain a healthy distance from him come race-time.  This season alone, Calamity Jan has turned a flatwater course into a surf-zone thrill ride, knocked a rudder clean off his boat, paddled half a race in a bathtub, and sprung a seam leak.  We had a betting pool going for what misfortune might befall him at Ride the Bull.  There was a lot of action on "shark attack" and "strangled by fishing line", but I had my money on "scurvy".

It was therefore with heavy heart that I saw the overturned hull of Jan's red Nelo as I pulled out of Hull Cove.  At first it looked like Bill Kuklinski might win the pool with his pedestrian "capsize and dashed on rocks" bet, but as Jan struggled to remount in the confused waters, it became clear that Chris Sherwood was more on the mark with "pruning due to prolonged immersion".  Borys and Bob Capellini seemed to have the Jan situation under control, so I paid Chris what he was due and continued on my way.

I was joking about that toe knuckle, by the way.  How could I even be typing this if that were true?

Borys in fine fettle (photo courtesy of Betsy Echols).

In the confusion sowed by the seas and Jan's capsize, I found myself in the lead of what I now considered the single most prestigious race on the East Coast.  Eric and the Kiwis were close behind, but I allowed myself to bask in my 5 minutes and 13 seconds of glory.  At the end my allotted time, I graciously stepped down to allow Borys a rare opportunity in the spotlight. I don't usually enjoy being passed, but this was like being punched in the head by Muhammad Ali in his prime.  Sure, it hurts, but even as you lose consciousness, you admire the artistry of the blow.  When I finally came to, Borys was out of sight.  To see what an elite paddler can do against insignificant mortals (Eric and me), pull up Borys' video of the race and skip ahead to 5:22.  Not many people can attest to this, but when you're passed by Borys you hear an unearthly kind of whistling hum.  I don't know whether the sound comes from his boat's scuppers, the paddle blades slicing the air, or whatever Tony Stark power source he's got jacked into his cyborg body, but it's a fitting touch.

Shortly after relinquishing the lead (it was giving me a rash anyway), the Kiwi double and Eric came shooting by on my right at nearly the same passing velocity.  I suspected foul play, naturally.  Then I noticed there were some runners available for the taking.  Although the double continued to pull away, I managed to hang with Eric the rest of the way into Mackerel Cove.  We turned together and headed upwind, getting another good look at the rest of the field.  The next two paddlers were hard on our tails.  Darn it.  I just couldn't seem to drop the F bums.

With Eric on another kamikaze shore run, we pulled out of the Cove and started the turn around the point back to the first orange marker.  Conditions were particularly sloppy in this stretch, which I hoped would allow me to bank some more time on the less stable boats.  I lost track of Eric at this point, and would spend the rest of the race wondering when I'd either see him nose back into view or hear his splintering death throes.

The trip past the start towards the House on the Rock and the final green buoy was relatively uneventful, although for a moment it appeared that a large schooner might deny us a chance of reaching that buoy intact.  Fortunately, it sailed off before I had to make any tough decisions about the relative merits of finishing well versus ending badly.  I turned to start the final upwind push, with the Kiwi double several boat lengths ahead.

I hadn't seen Borys for quite some time now.  I figured he must have been off nursing some orphaned seal pups back to health, or perhaps back home catching up on past episodes of Mad Men.  So I was surprised to pass him heading towards the green buoy as I made my way back upwind.  Forgetting about the final leg beyond the original start, Borys had pulled into the finish prematurely, thinking his race was over.  After seeing several slower racers pass by, he realized his mistake and initiated his pursuit mode subprogram.  Would Borys sail by me once again, or did I have enough of a lead to edge out an ill-gained, asterisk-annotated, weasel victory that I'd almost be too embarrassed to make sure appeared prominently in my epitaph?

The former.  As I approached the small cove from which we started, I saw Tim H standing atop a steep promontory, waving paddlers into the finishing cove.  Bridges, rocky outcroppings, cliffs... is there anywhere this guy can't stand?  At this point I heard the signature hum of Borys at full throttle coming from behind me.  My fate was sealed.  My goal now was to try to keep close enough to witness the exciting conclusion to this roller coaster of a race.  Any attempt at drafting would have surely pulled my arms clean out of their sockets, so I struggled along falling further behind Borys like a toddler kid brother.  Wait.  Like a toddler kid brother pulling an engine block.  Borys had his sights set on the Kiwis, but ultimately ran out of course and ended up a half boat length short.

I had managed to finish second among the singles.  Instead of my name, the results should just say "Huki S1-R".  Flavio managed to pass Eric within the last mile to finish third.  Eric, Francisco, Beata, Wesley, Tim, Ken Cooper, and Kirk Olsen rounded out the top ten.  Although there were a couple of mild cases of DNF, nobody had been trampled or gored.  After the obligatory photos with the wedding party, the paddlers gathered for the award ceremony and some costumed tom foolery.  Congrats to Wesley and Tim for putting on what I sure hope will be a recurring rodeo, and thanks to Betsy, Mary Beth, Tim H, and Teri for their support work.

Next up is the Casco Bay Challenge.  All those little islands have labels, right?

Salem League 6/18/13: Two Legs to Stand On

After missing a week due to weather, the prognosis for this week's race was also sketchy, but the scattered thunderstorms of the forecast chose other destinations and we had a fine (although gray) evening for racing.  Conditions were very mild, with a light SE wind and slack high tide.  Course #5 was being served up.  This would be our first double-header of the year, a category of race devised in the rankest pits of hell.  On the first leg we'd circumnavigate Great Haste Island and return to the beach.  Five minutes after the last paddler finished that leg, we'd restart and circle the red nun in the harbor.  In that dread five minutes between the two legs, many a paddler has contemplated throttling Ed to put a stop to the insanity.  He's pretty big though.

Francisco and Matt jumped out to their typical fast starts.  Seemed like I'd be following my normal script - spend the first few minutes trying to catch Francisco, rest on his wash for a while, then work the rest of the race to push past him.  There was a last minute rewrite this week however.  Instead of dropping off the pace after his impressive initial sprint, Matt latched onto Francisco and stayed there.  I was recast in the role of hanger-on #2, tucked in behind Matt.

