Blackburn Challenge: Process of Elimination

The forecast for the 29th Blackburn Challenge was promising, at least for those of us who make their living writing about sudden and unexpected immersion.  Winds of 10-12 knots from an atypical summer direction meant that it'd be a perfectly credible (and excusable) exaggeration to claim that the race was held in the midst of a raging Nor'easter.  Howard Blackburn (or "Ole No-Hand Howie" to those who didn't mind a kick to the groin) would almost certainly have smiled appreciatively on those hearty souls who would brave such conditions in traditional Banks dories.  And spit contemptuously on the sissified dandies who made the trip on 28 pound synthetic miracles of technology.  Big fan of chewing tobacco too, Howard.  Having never come out of my boat at the Blackburn in 10 previous attempts, the prospect of adding another notch in my chaw-stained hull had me on tenterhooks.

I'm assuming this won't come as a spoiler to many readers, but the meteorologists' mystic prophecies were fulfilled.  Conditions were... I'm going to go with... lively.  Last year was the fastest Blackburn ever, with 21 single skis breaking the 3 hour mark.  This year, contending with 3 to 4 foot seas for the majority of the course, only 4 boats of any kind finished in under 3 hours.  Four out of every five participants had to be resuscitated at least once during the race, property damages were in the high 7 digits (a bargain, Howie would argue), and the Man at the Wheel statue in Gloucester was reported to be weeping salty tears for the lost. 

Of the 212 boats that started, 59 pulled out before the finish.  Entire boat classes were DNF'ed out of existence.  Eight sliding seat two-person rowing shells started, but only one made it around.  Four boats literally fell apart in the rough waters.  One of the shipwrecked rowers was proudly carrying the foredeck of his boat around the after-party, to the awe and amusement of the other attendees.  It was a good day to be in a kayak - the 13 fastest solo times came from the HPK class - but most of those that started in a ski also spent some time out of a ski (including the 3rd through 7th finishers, who you'd think would know better).

At the registration tables at Gloucester High School, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the liability waiver now included a box for penciling in a short obituary.  Smart.  Figuring that the sheer volume of published notices would prevent any rigorous fact-checking, I elevated my rank to Commodore Lesher and credited myself with inventing cheese.  My legacy secured, I joined in the prayer of deliverance that opened the captain's meeting.  In truth (don't get used to it), there was an inappropriate lack of anxiety among those mustered in the cafeteria.  One might even say there was a raucous comrade-in-arms levity.

One-third of HPK starters didn't finish.  Look to your left.  Look to your right.  Both those guys are convinced you're going to be the DNF.  And that your ears are kind of weird.  (Photo courtesy of SurfskiRacing.com)

Mary Beth and I said our goodbyes and launched into the peaceful Annisquam.  With international-class West Coast races the weeks before, during, and after the Blackburn, the surfski crowd had a slightly more regional feel than usual.  Although I don't race often against some of the more Canadian of the attendees, I had crossed paddles at least once before with most of this year's registrants.  In theory, this made it possible to handicap the race.  Matt Drayer and I - fellow data nerds - had run through all the possible scenarios in the days leading up to the Challenge.

Sean Brennan came out victorious in all but one of our simulated trials (eaten by walrus, oddly enough).  The next few places, however, were a confused jumble of paddlers.  We figured at least nine paddlers had a legitimate shot at silver: Jan Lupinski (hungry after a meandering performance in Casco Bay), Jack Van Dorp (Canadian, but with colorful shorts), Craig Impens (master of the intimidating Facebook post), Hugh Pritchard (who, in a charming old-world manner, apparently believes there's a pre-race dress code), Robert Lang (of the Kicked-My-Butt-in-Maine Langs), Ben Pigott (real trouble in flat conditions, a wildcard otherwise), and Brian Heath (with 11 top-five Blackburn finishes, just behind Gretzky and Trebek as the most storied Canadian of them all).  That's only seven people, so Matt (too fast for his tender years) and I (nominative first-person singular pronoun) were forced to include ourselves in the list as well.  I dubbed this group the Contenders.  As to what that makes everyone else... I suggest Journeyman (an older paddler), Tenderfoot (a hypothetical youngster), or Bum (someone that coulda been a Contender, but chose a different path).  We would also accept Palooka.

As we lined up for the start, we were told in ominous tones (I believe the announcer was holding a flashlight under her chin) that once we cleared the Annisquam, we'd be facing four foot seas.  Although I noticed a few people blanch and heard one guy muttering to himself "You can do this, Lesher!", nobody turned in their number and headed back to the launch.  With little fuss and no apparent moral compunction (probably has a good lawyer), the starter sent us off.

In the days before the race, I had pored over satellite photos of the Annisquam in search of some navigational advantage.  Speed-draining shallows in the tidal river can mean that the straight-line route isn't necessarily the fastest path.  I identified some candidate long-cuts, dusted off my compass and protractor set, and got to work plotting my victory.  Was it worth the inscribed scratches and permanent marker on my monitor?  We'd soon find out.

Despite the persistent rumors, the use of high-speed photography allows us to state definitively that Sean only has a single pair of arms.  (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

Within a few minutes, Sean Brennan and the Contenders had danced their way on to center stage.  I was slightly off the back of their train, which cemented the decision to enact my long-cut Annisquam strategy.  Passing under the 128 bridge, they went left, I went right.  Merging triumphantly back with the leaders several moments later, it was clear that my strategic maneuver had only cost me a few seconds.  Emboldened by this unqualified near-success, when I arrived at the second of my long-cuts, I seized the chance to widen their lead.  They'd thank me later.  I swung wide around a submerged sandbar as the lead pack charged over it.  Robert, apparently impressed by my independent spirit, decided to stick with me.

To my bewilderment, this course deviation actually provided some benefit.  When I rejoined the mainstream paddlers, I found myself drafting Craig, who in turn was on Matt's wash.  Sean had split from the Contenders some time ago.  He was always more of a solo act anyways.  Jan was a half-dozen boat lengths ahead of Matt.  Robert was still just behind me, but I didn't know how far back Brian, Jack, Hugh, and Ben were.  Given this information, logically deduce Jan's hat size.

After a few minutes of this, Craig veered left to cut the corner over a sandbar.  Consistency has never been a strong point for me, so I followed him rather than keeping to the channel with Matt.  The gamble paid off.  As we left the Annisquam, the three of us were abreast.  Might this race shape up to be a cerebral chess match like the Casco Bay Challenge a few weeks ago?  That question is laughable in retrospect, but at the time it seemed like just the kind of pretentious twaddle I might write.

Ahead, in calm water and without warning, Jan went over.  Someone gleefully yelled "Jan's down!  Jan's down!" from my bucket.  According to the swimmer (perhaps delirious from shock), the capsize was caused when an older female rower in front of him of suddenly stopped, then proceeded to catch an oar on his rudder.  Sounds vaguely plausible, I suppose.  Afterwards, Jan was telling people that my mother-in-law had sabotaged him.  That's ludicrous.  First of all, everyone knows I'm out to get the guy.  I'm not going to be so carelessly blatant about it as to have my mother-in-law flip him.  Do I look like an amateur?  Second of all, it was actually my aunt.  Regardless of who did or didn't toss Jan into the sea, he was out of second place.  Matt, Craig, and I carried on.  With this early fall in the most important New England race, Lupinski lost his confidence and, for the remainder of the season, couldn't get back in his groove.  More prophetic words, I hope, were never written.

A few moments later, we rounded the Annisquam Harbor Light and finally got a gander at what awaited us.  For the 3.5 mile stretch from here until Halibut Point, we'd be paddling directly into waves that probably averaged 3 feet, with the occasional 4 and 5 foot behemoths thrown in to keep us on our toes.  I knew I'd need to lighten my load for the upwind struggle, so I jettisoned all technique and decorum.  In this bare knuckles brawl, any effete consideration of proper form would just get me in trouble.  Today would be all about outlasting the competition.

Like they say, the camera adds 10 pounds, a hump, and a beak-like nose.  (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

With Matt a length ahead, Craig angling north towards the arctic (did he learn nothing from the tragic Brennan scenario?), and Rob doggedly hanging just behind me despite his alleged flatwater specialization, I was feeling pretty good about my position.  Surely the other Contenders weren't far behind, but I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of throwing a glance over my shoulder to check.  Also,

For the last few weeks, I had been serving as sparring partner (or perhaps punching bag) for Matt in the Tuesday night Salem League to get him in shape for the longer races.  He had been consistently beating me, but today he was in a lighter boat with a vestigial rudder.  A mile into the rough stuff, he went over.  Knowing that he has a spring-loaded remount, I didn't even bother slowing to check if he was OK.  That'd be akin to askin' Billy the Kid if he needed any extra bullets while he was reloading.  With Craig fending off tusked pinnipeds somewhere over the horizon, I staked my claim to second place.

The remaining trip to Halibut Point wasn't too technically challenging, but it required constant vigilance.  The larger waves were curling at the top in a menacing manner, and more than a few times the front half of my boat liberated itself from the surface.  The subsequent crash and palpable flex of the hull made me wonder exactly how long it would be before Mary Beth noticed I was no longer mowing the lawn.  At some point I spotted Brian in his old-school West Side Boat on an inside line, perhaps a half-dozen lengths back.  At least he'd be able to tell people that I perished like I lived life - begging for mercy from an indifferent God.

Apparently there had been some kind of nuclear incident at Halibut Point, because many of the boats ahead were rounding the promontory at a minimum-safe-distance comparable to that of Chernobyl.  The formerly well-behaved waves were getting increasingly rowdy near the shore, granted, but I doubted that they would render anyone sterile.  Just to be safe, I took a moderate line and leaned away from the point to put that extra layer of kevlar-carbon weave between my payload and the danger source.

By the end of the race, Jack and his boat could fit comfortably in the palm of your hand.  (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

The voyage from Halibut Point to Straitsmouth was particular onerous.  The waves were now quartering from the port stern, constantly threatening to yaw my boat starboard into Sandy Bay.  I saw Tom Kerr and Doug McCarthy in the water, but quickly averted my eyes when it became clear that Tom was having an intimate moment with their tandem ski.  We'd all been out to sea for quite a while by this point, so I tried not to judge.

Although I hadn't noticed his stealth boat creep by, at Straitsmouth I saw Brian several lengths ahead of me.  Just far enough, I told myself with barely disguised satisfaction, that it would hardly make any sense to attempt to catch him.  Yet, you mean.  Hmmm?  Oh, right, yet.  And that's how any slim chance at second place faded away.  In Straitsmouth I shouted my number to the moored safety boat which, oddly, appeared to be staffed entirely by confused fishermen.  Having cleared the strait, a temporary respite from the rough waters awaited.
 
On my deathbed (which I pray will be made from that memory foam - nobody wants to be forgotten), I'll look back at the next moment with bitter regret.  An hour and a half into the race, I hadn't taken any liquid or solid sustenance.  Heck, I had been holding my breath most of the time.  Bracing on a skimming paddle blade while I still had some forward momentum, I fished around clumsily in my PFD pocket for an energy gel.  Would throwing my legs out of the boat for added stability really have cost me that much?  As I continued futzing around in my PFD, my boat came to a stop.  Like a Warner Brother's cartoon character, I looked over at my sinking brace, then stared directly into the camera and mouthed "Mother?".

I went down hard on my weak side.  I blew the remount.  Then another.  A third?  Why not?  After a prolonged struggle, I managed to get upright enough on my fourth attempt to tumble off on my strong side.  Now we were talking!  After corralling a spare water bladder that was sneaking off disguised as a Portuguese man-of-war, I finally made it back into the bucket.  Given that I had been in the water for nearly 45 minutes, it seemed miraculous that nobody had caught me (save Rob Flanagan and Chris Kielb in their double, charmingly merry).  I eased back into the race.

A rare moment of competence in a sea of  "Whoa..."

A mile beyond Straitsmouth, at Emerson Point, the waves finally began to jack up and align with my boat.  Unfortunately, Jack up and aligned with my boat as well.  Van Dorp had caught me unawares.  If I had known he was closing in, I might have welcomed him with fewer curse words.  Jack and I traded a few jabs on successive downwind runs, each looking for an opening that might provide some advantage.  I fell off a playground slide onto my head as a kid, so I was hoping he wouldn't home in on that particular soft spot (like my mom did with that damned wooden spoon).  Then, hooking into a nice ripper, I unexpectedly landed what appeared to be a knock-out blow.  Having dropped Jack, I rejoiced in my superior downwind skills.

The video record shows that the coup de grâce I was so proud of was more of a phantom punch.  Jack wallowed on a big wave and then, having lost most of his speed, crumpled to his left.  He had trouble remounting in the steep waves, allowing me to pull away unmolested.  Craig would soon be dismounted in this treacherous area as well, and similarly have difficulty clambering back in the bucket.  Since Matt's contract stipulated that he capsize at least once a mile, it's a safe bet that he was dunked here too.  I doubt he was in the water long enough to notice, though.  Hugh definitely did not go in here, but given that he could barely reach his badly mis-calibrated rudder pedals, I doubt he had much fun.  The cards were falling into place for me.  Or, at least, out of place for everyone else.

After clearing Emerson Point, the seas flattened out a bit.  There were still waves, but had to work much harder to track down good runners.  Given the increasingly rubber-like quality of my arms, I can't say I was too effective in my hunt.  In a typical Blackburn, the four mile long stretch of open water along the Back Shore is an upwind grind.  Doubtless feeling a little guilty about that, this year the wind had given us a break.  I was grateful, sure, but couldn't help but notice that the moderate, uneven rides offered up in this section were pale reflections of the massive and well-formed waves that we had plowed through to get to Halibut Point.  Stupid wind.  Can't do anything right.

I went over again trying to stay in a relationship with a wave that had commitment issues.  When paddling in rough conditions like Saturday's, I can't stress enough how important it is to double-check that your paddle leash is securely fastened on at least one end.  I didn't, and now I'm out a $10 leash.  That crafty water bladder managed to slip away too.  After taking big gulp of seawater to fortify myself, I remounted without problems and went in search of a new swell.