Five minutes or so into the race, Matt seemed to be slipping off the draft, so I made a move to bridge the gap to Francisco.  Matt wasn't quite done fighting to keep his V8 above hull speed, however.  For several minutes we struggled to determine who would settle in the prime real estate of Francisco's wash.  I eventually won the bidding war and Matt slid in behind me.

As we continued toward Great Haste, I was red-lining just to stay with Francisco.  Passing him seemed out of the question, so I set one of those arbitrary deals you make with yourself when you want to torpedo your chances at winning - I'll just draft him until we turn Great Haste, and then I'll make my move.  Unfortunately, my move turned out to be gradually falling further behind.  On the positive side, the mild downwind conditions seemed to have finally convinced Matt that he was in a drastically slower boat than us.

Francisco continued to widen his lead to six or seven boat lengths, but as conditions flattened out near the beach, I managed to gain a little ground.  I ended up 10 seconds back after the first leg.  Matt was about 45 seconds back, followed by Ken, Kirk, Bruce, Ciro (in an FSK) and Mary Beth.  I wasn't optimistic about my chances of making up the gap on the second leg.  I'd probably give up a few seconds more to Francisco's habitual fast start, and there wouldn't be much chance to make up time in a 15 minute leg.

The five minute period between the arrival of the last racer (all of 90 seconds after the first) and the start of the next leg is a study in contradictions.  On one hand, you greedily suckle on the teat of recovery.  On the other, you know that even if fully nourished, the next leg is still going to make bacon out of you.  You just want it all to be over.  We approached the starting line like men condemned.

Ed counted us down to the start and we trudged reluctantly to our boats.  Matt had another excellent start, but I caught a break as Francisco fumbled getting into his boat.  I hadn't lost time on the start after all.  Matt and I took a direct line towards the nun while Francisco stayed closer to shore to keep out of any currents in the channel.  With the smooth waters of the harbor undulating under a soft swell, I passed Matt and cast nervous glances over to Francisco trying to judge his relative position.

As I rounded the nun, I was encouraged to find that I was several boat lengths ahead of Francisco.  If we had been even at this point, I'm pretty sure my competitive spark would have been doused by the improbability of picking up 10 seconds in less than a mile.  With a bit of a lead, however, I managed to convince myself I had a shot at overcoming the net deficit.  Resisting the constant urge to look back and assess my changes, I put in a solid push to the finish.  I had gained 22 seconds on the second leg - enough for the win.  Matt easily took third place.  Kirk managed to make up a 6 second first leg deficit to Ken for fourth.  Here are the final results (skis only):

Greg Lesher	Epic V12	0:39:45	12
Francisco Urena	Stellar SE	0:39:57	11
Matt Drayer	Epic V8	0:41:35	10
Kirk Olsen	Epic V12	0:42:29	9
Ken Cooper	Epic V8	0:42:32	8
Bruce Deltorchio	Epic V8	0:43:44	7
Mary Beth Gangloff	Huki S1-R	0:55:36	12

After four races, Francisco and I are tied in the lead at 46 points, followed by Matt at 38, Ken at 33, and Bruce at 25.  Mary Beth continues her dominance in the women's division, with a perfect 48 points.  We'll have our second biathlon of the season next week, as low tide coincides with the race finish.  Look for me running wind sprints through the mud flats this coming week in preparation.

Salem League 6/4/13: Close Shaves

If you're looking for the Sakonnet River Race report, you can find it here.

On a beautiful night at Lynch Park, we gathered together to race course #1 - a simple out-and-back around Eagle Island.  This is the longest of the Salem League courses, totaling 6.2 miles.  It can also be one of the toughest since it takes us the furthest out into Salem Sound, with the rocky far side of Eagle serving as the perfect wave reflector.  With a mild NW breeze this night, however, conditions were benign.  Or so we thought!!!  No, wait, they were in fact quite manageable.  Or were they!?!  Yes, it was fine I tell you.

We had a good crew.  Chris made the trip up, leaving work at about 10:30 on Monday morning to beat the traffic.  He brought his Nelo up, but paddled Ed's red-tip V10.  In addition, we had me, Mary Beth (in a borrowed blue-tip V8), Francisco, Mike, Kirk, Bill, Matt, Ken, and Bruce (also in a borrowed blue-tip V8 while his black-tip is being repaired).

We lined up for a refreshingly short beach run.  Ed counted us down and we were underway.  As usual, Francisco had a great start and held a 3 or 4 boat length lead once everybody was on the water.  Matt also had a solid start, but in addition really kept the power going in his V8.  Given Matt's recent trajectory, it's clear that it won't be long before he's challenging for the lead in these races.  We've therefore equipped him with an early warning device that will always let us know when he's threatening to overtake.  I argued for something more like an invisible fence collar that would prevent him from overtaking, but there was too much paperwork involved.  So we stuck with an mp3 player with external speakers.

I sprinted and caught Francisco after a few minutes and settled in behind him to catch my breath.  Still struggling to hang with him ten minutes later, I realized that tonight oxygen wasn't a luxury I'd be able to afford.  I took one last deep breath that was going to have to last me the next 35 minutes, then made my passing move to the left.  The leftwardness of the move was much more pronounced than the passing aspect.  Over the next ten minutes I continued to drift further and further left.  I think I was also moving ahead of Francisco, but given our distance apart it was getting difficult to tell.

I've gotten some guff about my navigation.  Looking at my Garmin track for the night, I'll admit that I veered pretty sharply from a course that would have taken us counterclockwise around Eagle to one that would take us clockwise around Eagle and an imaginary aircraft carrier moored a quarter mile off the east coast of Eagle.  In my defense... stop following my course, lemmings!

I saw a large yacht heading towards us from the Beverly shore when it was quite a distance away.  With various people milling about on the decks, it seemed like some kind of party boat rather than a private vessel.  Based on its motion relative to the land behind, it was was clearly going to pass behind me.  Apparently the captain saw the strung out line of paddlers that he would have to pass through and therefore decided to change course in order to run down the lead boats.  I can only assume that he figured after cutting off the head of the pack, he could pick off the remaining boats one by one as they fled in panic.