With downwind help, I arrived so unexpectedly early at Eastern Point Lighthouse that they hadn't had time to set up the traditional welcome buffet.  Where were the boat wakes?  The rogue breaking waves?  The piping hot clapotis?  The legendary smorgasbord of demanding conditions 16 miles into the race is a Blackburn institution, for pity's sake!  Words could not express how incensed I was by the pancake-like flatness of the ocean by the Dog Bar, so I let a savage ear-to-ear grin do the talking.

Entering the harbor, I passed Rich Klajnscek (first rower), who informed me that no paddlers were in striking distance.  Although this news should have taken some of the sting out of the slap-in-the-face upwind chop that now greeted me, it was too weak a salve.  Even if I had third place virtually locked down (and Brian's indistinct form far ahead convinced me immediately that second wasn't in the cards), apparently they were still going to make me paddle the final couple miles.  The joke was on them.  By this point, you could hardly call my floppy-armed flailing "paddling".  I'd finish on my terms.

The less remembered about that terrible trip across Gloucester Harbor, the better.  I may have made some rash promises to get through that stretch (something about giving up beer?), but I don't think they'll hold up if I now claim a fatigue-induced blackout.  It's a pretty great loophole.  However it happened, I made it to the Greasy Pole.  Brian was roughly a minute ahead of me.  Sean, of course, had already published his memoirs ("We may never know if anyone finished behind me in that fateful Blackburn...") and retired to Florida.

With an impressive 4th place finish, Matt celebrates his ascendance from "up-and-coming" to "target". (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

In talking with Brian after the race, I discovered that as the last of The Contenders out of the Annisquam, he had lost track of most of the others in the big waves.  Rounding the Dog Bar into Gloucester Harbor, he was astounded that they were all so far ahead of him he couldn't even spot them.  Since situational awareness is such an important part of racing, I'm docking him a place and claiming silver.

I was pleased to see Matt pull in a few minutes later to take 4th place.  Knocked down a dozen times over the last three hours, Matt would just bounce back into the bucket and carry on.  Jack, Jan, and Craig finished together in a tight pack, with Robert, Hugh, and Joe Shaw (stepping in for a DNF'ed Ben) following in one minute intervals.  Hawaii's 'Ale Hedlund took gold for the women, with Mary Beth claiming silver and bronze (because... moxie).  Jim Hoffman and Steve DelGaudio, after demonstrating tandem remount techniques for the cameras at Halibut Point, easily took first in the doubles HPK division.  Jay Appleton now holds the SS20+ crown.  The Clara Barton award went to Bob Wright, who patiently nursed a series of collapsed racers back to upright positions.

Once you win silver, you don't want to contaminate yourself by actually touching bronze.

As you can imagine, the after-party was particularly animated as racers tried to one-up each other with tales of  terror on the high seas.  There were numerous accounts of maritime rescues (by safety boats, the Coast Guard, and fellow racers), several detached amas (insufficient pre-race stretching, I'd wager), mammoth waves ranging in height from 7 feet to 10 meters (Canadians...), a half-dozen krakens (or at least near-krakens), and one possible EBW (missing paddler, incriminating flipper marks on boat).  We can have an honest disagreement about whether this year's race was "exhilarating" or "terrifying", but it was indisputably the greatest Blackburn of all time.  Or at least the one we're most likely to exaggerate about.

There was, of course, one heart-breaking aspect to this year's Blackburn.  Even if you only knew Joe Glickman in passing, you felt his absence from the race he excelled in for so many years.  The web is rightfully overflowing with tributes to the kindness and generosity of spirit that made Joe so beloved.  I'll add one more anecdote.  At the Double Beaver race in 2013, Joe spotted me from across the lawn of the Conanicut Yacht Club and walked purposefully over to where I was fiddling with my boat.  He proceeded to compliment my recent post about that year's Blackburn, citing a few specific elements he found funny, and then to talk to me for a few moments as a fellow writer (despite the fact that I'm clearly not).  I think often of that brief exchange, which left me feeling ten feet tall.  A compliment, a kind remark, a mere interest from Joe made you feel that you were doing something right.  And, given his magnanimous character, that meant he brightened the life of almost everyone he encountered.

I frequently used Joe as a foil in this blog - an effortlessly cool and hyper-competent guy in direct contrast to my blundering self.  I obsessed (only half-facetiously) over besting him in something - paddling, CRASH-B's, anything, really - but, of course, never did.  That's fitting.  Glicker was, and always will be, one more mile ahead.

Paddling the Lupinski Way

After the 2014 Ride the Bull Race, Jan swatted a wonderful backhanded compliment my way.  I can't remember his exact words, but to paraphrase: "It's remarkable that you're doing so well this season given that your form is so terrible.  Just awful.  Worst stroke I've ever seen.  Seeing you paddle, I weep for our sport."  And so on.  He also made some gagging noises to underscore his disgust.  But I noticed the spark of an idea in his eyes.  What if he could provide a safe environment in which to mold the technique of once young paddlers?

So it was that the idea for Lupinski's Sleepaway Camp for Paddlers first took form.  Although it took Jan another year to work out the logistics and obtain the proper permits, he was able to open the camp just in time for our country's 239th birthday.  After getting the required inoculations and providing a list of food allergies, Mary Beth and I made our way to administrative headquarters at the home of Jan (and, from time to time, his wife Renata) on July 4.  Bruce Deltorchio and Timmy Shields arrived a short while later, after having first performed some ad hoc drag testing on roof-racked skis at high subsonic speeds (minor scorching was reported).  Once Jan had secured our blindfolds, we convoyed the short distance from HQ to the camp itself with surprisingly few fatalities.

The deceptively calm waters of Lake Sebago, beneath which lurks  an unspeakable horror.  Oh, wait.  No, that's just an oddly shaped rock.

Lake Sebago rests entirely within the confines of Harriman State Park.  The ACA owns a rustic camp on the lake from which a number of private canoe and kayak clubs operate.  The Rockaway Olympic Club is one of these.  Lupinski's Sleepaway Camp for Paddlers, Inc. is a wholly owned subsidiary of the Rockaway club.  It's technically registered with the state as a leper colony, but Jan assured us (from behind the surgical mask he was wearing due to his pollen allergy) that this was just for tax purposes.  Powerboats are not allowed on the lake, which makes it an ideal training destination.

After a brief orientation, we were assigned to our Polish-named camp teams.  Bruce and Timmy found themselves in Tribe Sokół while Mary Beth and I were Tribe Ogórek - the Falcons and the Warriors, respectively, Jan informed us.  Proud to be newly-annointed Ogórki (the correct plural form, we were helpfully told), we quickly mastered our fight song and secret warrior handshake.  We were ready to paddle.

Bruce and Timmy, having successfully scavenged discarded equipment from the dumpsters, prepare to set up camp.

For our first on-the-water instructional session, Sergeant Instructor Lupinski had us repeatedly paddle the length of the lake with prolonged pauses between each stroke.  Jan paddled behind or alongside each of us in turn, taking stock of our form with a discerning gaze.  With analytic efficiency, he identified our individual deficiencies and then - not being one to sugarcoat - lit into the worst offenders (that is to say, Timmy and me) with a little more enthusiasm than seemed necessary.  I'd say just two notches shy of sadistic glee.

Our instructor immediately noticed that Timmy's stroke was wildly asymmetric - while his paddle was getting a good bite on the left, it was barely skimming the surface on the right.  After several minutes of diagnostic observation, he ultimately determined that Timmy had been using a canoe paddle.  Mary Beth had some issues that many of us share - continuing the stroke beyond the hip, hands too low, and a tendency to hurt the ones she loves (so cruel...).  However, she responded quickly to Jan's suggestions.  Bruce has a fine and easy stroke, honed by compulsively watching videos of great flatwater paddlers (his collection of vintage paddling VHS tapes is legendary).  Not wanting him to feel like he wasn't getting his money's worth, Jan struggled to come up with critical comments, ultimately suggesting that Bruce "smile more".

Jan had previously established that he was no fan of my technique.  He now had the opportunity - by my own invitation, no less - to elaborate in great detail on just how much I was getting wrong.  Death grip on paddle.  Slouching in the bucket.  Elbows too high.  Hands too low.  Knees not together.  Poor rotation.  Choppy stroke.  Poor catch.  That covers about the first twenty seconds of his scathing critique, which was to continue virtually uninterrupted for the next hour and a half.  Having reviewed video of myself in the preceding week going full bore rather than at this controlled pace, I at least had the consolation of knowing that my stroke could be (and, in fact, was) worse.  I kept that to myself.

It's difficult to key in on the one element that bothered Jan most, but it was probably my screwy wrist action.  I've watched it in slow motion since, so I now understand why he had problems even determining what was going on.  I look like someone using a fork-lift after downing a half-dozen Red Bulls with a meth chaser.  Also, I'm chatting with the warehouse foreman in sign language.  His wife has been under the weather, but she's feeling much better now.  With all kinds of unnecessary wrist flexions, extensions, and rotations, it's really a wonder that my hands are still attached.   Jan did the best he could with me, but several years of muscle memory were fighting him at every step.

Timmy - ever the prankster - discovered that he could wriggle his way under Jan's skin by pretending that he was having trouble mastering the mandatory stroke-pause-stroke cadence.  Chuckling to himself, he'd intermittently shorten the pause to a mere flicker of delay.  At the beginning of the session, Jan would offer helpful aphorisms like "The sokół must know when to flap and when to glide".  After suggestions along these lines failed to change Timmy's rhythm, he gradually degenerated to frequent admonishments to "Pause!" and "Slow it down!"  By the end of 90 minutes, Jan was spluttering wild-eyed insults directed at Timmy's hearing, intelligence, and parentage, while Timmy himself tried desperately to keep a straight face.

While I can't doubt Jan's credentials, some of his instructions seemed a little suspect.  For example, am I really supposed to periodically spray WD-40 in my shorts to facilitate proper rotation?  And while I know a loose grip on the paddle is important, does it make sense to practice jazz hands even when not on the water?  And, finally, how could I possibly think about my stroke while training.  Crazy.

Tim wastes no time in pointing out the obvious.

We eventually called it a day.  After sopping up the gooey remains of my ego with some old towels, we made our way to the Tribe Sokół tent platform to relax for a few minutes before dinner.  Timmy had brought a tent formerly used by the Ringling Brothers, which he proceeded to outfit with an inflatable mattress that included mooring lines.  Poor Bruce was relegated to the small remaining corner of this hangar, where he was to spend a fitful night worried that Timmy would tumble off his lofty perch and (after achieving terminal velocity) crush him.  Oh, the humanity!

After enjoying a beer or two at the camp, we headed back to Jan's house for a traditional Polish dinner of kielbasa, beet-infused horseradish, ogórki kiszony (cucumbers soaked in brine - an unlikely, but delicious, concoction that someone really should consider selling stateside), and toasted Skittles.  Hold on a second.  Ogórki?  What the...  Oh well, I suppose it's a noble enough vegetable.  Returning to camp, Timmy and Bruce headed for the big top while MB and I settled in at the Tribe Cucumber cabin.

In the morning, we met Jan and Renata at Rhodes North Tavern for breakfast.  We were joined there by Tim Hudyncia and new paddler Jenifer Carter.  I had an omelet, but that has little bearing on this story.  Over our meal, Jan sketched out the day's activities for us - another training session in the morning followed by a 5K race in the camp's K-4s in the afternoon.  I also had juice.  We made our way back to camp, where we met Mark Ceconi pulling along a treasure trove of trial skis and stand-up paddleboards.  Mark ended up working harder than the rest of us combined, despite not paddling at all.  On the positive side, he did sell a couple of SUPs.

Jan reenacts his early paddling days in Poland.

Our morning training session would consist of a series of one minute resistance intervals.  We'd maintain the same stroke-pause-stroke cadence as before, but each stroke would involve maximum leg drive and torso rotation, with a special emphasis on maintaining good grunting form (guttural, from the diaphragm).  The resistance part of the training was provided by a short length of tubing Jan had us strap under our boats.  The session was less humiliating than Saturday's, but only because Tim and Jen diluted Jan's efforts.

The K-4s were so unstable that just looking at one caused Timmy to fall in.

By the time we had completed our resistance training, it was time for the race.  After establishing that we had enough people to outfit four K-4s, Jan proceeded to randomly assign paddlers to boats.  The NSA might want to get hold of his randomization algorithm for cryptography, because it defied all predictability and logic.  By the end of the process, I had been assigned to two different boats, had latrine clean-up duty, and was on a waiting list for a liver transplant.  Although light-drinking Tim seemed like an obvious donor candidate, by the time I had found a knife (more of a sharp stone, really) cooler heads had prevailed and four reasonably balanced K-4 crews were set.  Each boat would have at least (and at most) two experienced flatwater paddlers, with the balance (or lack thereof) made up of surfski "specialists".

Encrusted with muck after spending a year in outside storage, Timmy reluctantly agreed to clean himself up before the race.

With something just shy of balletic grace, I spasmed into the rear cockpit of my K-4.  After some initial jitters at launch, I settled in as we began to practice synchronizing our strokes.  Our kayak was helmed by an unfamiliar Russian paddler by the name of Rostock.  Occasional surfskier Yosef Dayan was in the second position.  Bruce was ahead of me in the third seat.  I'm not sure it was a great idea to have me batting clean-up, but I'd just have to close my eyes and swing away (the same"piñata strategy" I used in little league, much to my father's chagrin).

As the first boat on the water, we had sufficient time to try out a few standing starts and a turn or two.  As Yosef instructed us, if you just mirror the stroke of the person in front of you, everything will fall into place.  During warm-ups I mostly felt like we were doing pretty well - not exactly lockstep strokes, but a coordination that a generous observer might refer to as "not entirely haphazard".  However, whenever Rostock changed his cadence, our synchrony faltered as we struggled to adapt to the new tempo.  We'd eventually lock onto the beat, but only after a cacophony of arrhythmic strokes.