I remember an instance from a couple of years ago in which Kirk stared down the replica fishing schooner Fame as it cut across our course.  I suppose figuring that he wouldn't live forever, he cut the crossing close enough to spit on the ship without missing a stroke (but possibly skipping a few heartbeats).  I wasn't looking for anyone to remember my name, but I also didn't want to sacrifice my thin lead on Francisco by giving way to this yahoo.  Not that I even knew how to get out of his way given his obvious blood lust.

As our paths converged it became evident that the captain had some qualms about dinging his boat.  If I kept paddling at pace I'd miss his stern by a dozen feet or so.  I was prepared to do just this until I got an eyeful of the churning wake that a boat this size throws up at 20 knots.  Unwilling to also get a mouthful and earful of that wake just to prove a point, I left off paddling at the last second and braced for impact.  Turned out not to be bad at all, although the aerated water immediately behind the yacht made for some mushy recovery strokes.  There were people on the deck yelling, but I couldn't tell if they were cheering me, taunting me, or really drunk.

So that was exciting.

As we rounded the island, I saw that Francisco was 3 of 4 boat lengths behind me.  The back side of Eagle was calmer than I've ever seen it, but I still threw a couple of half-braces to deal with phantom waves.  As we rounded the island to head back, I saw that we'd be paddling blind back to Lynch Park. We were heading into the low lying sun, the glare from which was wiping out all detail on the shore.  Mike later told me that I should have paddled 3 degrees to the right of the sun.  Forgot my sextant, so this advice probably wouldn't have helped me anyway.

The trip back to shore was one dominated by a growing sense of dread.  Five minutes after making the turn around Eagle, I spotted Francisco fifty feet over to the right.  I was still ahead by a few lengths, but any delusions about having dropped him evaporated.  This was going to hurt.  Having lost the first two races of the season to Francisco, I couldn't afford to slip another point behind him in the standings.  I pushed hard, trying to concentrate on maintaining good form, but watched helplessly as he continued to creep closer.

As we got closer to shore, I could finally make out navigational landmarks.  We needed to turn to the left, which worked in my favor since Francisco was still a good ways right of me.  As we corrected our courses and our paths converged, he was less than 2 boat lengths behind.  For the last five minutes, the offshore wind had been slackening as we entered more protected waters.  With my boat being the faster in flatwater, this worked to my advantage (or rather, decreased my disadvantage, since Francisco continued to gain ground).  We sprinted to the beach, where I managed to hold onto my slight lead and take the win.

Although the official time difference between Francisco and I was 2 seconds, I suspect the actual difference was less than that.  When I stopped right at the finish line rather than running through it, Francisco barely managed to avoid running through me.  I took advantage of being able to breathe once more by gulping in 30 minutes worth of air in 30 seconds.

It was a race of extremely close groupings.  Chris soon pulled in the V10 after having overtaken Matt on the upwind leg, with Matt just 20 seconds behind, and Mike 22 seconds behind him.  Ken and Kirk battled it out for the next two spots, with Ken ending up 5 seconds ahead.  Bill edged out Bruce by 25 seconds. Mary Beth was groupless, but beat her previous time for this course by over ten minutes.

Here are the results for the evening:

Greg Lesher	Epic V12	0:51:51	12
Francisco Urena	Stellar SE	0:51:53	11
Chris Chappell	Epic V10 (New)	0:54:40	10
Matt Drayer	Epic V8	0:55:00	9
Mike McDonough	Huki S1-X	0:55:22	8
Ken Cooper	Epic V8	0:56:20	7
Kirk Olsen	Epic V12	0:56:25	6
Bill Kuklinski	Epic V8	0:58:31	5
Bruce Deltorchio	Epic V8	0:58:56	4
Mary Beth Gangloff	Epic V8	1:09:30	12

Sakonnet River: Huki! Huki! Huki!

Mary Beth and I pulled onto the beach at McCorrie Point an hour and a half before the start of the Sakonnet River Race and watched in growing anticipation as car after car parked alongside us.  When the last stragglers arrived from points West, there were 24 boats registered (including two doubles and a Gocking).  We greeted old friends and threw suspicious looks at unfamiliar faces.  That might have just been me.  The redesigned Epic V10 (Tim Dwyer) and the Think Evo II (Timmy Shields) were making their local race debuts, so naturally we pawed over these shiny new playthings.

On a day where the inland temperatures hit a muggy 90 degrees, conditions on the Sakonnet were perfect for the race - mid 70's with a stiffening 12 to 15 mph wind from the SSW.  I had agonized about whether to bring my V12 or my S1-R down, but seeing the whitecaps kicking up I was glad I followed the old adage: "When seas are lively in Sakonnet... you'll want to have your Huki on it."  The Green Comet has never let me down, but today we'd be up against a formidable field of veterans and up-and-comers.

With colorful costumes and equipment, this triple-threat crew is geared up to fight evil-doers, amuse children, or paddle.

As race time approached, Wesley filled us in on the course.  With the wind coming almost directly up the bay, we'd paddle upwind immediately past McCorrie Point, then by Sandy Point (at 2 miles), Black Point (at 3.5 miles), a large free-standing rock (4.7 miles), and finally turn around a mooring buoy just off of Third Beach.  We'd then do the same in reverse, which is quite challenging.  As usual, Mr. Echols conveniently neglected to address the question that keeps us all awake at night: How is it possible that even the most incompetent cartographer could have called this the Sakonnet River?  I'll admit there may be more important issues in the world, but it seems unlikely.

I gotta confess, I didn't think Wesley could pull off his Rappin' Cap'n act.  But he did, in fact, get jiggy with it.

Resolved not to let this mystery throw me off my game, I hopped in my boat, warmed up, and made my way to the crowded starting line.  Wesley counted down to a rolling start.  26 paddlers engaged their transmissions and started churning away, sending spray in all directions, but mostly in my face.  Seriously, folks, can we show a little more decorum at the start?

Borys Markin and Andrius Zinkevichus (a fixture of the Boston flatwater paddling scene, but in his first ever ocean race) jumped out to a quick lead.  For the first half-mile or so, the rest of the field was a confused swarm as we rounded McCorrie Point (assiduously avoiding the shallows after Wesley's harrowing tales of fine sailors lost on this terrible reef) and headed into the wind-driven waves towards Sandy Point.  Ten minutes into the race, I found myself in third place, with Jan Lupinski and Flavio Costa on my wash.  The recent influx of paddlers with K-1 backgrounds has been a welcome addition to the New England surfski scene.  In their ability to make the transition to skis and rough water, these guys (and Beata) continue to impress and humble us   And also to fill us with a blistering envy that threatens to consume our very souls.  That may also be just me.