Mary Beth was surprised by how stable the boat was. Nobody had the heart to tell her.

Our rehearsal time was all too short.  The other three boats soon joined us on the water.  Tim and Jen were in a sleek Nelo captained by Jan.  Mary Beth was in a boat led by another Russian-born paddler named Ivan.  Timmy anchored a tippy Plastex boat driven by Alex Ambotas (who paddled a tandem surfski to a second place finish with Jan in last year's Blackburn).  Jan led us to the starting line and outlined the 5K course.  I can't say I understood where we supposed to turn, but if at any point I was in the lead, we would have more serious problems than remaining on course.

After mastering synchronicity in warm-ups, we concentrated more on mayhem during the actual race.

Jan counted us down and we struck out.  I was concentrating so intently on staying in sync with Bruce that I was mostly oblivious to my surroundings.  We seemed to be in the lead during the initial straightaway, but after the first turn Mary Beth's boat appeared 5 or 6 lengths in front of us, leading me to believe that they had turned on the wrong marker (that is to say, cheated).  Along with Alex and Timmy's boat, we slowly closed the gap to the scoundrels.  On the third turn, Mary Beth's and Timmy's boats got tangled up, forcing both to near-stops and sending the latter well wide.  By the fourth (and final, it seems) turn, we had pulled even with Mary Beth's boat.

We hadn't been paddling as smoothly as we had in warm-ups, perhaps because we were constantly changing cadence to accommodate the frequent 180 degree turns.  Nevertheless, we still seemed poised to win the race.  And then... Through a negotiation that involved a lot of emphatic Russian, the lead paddlers apparently decided to slow to allow Timmy's boat (pushed wide in the previous turn) to catch up.  Once the three boats were abeam, we commenced a straight-line dash for the finish.  This rapid change in cadence had a catastrophic impact on our shaky uniformity.

Only Mary Beth bothered coordinating her outfit with the boat color.

We tried desperately to hold it together, but when it became clear that this wasn't going to work it was every man for himself.  You'd think that coordinated strokes wouldn't matter that much.  After all, we were all still paddling in the same direction (OK, I'll admit that I did briefly attempt to back-paddle my way back into sync, but eventually gave that effort up as futile).  Not only did our flawless asynchrony slow us dramatically, it felt like the boat might shake itself apart.  Two lost fillings later, we hit the finish line, second behind Alex and Timmy's boat.

Out of respect for the drenched, I haven't mentioned the boat sunk by Jan, Tim, and Jen.  They were once so dry...  Because damp men tell no tales, only Jen remained to relate the sad story of the capsize of the Nelo.  Apparently traumatized by the experience, however, all she could do was rock back and forth while repeating "So wet.  So wet." Those four poor souls had peered into the abyss.  I only hope that someday they can find peace.

In much bigger races than this, there's no shame in fourth place.  Pretty good color coordination, though.

After cleaning up (and drying off), the surfski paddlers made formal apologies to the flatwater pros, who graciously lied about us not being huge disappointments to both them and our parents.  We're a gullible crew, so we grinned foolishly and toasted our K-4 excellence with some beers before returning to administrative HQ for the closing ceremonies.  After another Polish feast, Jan and Renata led us one last time in the mournful Lupinski Sleepaway Camp for Paddlers Hymn.  Tears in his eyes, Jan told us how proud he was... of Bruce.  The rest of us, he said unconvincingly, should "keep at it".  The campers then said their goodbyes, vowing to keep in touch and to sit up straight in the bucket.

I learned a lot at camp.  Keep my hands up and stop doing whatever it is I'm doing with my wrists.  Concentrate on burying the paddle blade before "yankin' it back" (Jan's paraphrased words, not mine).  Never investigate chattering noises coming from under the bed in the Ogórek cabin.  And, most importantly, don't get out in front of Jan in a future race unless you're prepared to weather a withering critique of your stroke.

Our final feast at the Lupinski's home took a strange turn when Mark announced that he was much taller than we had previously thought.

Despite the jokes at his expense, I'm very grateful to Jan for generously offering his time, resources, and expertise for our benefit.  He's an excellent instructor, even when a jackass paddler tries his patience by refusing to heed his suggestions (I swear, it felt like I was doing what I was told).  Although I may have hinted otherwise above (for alleged comic effect), the only monies collected were for race registration and the ACA camp use fees ($1,750 seemed a bit steep, but I guess insurance costs and such must be high in the area).  Thanks to both Jan and Renata for hosting this event while simultaneously dealing with a skateboard-induced family emergency.

Casco Bay Challenge: Tactical Maneuvers

From its murky origins in 2013, the Casco Bay Challenge has quickly grown to be an important race on the New England calendar.  In theory, the course is dead simple: Proceed northeast from Willard Beach in South Portland 16.5 miles across Casco Bay to the Mere Point boat launch.  In practice, picking out the optimal path amongst the dozens of similar-looking islands is no mean feat.  On the positive side, Casco Bay encompasses only 958 square miles, so if you wander off course the Coast Guard will likely find you before the ice sets in (which would be in late August, I believe).  Eric McNett and family would again be serving as our hosts.

On a sunny day with a moderate breeze on our hind quarter (very refreshing), 23 skis (including 5 women), a dozen outriggers, and a handful of SUPs would take this year's Challenge.  To supplement the local paddlers, a healthy contingent from the DC area was rounded up and shipped to Maine.  A more nefarious crew of foreigners from the north also made an appearance.

A couple of years ago, while dabbling in black sorcery, Chris Sherwood inadvertently opened a portal to Halifax (which is about what you deserve when you substitute beaver for newt).  Through this abominable Hal Gate climbed Tim Milligan.  After this first sweet taste of freedom from the eternal torments of universal healthcare, civility in public discourse, and dangerously high syrup consumption quotas, Tim returned with his compatriot Dave Murray in 2014.  And this year he's also unleashed the fearsome Lang Twins on a slumbering country.  Inexplicably separated by 30 years, Lang the Elder (henceforth Robert) is one of Canada's premier marathon and wildwater kayakers, while the younger Lang (Neil, although his robust beard made it difficult to tell) is on the national sprint team.  With Mario Blackburn slipping down from Quebec when nobody was looking, this qualified as an invasion.  I called Homeland Security to warn them, but they told me that Maine wasn't technically under their jurisdiction.

Before the race, Pam tries unsuccessfully to synchronize her internal compass with Robert's.

A half hour after sending the SUPs off to almost certain exhaustion, Eric shepherded the remaining boats onto the water.  Although few suspected it at the time, we were lining up for one of the most intriguing races in recent memory - chock full of back-and-forth tactical maneuvers (mostly back in my case) that would repeatedly scramble the order of the top seven finishers.  A quick airhorn blast later, we were off.  Jan Lupinski, who has more humorous kidney stone anecdotes than almost anyone I know, took the early lead.  To my mind, he was the man to beat today, although with such a strong field there were certainly other contenders.  By a couple of miles into the race I had worked my way into what was probably second place - it was difficult to tell because there was some action way off to my right.

Behind me Jim Mallory had locked onto my wash and swallowed the key.  Although we've never raced directly against one another, Jim and I do have a rivalry of sorts.  For 4 of the past 5 years, we've competed in the same run-bike-paddle team triathlon - finishing as the fastest two kayakers each time.  I would just leave it at that.  A more conscientious writer might also mention that Jim beat me in those 4 races, but I'll be damned if I contract scruples at this age.

After several unsuccessful attempts to shake Jim by working small runners, I eventually adopted a grind-him-down strategy, the primary component of which involved pretending that I was more fit than he.  Through a concentrated application of willful ignorance, I had assumed that Jim and I were alone in pursuit of Jan.  Five miles into the race, the sudden appearance of Neil passing close by at a phenomenal rate made me question that assumption.  Post-race video analysis reveals that he had been lurking behind us for some time.  Jim deftly hopped over to Neil's draft and also slid by me.  With an effort that left only a slight taste of blood in my mouth, I was able to clip onto the back of our reordered train.

Sure, it was a lot of work pulling Jim, Neil, and half of Robert.  But I think they'll agree it was worth the effort. (photo courtesy of Kealani Kimball)

For some time, I had been monitoring Eric's progress well off to our right.  It soon became evident that he was going to pass us.  I made the difficult decision to abandon my new-found foster home on Jim's draft to see if Eric would take me in.  Although Jim and Neil soon hopped back on my wash to provide moral support, I couldn't seem to close the half-dozen boat lengths that separated me from Eric.  To muddle matters further, Matt Drayer used an island skimming trajectory to drop in unannounced.  Neil cut over to Matt, and together the youngsters pursued Eric while Jim and I dropped further behind.

Unable to narrow the gap myself, I appealed to Jim for help.  Without hesitation, he leapt into action and surged forward.  Sadly, I had neglected to take into account Jim's power as a sprinter.  Already bruised and battered from my tumble from 2nd to 5th position, I was too woozy to match his awesome acceleration.  My only hope of catching the leaders evaporated as I lost my grip on Jim's wash.  He cast a rueful look back, but there was nothing he could do to arrest my fall.  With a respectful tip of his cap (phenomenal ear control, that guy), Jim carried on to join Matt and Neil.

I was almost grateful for the clean break - there'd be no lingering suffering while I struggled in vain to keep up with those guys.  My competitive fire was on the flickering edge of extinguishing itself when Robert Lang showed up with some kerosene and a bag of marshmallows.  Engulfed by the newly stoked flames, I resigned myself to another hour of torment.  Robert soon passed me, but not without picking up a nasty parasite.

Uh-oh.  Things don't look too good for Mary Beth.  Stay tuned to this blog to find out if she pulled through. (photo courtesy of Kealani Kimball)

Eric is the butterfly of the surfski world.  While he always knows where he's going, his erratic fluttering to and fro makes him damn difficult to net (let alone stick a pin in).  Eric's wanderings had those of us behind him weaving drunkenly in an attempt to stay on line.  Jan had been leading throughout from a line well to our left, but our meandering string of six skis proved an irresistible lure for him.  Everyone loves a parade.  He turned sharply to join the festivities, losing enough ground in the process that he lost his solo lead fell in with the head group.

I experimented with a downwind line (peer pressure) in hopes of getting by Robert and making up some ground on those ahead.  I managed to pass and gap Robert, but soon enough he caught me and settled on my wash.  Despite my incantations (OK, curses), I could not exorcise this Canadian demon.  Up ahead, however, his bearded spawn was showing signs of mortality.  Paddling alone for the last few miles, Neil appeared to be struggling with cramps.  Taking advantage of his periodic stops, I gradually closed the distance between us until, with two miles left, we caught him.

It's pretty obvious what I should have done at this point was to continue pushing by Neil (or at least try) - if we were even remotely close to one another near the finish, a 25 year-old national-caliber sprinter was probably going to win that battle.  What I actually did was settle onto his wash, rationalizing that I'd just recuperate a little and then - after a half-mile or so - I'd make my move.  Or maybe, since it's pretty comfy back here, I'll just nestle in for another half-mile.  Seems a shame to make a move with a whole mile left, so perhaps... (at this point my reverie was momentarily disrupted by Robert passing us both) ... I'll just hang out here a little longer.  And so on.  Perhaps 200 meters from the finish, I made a token effort to overtake Neil - mostly because I thought he would appreciate the gesture.  Of course, he brushed my attack aside effortlessly.

The lead pack of Eric, Jim, and Matt were too far ahead for me to pick out individuals but I've reconstructed the events through contemporary newspaper clippings and first-hand accounts from old-timers (I feel a little bad about that low blow, but you bastards should have thought of that before kicking my ass).  Matt held a lead of several boat lengths entering Mere Point Cove, but couldn't fend off a last minute attack from Jim.  In a bang-bang-bang finish, it was Jim, Matt, and Eric in a 4 second span.  90 seconds later it was a pop-pop finish for Jan and Robert (2 seconds apart) and, in another 30 seconds, a pew-(pause)-pew end for Neil and me (6 seconds apart, but not nearly as close as that might sound).  Even though I finished on the periphery of the action, it was perhaps the most exciting race I've been a part of.

In the women's race, Pam Boteler beat Kathleen McNamee by 40 seconds for the win, with Sara Jordan placing third.  Kai Bartlett dominated the OC-1 field, finishing nearly 20 minutes ahead of the next single-bladed competitor.

Jan's new happy place.

I was pleased to find that the post-race spread contained nearly every known recovery provision (although if you're taking requests, Eric, I wouldn't mind seeing some ambergris and tiger blood next year).  Joe Shaw, fearing that someone in the crowd might have a deadly nut allergy, selflessly threw himself on the jar of peanut butter.  Taking inspiration from his altruism, I guzzled the chocolate milk to protect the lactose intolerant hordes from themselves and scarfed bananas like ibuprofen to protect the accident prone (although the fiber blast from the peels made me subsequently regret that philanthropic endeavor).

Even Timmy's high jinks couldn't scour away the bitter taste of defeat (and banana peels). (photo courtesy of Kealani Kimball)

Eric presented the awards for the top paddlers in the various categories (some type of carved coaster I think - I was too far off the podium to see very well), then proceeded to draw for door prizes given to every participant.  I won a cool Kai Wa'a sponsor shirt, a bottle of mouthwash, and a trial subscription to Southern Bride magazine - a pretty good haul.  Thanks to the McNett clan and sponsor Adventurous Joe Coffee for a memorable time on Casco Bay.

We now have a long break to the Blackburn on July 25.  Great.  That'll give Matt some extra time in the Salem League to undermine the crumbling foundation of my confidence.

Don't miss these great photos from the race (courtesy of Kealani Kimball).

Ride the Bull: Returning to Form

Hubris, I've recently learned, is not a tasty Middle Eastern dish (which explains a lot about the odd looks I got when ordering Lebanese take-out the other day).  Turns out it's a virulent strain of cockiness that can be cured only by by being surgically cut down a notch or two (note to self - check to see if "hubris" has a Hebrew origin).  With Jan Lupinski, Eric Costanzo. and others doing battle at Eric's Seas It Downwinder in New Jersey, and the generally confused conditions of the Narragansett Bay course likely to offset any threats from flatwater specialists, I haughtily assumed I'd be crowned Master Bull Breaker this year.  Bobbing beside my boat in the mouth of Mackerel Cove watching Jim Hoffman pull away, however, it was difficult not to think of myself as the clown of this rodeo.