Francisco, Chris, and Andrius discuss their shared love of grapefruit.

Borys was receding into the distance, of course, but I was making up ground on Andrius as we pushed through the unrelenting waves.  In these conditions, it was going to be a grueling trip to Third Beach.  I eventually caught Andrius and was preparing to surreptitiously attach a towing cable when a particularly abrupt wave caused me to veer off and fall off his wash.  Over the next couple of minutes, I watched helplessly as he started to pull away from me again.  My stroke felt off.  Asymmetric.  As if on one side I was paddling in molasses, and on the other, honey.  Or perhaps treacle.  I have a long history of feathering issues (don't get me started on mallard quills), so I double-checked my paddle.  Sure enough, I forgot to secure my length-lock and I was paddling as featherless as post-hubris Icarus.  I stopped to correct the problem, accidentally overshooting my target of 60 degrees.  Cursing the sun (Wax?  What the hell was I thinking?), I fumbled hurriedly to correct the feathering.

While fiddling with my paddle, Jan and Flavio flew by in pursuit of Andrius, rooster tails trailing behind them.  I locked in the proper feather and launched into pursuit.  By this point we had rounded Sandy Point, with distant Black Point providing some protection from the wind and waves.  Jan was maintaining a hammering cadence, with Flavio fast on his wash.  I had to work hard to board this express train, but the stiff cardiovascular fare was worth it.  Once I tucked in behind Flavio, I was  along for the ride.  Plus, free WiFi!  My Garmin heart-rate track shows a drop here that would have sent an EMT running for a defibrillator.

After five minutes riding in the observation car, I noticed a couple of boats back a ways on a line much closer to the shore.  Wesley and Francisco Urena.  Wesley is so familiar with the Sakonnet that he has actually named each individual wave (he tries not to play favorites, but Slappy Wetbottom has a special place in his heart).  If he (Wesley, not Slappy) is on an inside line, that's where everyone should be.  I decided to hop off the Lupinski Special and lay a track of my own into even more protected waters.  Nope.  It took 30 seconds to realize the error of my way and then another 4 minutes of penance before I was allowed to rejoin the holy order.

Soon after this, Jan (and by extension, his moochers) caught Andrius, who slowly dropped back to visit with each member of the receiving line.  After clearing Black Point, our path took us closer to a rocky shore at a slight angle to the waves.  Refractory waves added a soupçon of jobbliness to the waters.  I felt the Huki straining to strut its stuff, aching to show these flatwater jokers (hey, it's the boat talking, not me) what it could do with a little texture. I put the hammer down and instead picked up a paddle.  I had envisioned more of a roadrunner-like surge, leaving the other paddlers staring at a lingering cloud of mist, wondering what had become of me.  I had to settle for more of a waddling turkey-like advance, but I was making gains.  Jan seemed to be faltering a bit, with Flavio passing him and pulling behind me.

Before the race, Wesley gave us some advice about the stout black rock (Third Rock) guarding the entrance to the Third Beach cove.  He informed us that at high tide it was possible to save a few strokes by paddling between the rock and shore, but that at the relatively low tide that we were facing, he wasn't sure the gap would be navigable.  Approaching the monolith, I decided to give it a try.  Between the rock and the shore I could see Third Beach in the distance.  I saw no impediments.  I adjusted my course, preparing to thread the needle.

As I approached the gap, however, something seemed awry.  Huge breakers were crashing on far-off Third Beach, even though it should have been protected.  And there didn't seem to be any such commotion on the left part of the beach I could see past the outside of Third Rock.  It was bound to strike me eventually (or, rather, I was bound to strike it), but as got closer I finally realized my mistake.  I wasn't seeing Third Beach a half mile in the distance, I was seeing Third Rock beach from 100 feet away.  Wesley had spoken true.  The pass between Third Rock and the shore wasn't navigable - because the two were connected by a sandy spit that stood a good three feet out of the water.  Reassessed from the proper perspective, the huge breakers resolved into gently lapping waves on the nearby shore.

It's legal for me to drive without corrective lenses, by the way.  Fair warning.

Embarrassed by this mistake, I corrected my course and took the safer passage around Big Rock, not much worse for the weir (that was so close to working, I had to stick with it).  It was now time to start piecing together scattered clues from that long ago skipper's meeting about how to find the turn-around buoy.  There was something about a chimney in there.  Right.  No chimney in sight.  I remember being amused by what the non-native English speakers might be thinking of Wesley's statement that he had "put some orange noodles" around the buoy.  Nobody said anything, so perhaps the pool noodle is now a universal concept, like bumper cars and feng shui.  In any event, the waters seemed noodle free.  I also recalled that we spent the better part of the morning debating which direction to circle the buoy, with the consensus being that it didn't matter, as long as you tolled on the hour.

With several course neophytes on my back (Get 'em off!  Get 'em off!), I figured they'd follow my lead as long as I continued paddling with purpose.  Eventually, I spotted the chimney.  If I had needed a well vented fire, this would doubtless have been a relief, but I couldn't recall how exactly this was supposed to help me find the turn-around marker.  And then I saw it.  Noodle ho!  To cover my bases, I circled the buoy in every conceivable direction before pointing my bow towards the Promised Water.  Having paid my upwind dues, I was ready to enjoy the sea's bounty.

I got my first look at the field behind me as I started to head back.  Although I had earlier glimpsed an indistinct blur back a half-dozen boat lengths or so, this now resolved itself into Jan and Flavio, with Andrius not far off their pace.  Francisco and Wesley seemed to be battling it out back a couple of minutes, with Beata Cseke and Joe Shaw close behind.  As I headed out towards the center of the bay to capture more wind and waves, it became increasingly difficult to identify subsequent paddlers, but there sure were a lot of them.

While struggling to keep up with the flatwater guys during the upwind portion of this race, I took some solace in the fact that they had limited downwind experience.  That's where I could really shine.  But now that I had actually turned the corner, I remembered that I haven't had a lot of past exposure to downwind conditions.  I'd say my race experience to this point has been 65% upwind, 20% crosswind, and 15% swimming. Sure, there was last year's Northeast Downwind race, but I kept my eyes tightly closed for most of that one.

As any of the downwind masters will tell you, the key to success is to make a rabid dash for every bump that you see.  Foam should literally be flying from your mouth.  Hell, from your nose and eyes.  Every missed wave should fill you with a sense of unbearable shame.  Form is unimportant.  Thrash the water until it surrenders.  From commotion, motion.  If you don't hear the buzzing of a thousand bees echoing in your ears, if the edges of your vision aren't going black, if you don't have shooting pains down your left arm, if you have more than a passing desire to continue living... you're not pushing hard enough.

The downwind masters don't use these exact words, of course.  Or, now that I reflect on this, any remotely similar words.  Nevertheless, this was the strategy I adopted for the first couple of miles heading back up the bay.  Desperate to milk everything out of the conditions, I was lunging indiscriminately at every runner that I could conceivably catch, and many more that I couldn't.  Even a kid in a candy store doesn't eat the wrappers.  Exhaustion finally forced me into discretion, and I started trying to read the water rather than tearing out pages at random.  I picked my battles more wisely and was able to string together some decent runs while getting a lot more enjoyment out of the process.  I felt like somebody might well pass me before the finish, but they weren't going sail by so quickly that I wouldn't have a chance to at least put up a fight.

The 26 paddlers of the 2013 Sakonnet River Race.  From left to right: Sean, Steve, ah... forget it.

When I hazarded a look back to get a lay of the competition with a couple of miles to go, I saw Flavio several boat lengths behind, but on a line much closer to the shore.  I figured this would give me the advantage of a slightly more robust tidal current as well as a shorter distance to the finish, since he'd eventually have to pull around McCorrie Point at the finish.  I couldn't spot anyone else - surprising given my hawk-like vision - but apparently Jan was more directly behind me.

Of course, the objective time for the first half of my race was longer than for the downwind leg (63 minutes up, 47 back), but the difference in subjective time was even more striking - especially once I stopped trying to beat the ocean into submission and instead went with the flow.  In a flash, I was at McCorrie Point, catching the last small runners into the beach.  Betsy Echols, who I suspect may have run home to catch a leisurely nap after Borys finished, was back in time to clock me in at 1:50:13 (nine minutes after the phenom).

Despite cementing his reputation as a magnet for problems on the water (leaky boat and weeds this day - look out Kirk, Jan is gunning for your title), Jan pulled in less than a minute behind me, with Flavio only seconds further back.  Flavio finished 12th at the Essex just 3 weeks ago, but apparently someone removed most of the kryptonite from his boat since then.  Andrius managed a 5th place finish in his first rough water race.  Rounding out the top 10 were Francisco, Wesley, Beata (nipping Joe in the closest finish of the day), Joe, and Tom Kerr (who, apparently under the misconception that there would be a sled dog race immediately following, appeared to be wearing mukluks).  After I stole the boat from under her, Mary Beth muscled a borrowed blue-nose V8 to second place among the women.  First time Sakonnet racers Brian Sharp, Tim Hudyncia, and Simon James turned in solid performances in some challenging conditions.  Thanks to Wesley and Betsy for hosting a great race that put grins (and perhaps a few grimaces) on our faces.

In days of yore, after the Sakonnet we'd have six weeks of R&R prior to the next race - the grand-daddy of them all, the Show, the venerable Blackburn Challenge.  But due to the devious machinations of Wesley/Tim and Eric, we now have two daunting new races slotted into our schedule prior to that.  Ride the Bull (June 22) promises to evaluate our rough water abilities, while the Casco Bay Challenge (June 29) will push our navigation skills and endurance to the limit.  I might just have to unearth some new Huki adages.

Salem League 5/28/13: Running on Empty

The second night of the Salem League dawned clear and pleasant, although after my warm-up the temperature suddenly dropped to single digits.  In addition to most of last week's attendees, we were joined by grizzled (but not yet drooling) veterans Mike McDonough and Kirk Olsen.  The field was: me, Mary Beth, Francisco, Mike, Kirk, Bill, Matt, Ken, Bruce, and Ciro.  Bill showed up with a new (er) life vest which proudly bears a label stating that "no rodents were harmed in the manufacture of this article".

We'd be running course 2 this evening, which would take us out of the harbor, around the granite pylon marking Bowditch Ledge 2.8 miles out, and back to the beach.  With a ESE breeze somewhere S of 10 mph, we'd be heading almost directly into the wind and waves (small, but well behaved) on the first leg, then downwind after the turn-around.

In an effort to improve my Le Mans starts, I've been visualizing the process, like a downhill skier might.  I close my eyes and picture the entire operation in vivid detail: the gazelle-like run down the beach, the effortless lift and carry, the elegant slide into the boat, and the powerful initial strokes.  That's how I visualize the visualization, at least.  In practice, even my mental imagery is plagued with false starts, face-first falls into the shallow muck, the crunch of smashed carbon fibers, and, in one instance, an indictment for tax fraud.

Perhaps having flushed out the worst case scenarios in my head, I managed a solid start.  Coming out of the gate, I stood in second, four or five lengths behind Francisco.  Taking advantage of the more protected waters near the start, I made up as much of that ground as possible before the rougher conditions of the open sound slowed me down.  I managed to catch Francisco several minutes into the race, with Mike close on our tails.

In our previous flatwater races this year, Francisco started out considerably faster than me, but I managed to catch and pass him after about ten minutes into the contest.  Unfortunately, the water wasn't flat.  And, more importantly, Francisco always gets much faster as the season progresses.  I pulled alongside, trying my best to ignore these two factors, but after struggling for five minutes to pass, I fell back onto his wash.

The remainder of the race to the Bowditch pylon was divided into a half-dozen cycles of me attempting to pass Francisco, and Francisco unilaterally decreeing that this wasn't going to happen.  After each failure, I'd return dejectedly to drafting.  I could only hope that the struggle was wearing out the big fish.  The one positive outcome of this duel was that with each attempt to pass, we would put more distance between ourselves and Mike.