Let's rewind to a time before my comeuppance.

With Northeast paddlers divided among two races (both of which are in the SurfskiRacing point series), attendance at the 3rd annual Ride the Bull race was down from last year's 21 paddlers to a cozy group of 11.  Designed to challenge our rough water skills by keeping us in the confused intertidal zone for a good fraction of the course, the race has a reputation for inducing DNFs and the occasional psychotic break.  Mary Beth had wisely borrowed a V8 for the day, leaving me free to choose my stability level (V10 or V10 Sport).  I've been training almost exclusively on a tiny lake so far this season, so I figured I was well-equipped to handle the refractory slop we'd be paddling through.  Strapping the V10 on the car, I just wished I had a V14 in the quiver.  Hubris in action, folks.

Although he's repeatedly asked me to stop calling him "swami', Tim remains in charge of my spiritual well-being.

I'd usually provide a thorough description of the course about here, but doing so would require that I stop bathing and take the next few days off from work.  During Tim Dwyer's extended pre-race briefing, three people had to be treated for scurvy.  Given the confusion over the such rudimentary concepts as clockwise and counterclockwise, I wasn't optimistic that we'd all be making it back for the awards ceremony.  More cake for me, I figured (that's not so much hubris as a misguided fixation on baked confections).  The gist of the course was that we'd head to Mackerel Cove, then Hull Cove, then Mackerel Cove, then Hull Cove, then Mackerel Cove, then the House on the Rock, then back to Fort Wetherill.  If you weren't feeling dizzy from all the turns, you were definitely off track.  Jim Hoffman and Mark Ceconi arrived late to the party and would be forced to improvise their course.

Twenty minutes later, we were underway.  Wesley led the charge towards the first buoy, but I managed to pull ahead of him before we had to make the turn.  Conditions were a little sloppy, but they seemed manageable.  A few minutes later, as I rounded the rock that would slingshot me across the mouth of Mackerel Cove, I saw a tight knit pod of paddlers five or six boat lengths back.  I'd see this group of Wesley, Tim Dwyer, Chris Chappell, and Jim Hoffman whirling by hypnotically over the next few turns of this carousel of a course.

In the turbulent waters off the point that separates Mackerel and Hull Coves, I found myself reminiscing about that golden time (say, 6/22/13) when one could find Jan Lupinski floundering in mortal danger beside his boat rather than basking in glory atop the podium (say, 11/2/14, 4/26/15, 5/2/15, etc. - don't forget to check out Surfski America for all the latest race data!).  Reluctantly shaking myself free from my nostalgia for bygone days, I recommitted myself to winning a mercifully Jan-free race.

Sure, I lost a few tenths of a point for paddle entry angle, but I really nailed the dismount.

As I turned into Hull Cove, I scanned the waters off the beach in search of the orange turn buoy.  Always waiting for such an opening, the wily ocean took advantage of my momentary distraction to serve up a surprise wave from port.  It was more of a playful bump than anything malicious, but it was enough.  A ineffective last-second brace left my paddle buried deep below the surface.  At this point, the capsize was inevitable, but I first had to endure the slow motion unspooling of the process - much like when I'd ask a girl out in college and would have to wait out the laughter before the inevitable no (and/or slap).

After righting myself in the saddle, locating the turn buoy, and heading back out of Hull Cove, I spotted the same chase pack of four hunting me down.  It was tough to tell from a distance, but I'm pretty sure a couple were slavering.  Some cracks began to mar my veneer of confidence.  The trip back to the turn on the far side of Mackerel Cove was uneventful, but I did notice that conditions were getting increasingly messy as the afternoon wind picked up.  Turning back to retrace my strokes, Los Quatro Lobos were still on my heels.  I'm not sure how they managed to get matching leather jackets (embroidered with their toothy logo, natch) since the last turn, but they were looking sharp.  And hungry.

Back at the point between Mackerel and Hull Coves, the action was lively.  Choppy waters had already taken a toll on my paddling form, but now I had to completely disengage my core to daintily pick my way through the syncopated landscape of peaks and troughs.  As long as I concentrated and didn't push too hard I'd have no trouble staying in the bucket, but the knowledge that at least 3 of the Lobos were much better rough waters paddlers than I kept me on the edge of my seat.  Nor was the relentless baying doing any favors in keeping my calm.

If you had told me before the race that at some point I'd do a backwards somersault out of the bucket... I would have been a lot more prepared.

The waters smoothed out entering Hull Cove, providing a brief respite.  Repeating the turn, I was alarmed to see that an alpha wolf had emerged and was making a pursuit breakaway.  Jim had outdistanced the rest of his gang and was now close enough to smell my fear.  Panic rising, I retraced my steps back into Mackerel Cove somewhat less gingerly.  After a few close calls averted via last-second braces, I wasn't too surprised to find myself swimming again.  I blew my first remount, clambered clumsily back onto my ski on the second try, and found that I was now in Jim's clutches.  By now, however, he had slipped on his sheep disguise and was all "Are you OK?".  I warily assured him that I was, got myself together, bared my teeth experimentally (I have no lips, so this isn't easy for me), and slipped into my new role as predator.

For the next mile or so, as we periodically hit patches of relative sedate water, I'd nip at Jim's heels for a few minutes, only to fall back several boat lengths as we returned to more wobbly conditions.  If he was at all alarmed at being chased, he didn't betray his concern - he looked relaxed and steady.  And lost.  After leaving Mackerel Cove, it soon became apparent that Jim didn't know where he was going.  He was in danger of missing the next turn buoy unless I corrected his course.  My first instinct, of course, was to let him wander Narragansett Bay aimlessly while I stole the win.  My next instinct was to send him either further afield by slipping him false directions - as far as villainy goes, in for a penny, in for a pound.  Then I remembered Jim's kind heart, quick smile, and cinder block fists.  Reluctantly, I yelled that he should turn left.  Then, a few minutes later, that he should continue straight past the cove where we launched.  A pattern had been established.

Everyone tells me that I need to work on my paddling form, but I really think I've got it dialed in.

From a half-dozen boat lengths behind, I was shouting out instructions to my very own remote-controlled Hoffman.  If only I could maintain this sway after the race, think of what I could accomplish with my once-gentle giant!  I'd never again have trouble opening jelly jars, messing around with car jacks, or defending myself from enraged grizzlies.  With a stiff breeze making it difficult to hear and Jim constantly threatening to exceed maximum recommended range, reception wasn't quite 100% - but it was enough to keep us headed in the right general direction.

After maneuvering through a field of standing waves near the House on the Rock, I rounded the green channel buoy to find Jim awaiting further instruction.  Pulling alongside, I sketched a quick map and play-acted the final stretch for him.  The scene where I eked out the win in the last 20 meters was particular poignant - were those tears I saw in Jim's eyes?  We got underway again, heading back towards the finish.