With a quarter mile to Bowditch, I resigned myself to staying on Francisco's wash until we turned downwind, after which I would, uh, try to go faster than him.  The wind-driven waves weren't large enough to hook into any solid rides, but they were significant enough that when some help was offered, you'd feel like an ingrate if you turned it down.  My trip back to the beach was therefore a series of desperate five second sprints to wring every drop of support from the sea, punctuated by groans of protest from my overtaxed (and underpaid) cardiovascular system.

Although Francisco was generally ahead of me during this stretch, I'd occasionally catch a wave just right and ever-so-briefly take the lead.  As we neared the final point before the beach, however, I slid back, fingernails clawing at the cliff's edge to maintain contact.  Heading in towards the beach I was trailing by a couple of boat lengths.

At this point, we entered the half-marathon phase of the duathlon.  Francisco aced the transition and was halfway up the beach before I had changed into my running shoes.  Although the run to the finish was probably about 200 yards, it felt more like 50 people standing on my chest.  When I eventually arrived at the finish, I vowed to myself to stop procrastinating and finally do something about low tide.  Watch this blog for details on how you can help.

With a solid inaugural race, Mike came in 3rd, followed by Matt and Ken.  Here are the results for the evening (skis only):

Francisco Urena	Stellar SE	0:48:39	12
Greg Lesher	Epic V12	0:48:46	11
Mike McDonough	Huki S1-X	0:51:12	10
Matt Drayer	Epic V8	0:52:17	9
Ken Cooper	Epic V8	0:52:23	8
Kirk Olsen	Epic V12	0:52:47	7
Bruce Deltorchio	Epic V8	0:53:13	6
Bill Kuklinski	Epic V8	0:54:12	5
Mary Beth Gangloff	Huki S1-R	1:08:00	12

With back to back wins, Francisco has established himself as the guy to trick into missing a couple of weeks.  Sakonnet River* Race up next, with plenty of warmth on the schedule.

* Product contains no actual river.

Salem League 5/21/13: The Race Is On

The 8th Salem League kicked off this past Tuesday with a solid field of 10 paddlers, including several first-time participants.  Besides myself and Mary Beth, we had Francisco Urena (warming down from his Molokai run on Sunday), Bill Kuklinski (after breaking through a PETA picket line), Ken Cooper, Matt Drayer, Bruce Deltorchio, Rick Stoehrer (the previous 5 paddlers all in V8's), Ciro de la Vega (in an FSK), and Rod McLain (in his trusty OC-1).  As always, Ed Duggan was serving as ringmaster of the circus.

For readers unfamiliar with the Salem League, here's a summary.  Each Tuesday over the summer we meet at Lynch Park in Beverly to race one of five courses (in the 5 to 6 mile range), chosen at random each week (with adjustments to randomness based on weather, tide, and sunlight conditions, as necessary).  The start is "Le Mans style" - we run a short distance down the beach, grab our boats from the shore, carry them out to deep enough water, hop in, and paddle.  The finish is likewise on land, requiring a refreshing run up the beach to cap off the evening.  Paddlers are awarded points based on their position for the evening, with points being tallied over the course of the season to determine the League champion.

That clinical description of the League omits the visceral component.  This ain't no bridge club.  You're struggling against the same set of relentless competitors week after week, in what amounts to a series of 45 minute sprints.  It's grueling and painful, but in an immensely satisfying way.  The League is just about the most fun you can have while dry heaving.

Based on my warm-up paddle, I sensed it would be a tough evening.  My strategy this season has been to concentrate on conditioning and form to prep for the early flatwater races.  Nearly all of my training has therefore been on lakes, rivers, and ergs.  After the Essex, I figured I'd ramp up my ocean workouts to get ready for the ocean races.  With only one ocean paddle before this race, it looked like I'd instead be cliffing up.  The moderately sloppy conditions weren't abnormal for Salem Sound, but they were sufficient to make me question my training methods.  I had made my bed, now it was time to sleep (with the fishes?) in it.

Because of the weather - the possibility of thunderstorms and limited visibility - Ed wisely kept us close to shore with a non-stop version of course #4.  We'd be heading 1.5 miles out of Beverly Harbor along the coast (into a 15 mph or so headwind), circle Black Rocks shoal, head 2.1 miles back into the harbor, circle a buoy (Red Nun #10 - also a fine Cabernet), then head the 0.9 miles back to the Lynch Park beach.

Like vegemite and self-flagellation, the Le Mans start is an acquired taste.  My race starts this year have been poor enough without adding running, toting, and mounting into the mix.  Despite many years of living and two years of practice in the League, I have yet to master any of these skills.  When the smoke (don't ask) cleared, I was 10 lengths behind Rod and Francisco, both notorious cheaters (but like any skilled con-men, adept at making it seem like everything is legit).  Most of the guys in V8's were also ahead of me, although I at least managed to slow down Matt with a well-timed paddle whack.

Battling upwind through uneven conditions, I slowly moved through the V8 squadron, then eventually passed Rod.  Francisco was still 8 or 9 lengths ahead, but I was making up ground despite feeling a little wobbly.  As we approached the turn-around, Francisco appeared to lose his bearings, looking back to reassure himself that he hadn't already past Black Rocks.  Even though we were a couple of hours from high tide, only a handful of the rocks were peaking out up ahead.  He quickly spotted them and continued onwards.

Rounding Black Rocks I was 4 or 5 lengths behind Francisco, but it soon became evident that I wasn't going to continue gaining in the downwind (ish) conditions.  Already feeling the effects of balance fatigue after our short upwind (ish) run, I started throwing braces like hand grenades.  Francisco started to pull away.  It was going to be second place for me, at best.  Then fortune smiled on me: I hit a floating two-by-four.  Although I didn't realize it at the time, that thump of lumber against my hull was actually the sweet sound of an air-tight alibi...  There was no way I could have won that race, officer!  My boat was compromised!

It was obvious that something was wrong.  Whereas before I had been flailing with a purpose, now I was just flailing haphazardly.  I couldn't stay on course.  At first I thought perhaps my rudder had been snapped clean off, although the collision hardly seemed violent enough for that.  It slowly dawned on me that the rudder had been bent slightly backwards so that it was wedged against the hull.  I had binary steering.  If I pushed the left pedal really hard, the rudder would eventually work free and swing to full left deflection.  Although my politics tend in that direction, I prefer a more centrist position for racing.  I'd therefore lean on the right pedal to restore my middle-of-the-road course, ultimately resulting in a swing to the far right as the rudder again would stick on the hull momentarily before bursting free.

After struggling with deviant navigational behavior for a couple of minutes, I realized that I'd finish dead last unless I could fix the problem.  I performed an intentional dismount (for those cynics inclined to scoff at this assertion, I have semi-controvertible video proof) and made my way back to the rudder, where I struggled to get enough leverage to loosen the bind.  While enjoying the soothing Atlantic waters (53 degrees), Rod, Matt, and Ken passed me.  No matter, I thought.  With restored steering, my V12 would assert its extra 4 cylinders and I'd quickly catch Matt and Ken.  And with only one blade and not a single V, what hope would Rod have?

After a blown slow-motion remount, I was in my boat again.  I had fixed the problem and was back in business.  Unfortunately, I had forgotten that while the faulty rudder had exacerbated my difficulties, I had been operating in the red even before the crash.  I was misfiring every few strokes, counteracting most of the speed advantage my slender boat was providing over the slower vessels.  I slowly gained ground, but it wasn't until we were nearly at the second turn-around that I managed to get back into second place.  Catching Francisco was never an option.

There was some confusion about which buoy to turn around, in part because the target nun was screened behind a couple of moored boats (as is her habit).  I saw Rod peel off around the first nun, but confident that the peek-a-buoy was hiding somewhere up ahead, I kept my line, with Matt and Ken following.  Sure enough, the buoy leaped out from behind the boats at the last possible second, setting me up for an overly wide turn.

Heading back to the finish, I could hear Matt revving close behind me.  Although we were in the relatively protected waters of the harbor, I was having more trouble than ever maintaining a steady stroke.  After each frequent brace I expected to see his V8 pull alongside and then inexorably drop me into third.  Fortunately, I was able to hold on just long enough, squeaking out a 14 second advantage over Matt, with Ken just 7 seconds behind him.  Here are the results (skis only)...

Francisco Urena	Stellar SE	41:26	12
Greg Lesher	Epic V12	42:58	11
Matt Drayer	Epic V8	43:12	10
Ken Cooper	Epic V8	43:19	9
Bruce Deltorchio	Epic V8	44:52	8
Bill Kuklinski	Epic V8	46:37	7
Rick Stoehrer	Epic V8	49:44	6
Mary Beth Gangloff	Huki S1-R	58:42	12

It was an exciting opening night, despite the absence of some of the stalwart League paddlers from the past couple of years (Mike McDonough, Kirk Olsen, and Graeme Rockett).  I'm looking forward to another great season of masochism and camaraderie.

Essex River: Terror on the Low Seas

The Essex River Race holds a special place in my heart.  At the 2004 race, I stood on the shores and watched the most fascinating collection of watercraft I had ever seen.  A month later, we bought a house 5 minutes down the road (perhaps correlation doesn't imply causation, but it seemed at least kismet in this case) and I started training for that summer's Blackburn.  Flash forward 23 years and there I am hoisting the Essex River trophy with my remaining arm.  But I'm getting ahead of myself...

As always, the race would be a 5.7 mile voyage down the winding Essex River, around Cross Island, across a wide estuary, and back up the river.  Between tidal currents and sandy shallows, choosing the right line can tax even the most seasoned navigator.  Which is why most people just blindly follow whoever happens to be in front of them at the moment.  The entire field of 1997 was found having lunch at an Ipswich clam house after the lead rower got hungry midway through the race.

With 33 surfskis participating, this was the best attended ski race ever in New England that doesn't include 20 miles of pain. This is, of course, largely due to the explosion of super-stable boats (the Epic V8 and Stellar S18S), which accounted for 12 of the skis this year.  For the first time, these boats were pulled out of FSK and given their own SS20Plus class.  Given that seven SS20Plus boats beat the top FSK, the governing board of the Cape Ann Rowing Club deserves kudos for this move.

The forecast for the morning wasn't exactly dire, but neither was it all smoothies and kittens.  With a 15 to 25 mph wind from the south and a strong chance of showers, it seemed we might be in for a rain- and spray-scoured race, but at least it would be in the 60s.  Some of the old-timers were inspired to share memories of the tempest of 2010, where for weeks afterwards the authorities were rescuing boats thrown by the raging seas into the treetops of Cross Island.

Arriving at 5am to snag a prime parking spot has its disadvantages...

As it turned out, the wind stayed on the lower end of the forecast and the rain materialized only in a few brief, unenthusiastic showers during the awards.  As everyone maneuvered into place for the start, the wind and lively flooding tide made for an awkward demonstration of half-forgotten sea kayak maneuvering skills.  I nearly got a chance to show off my rolling abilities after a particularly erratic attempt at sculling.  As the rest of us struggled to maintain our positions with mounting pre-race anxiety, Borys Markin carved lazy circles around us - a shark savoring the moment before the kill.

And then we were off, blades and fins and teeth everywhere, glistening forms darting madly through the churning water, the tortured screeches of gulls and paddlers blending into a symphony of unrestrained mayhem.  So the start was unremarkable.  When the frenzy subsided, I was sitting in 12th place.  After my previous lackluster starts this season, I had sworn a sacred pre-race oath to jump out strong with the leaders.  I now mirrored this with a profane in-race oath directed at myself.  It was difficult to tell from my distant vantage point, but on the horizon I could vaguely make out Borys, Eric McNett, Jan Lupinski, Andrius Zinkevichus, and Francisco Urena heading the pack.

Still upset with my lack of off-the-line acceleration, I slowly hauled myself past Mike McDonough, Tim Dwyer, and Flavio Costa (who has beautiful paddling form, but still managed to redirect several gallons of the river into my face with every stroke) before getting briefly caught behind Wesley Echols, Beata Cseke, and Eric Costanzo - a triad so committed to unity that they'd spend the entire race within a bowling ball toss of each other.  Exploiting a temporary schism between Wesley and Beata (presumably some disagreement about the trinity's bylaws), I pushed forward between them.  They evidently reconciled afterwards, since they'd eventually finish side by side, singing kumbaya.

After a strong interval, I caught Francisco.  According to the Garmin track he posted, his heart rate at this point in the race was only at 220.  I don't know if he had some kind of problem with his nectar supply or if he was just meditating, but I took advantage of his hibernation-like metabolic state to pass him.  Francisco is now off in Hawaii for next weekend's Molokai race, where I expect he'll represent New England paddlers in a manner better than most of us deserve.

There were now four paddlers ahead of me.  Borys, racing for the first time in his new Stellar SES, was nearly out of sight.  Paddling an Epic V14, Eric was a dozen boat lengths ahead.  He was hugging the shoreline like Ferdinand Magellan searching for a hidden passage to the Pacific - apparently trying to avoid the incoming tidal current.  Jan, with Andrius drafting off his left stern quarter, was taking a more direct line as the river widened.  This pairing of red skis remained tantalizing close 4 or 5 boat lengths ahead, but I couldn't seem to close that gap as we headed straight downwind (but uptide). 

Finally, a quarter mile before the narrow strait between Conomo Point and Cross Island, I caught the elusive devils.  I drafted comfortably for a few moments before pulling even with Jan as we passed through the narrows.  We remained in this formation until rounding to the back of Cross Island, at which point I inched ahead.

Eric's littoral strategy back in the river had apparently paid off, since his lead had increased substantially by the time our paths converged.  Since then, he had opened up an even larger lead
on Jan and I.  As we cleared Cross Island and faced into a 15 mph headwind, Eric looked to be at least a quarter mile ahead.  With the wind and chop directly on our bows, the conditions weren't technically challenging, but required more vigor than you'd perhaps prefer after 25 minutes of all-out paddling.

Five minutes into the upwind crossing, I had dropped Jan.  I was locked onto Eric's bright orange Mocke vest up ahead.  Could it be possible that I was gaining on him?  I concentrated on maintaining strong, measured strokes, trying not to get too discouraged by my GPS, which was showing hateful numbers.  Despite its best efforts, though, I made it across the broad estuary and entered the river proper.  I was getting closer to Eric, although there was still probably 50 boat lengths separating us.  It didn't seem at all likely that I'd catch him in the remaining couple of miles, but I was feeling content to have 3rd place locked up.

Reality has a vexing way of hammering through even the most concrete of delusions, often accompanied by Carol Houghton's derisive laugh when asking her to junior prom after your best friend assured you she was "into you, big time".  In this particular instance, however, it was the bow of a red Nelo creeping into my peripheral vision that crushed my heart.  Jan "Zombie" Lupinski had arisen from his watery grave.  Actually, reports of his death were greatly exaggerated - he had been lurking out of sight (as the undead do) the whole time I thought that I had dropped him.  Needless to say, I was thoroughly demoralized by this competitive resurrection.  I could only pray that Andrius and Francisco wouldn't also appear from the gloom as part of a resurgent horde.

Over the course of the next few minutes, I watched helplessly as Jan slowly pulled past me with a methodical stroke.  He didn't look over as he passed, but I'm sure that if he had, I'd have seen my own mortality reflected in his cold, lifeless stare.  There was little I could do except fall in behind him again, hoping to regain enough energy to deliver a fatal blow closer to the end of the race.  After a couple minutes of drafting, I attempted to pass on the left as the river widened, but backed off and fell back into line when Jan responded to my modest surge.

At this point, we passed Bill Kuklinski in his V8.  The 80's called, Bill.  They were relaying a telegram from the 30's.  They want their prototype life preserver back.  If I'm not mistaken, Bill's vest was the first ever to use inflated squirrel bladders for flotation.

We were starting to run out of river, so with about a half-mile to go I made another attempt to put a stake through Jan's heart (wait, that can't be right).  I gradually pulled even, where I remained for what seemed ages as we threaded through slower boats.  With two bends of the river left, I called on what little life force I had left and redoubled my efforts.  I finally started to pull ahead.  I'm ethically obligated at this point to note that before the race (and, mind you, this was prior to brain death) Jan had taped his bailer closed in expectation of flat conditions.  Wind chop quickly filled his footwell with water, meaning that, for most of the race, he was lugging around twenty pounds of handicap.

The top 3 men in their stirring tribute to the Romanian flag.

Coming into the finish, I made a terrible navigation choice.  Bob Capellini (in his V8) and a two person rowboat were ahead, starting to round the gentle right curve to the finish.  There seemed plenty of room to slide through, but the rowboat took a wider line than Bob and the gap tightened around me.  I found myself awkwardly wedged between the boats, trying to avoid interfering with the other racers while still escaping Jan.  I spluttered out an embarrassed apology to the rowers for cutting things so close as we crossed the finish line.  Bob appeared too happy at his second place SS20Plus finish (between Ken Cooper and Dana Gaines in first and third, respectively) to care much.

Borys (43:27) had finished first, of course.  Although I had been gaining on Eric (47:30), he was still well over a minute ahead of me (48:48) at the end.  Jan (48:53) finished just behind me, with Andrius (50:06) rounding out the top five.  Other notable finishers were Beata in 7th place overall (1st place woman, naturally), Eric Costanzo in 9th place (after finishing 24th the last time he was at the Essex), Barry Fifield (last seen in a five hour man-vs-rudder battle of wills at the Blackburn, an approach to racing now known as "barrymeandering") finishing 13th in an HPK-registered V8, and Mary Beth Gangloff, completing the race nearly 4 minutes faster than her 2012 time (in conditions that made every other repeat paddler slower).  Congrats to these - and all other - racers.

Beata and Mary Beth display their medals.

After the race, we were treated to fine chili and chowder while enjoying music provided by Bill (who graciously forgives me for poking fun at his vest) and his band.  As the first place paddlers, Borys and Beata walked off with modern PFDs donated by Mocke through New England Surfski, carrying on a long tradition of carting local plunder (so sorely needed by Bill) back to New Jersey.  Thanks to the Cape Ann Rowing Club for another in a long line of smoothly run races.

Wesley's unpredictable Sakonnet River Race beckons us to his backyard playground in three weeks, but before then we'll be competing on Ed Duggan's turf (and surf) as the Salem League starts its 8th season next Tuesday at Lynch Park in Beverly.  Sounds like we'll have some new faces this year joining us.  Sure, it's a brutal and excruciatingly painful series of races.  But, uh, you should all come.