I soon saw the remaining Lobos coming towards us - maybe 90 seconds behind.  Actually, I heard them before spotting them.  Chris - apparently not a fan of the capricious Ride The Bull conditions - was venting his criticism of the course in a stentorian voice that had tourists in Newport wondering who Tim and Wesley were and why exactly they deserved to be de-boned and stuffed with live crabs.  I made a mental note to scratch Chris from the invitation list to my inaugural "Slop, Chop, and Roll" race.

With my sensei-like guidance and encouragement ("Keep going!  Through the gap!  Sweep the leg!"), Jim finished strong.  Although I made a final push to pull within a couple of seconds of him at the end, he obviously would have gapped me long before had he not had to keep slowing to wait for directions.  It wasn't long before Tim arrived to claim the final podium spot, with Chris (who, having lost his voice, was now just muttering under his breath) and Wesley not far behind.  Tim Hudyncia, Bruce Deltorchio, and Mark Ceconi were the remaining XY finishers, with Mary Beth again dominating the XX field.  There was only one other swimmer on the day, and I'm sure Tim H would want me to point out that - defying all odds - it was not him.

Thanks to Tim and Wesley (and Jim) for a humbling day.  I'll try not to hold a grudge.

Sakonnet River Race: Winding Up

As the first open water competition of the year, the Sakonnet River race always attracts an enthusiastic group of paddlers anxious to frolic once again in the salt spray.  Twenty-some skis and assorted accoutrement festooned the beach at McCorrie Point, adding some color to the overcast and breezy morning.  This was to be the second of five planned Rhode Island races for the season.  A quick side note: Wesley and Tim have been directed by Providence to provide a clamroll, small drink and the key to the governor's private washroom to anyone who completes all the Ocean State races.  Plan accordingly - I hear they have one of those high-tech toilets that checks your blood sugar levels (ouch) and gives you financial advice.

Despite its mild-mannered appearance, the Sakonnet has been the site of a disproportionate share of weather-related drama.  From the palpable will-they/won't-they tension of the thunderstorm-plagued 2010 race, to the lamentable upwind grind of 2013, to the rain of hellfire in 2012 - it's been a meteorologist/theologist paradise.  While we wouldn't be risking lightning strikes or eternal damnation this year, we would have to contend with a small craft advisory ("For a festive day on the water, consider decorating your boat with stenciled flowers", I believe).  For the 3rd time in the past 6 years, Wesley would be tasked with concocting a new set of ambiguous waypoints to define a course customized for the weather conditions.  I'll grudgingly admit that the course was optimal, but I still maintain that instructing us to turn on the yacht "with a barnacle pattern that looks a little like my nephew Floyd" was vague at best and deceitful at worst (I knew Floyd.  Floyd was a friend of mine.  Collection of sessile suspension feeders of the infraclass Cirripedia, you're no Floyd).

The revised 9 mile course would take us upwind from McCorrie Point for 3 miles to the end of the Sakonnet, followed by a gleeful 4.5 miles downwind to Sandy Point, where we'd turn back towards McCorrie and commence cursing the 20 mph headwind for the final 1.5 miles.  Planning ahead, I brainstormed a series of expletive-laden oaths so that come crunch time, I'd have a range of vibrant options at my fingertips.  The ancient sea gods have pretty much heard it all (sailors...), so they appreciate it when you go the extra mile when blaspheming them.

Reactions ranged from bemused smiles to puzzled stares as I unveiled my new racing thong.

After his impressive K-1 showing on the Essex River, someone got the bright idea to put Mike Dostal in a ski.  Sure, he's personable, humble, and has a delightful accent - a real credit to flatwater paddlers.  But as we've learned from kudzu, Asian carp, and Independence Day, invasive species pose acute threats to delicate ecosystems.  With no natural predators, Mike is liable to irreversibly disrupt the innate balance of the ocean paddler environment.  But, as they say, you can't unring a bell.  Get used to the tolling (it is, after all, for thee).  The best we can do is try to contain the spread of the invasion.  As a first step in this direction, I recommend that we discourage Ben Pigott (Mike's fellow flatwater paddler) from upgrading his old Epic to a next generation ski.  What's that?  He's paddling a Fenn Glide today?  OK, new strategy.  Just cover your ears and pray that the end is quick and painless.

Wesley conducted a well-orchestrated rolling start just off the McCorrie Point beach and the 8th Sakonnet River Race was on.  Somewhat paradoxically, I've long since stopped commenting on my slow starts.  Roughly a dozen paddlers stood between me and the lead, including Jim Hoffman to my right.  It never says anything outright, but I feel like Jim's uncompromising posture has a sneering contempt for my lazy, dejected slump.  Jan Lupinski was to my left at the start, but quickly pulled ahead and worked his way to the lead.  Mike followed, handling the choppy conditions with aplomb (or possibly with equanimity - he was too far ahead to tell for sure).

Once I passed Andrius Zinkevichus to move into 3rd a mile into the race, twenty boat lengths or more lay between me and the lead pair of Jan and Mike.  I wasn't alone though.  Eric Costanzo had glommed onto my draft with both hands and a liberal application of pine tar.  As a rough water specialist, Eric was practically licking his chops for the second leg of the race.  Behind me, I could hear him sharpening the knives he'd use to filet me on the downwind run.  No matter what I tried, I couldn't generate enough speed to shake him.  I'd periodically throw a glance behind, catch a glimpse of his maniacal smile over the millstone I seemed to be dragging, and my hair would stand up on end (you know, like a phantom limb).

Approaching the lee provided by the north end of the sound, the water started to flatten.  I was now able to get some traction in my struggle to pull myself free from Eric, and with a great sucking sound, finally escaped his clutches.  After putting a few lengths between us, I surveyed my situation.  Jan and Mike were well ahead, but apparently didn't know Floyd from a hole in the wall - they were well off heading.  Perhaps I could make up a little time as they realized their mistake, but that alone wouldn't be nearly enough to catch them.  Of more immediate concern was Matt Drayer, who was looking strong paddling my traitorous old black-tip V10.

Allegations that I've rigged my ski with a propulsion device have, until recently, been unsubstantiated.  (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols and SurfskiRacing.com)

Desperate to give myself as much of a head-start as possible over Eric in the mild conditions in the half-mile on either side of the upwind turn-around, I pushed so hard for the next 10 minutes that I was surprised to not be cradling a newborn afterwards.  I lost track of everyone behind me after the turn, so I had no idea if my labor had been in vain (insert rim shot here).   By this time, distance had dispersed the lee and I found myself in increasingly improving downwind conditions.  A blanket of calm descended over me.  The race was now out of my hands.  All I could do was wait to be overtaken by Eric.  While ranking my teeth from most to least favorite - had to pass the time somehow.

I'd never wish a fellow paddler ill unless there was a clear personal benefit in doing so.  It was therefore with a misguidedly clear conscience that I prayed that the downwind conditions would be Mike's undoing.  He'd obviously done fine in the bumpy upwind grind, so I wasn't particularly optimistic that he'd falter going the opposite direction.  And yet... he did seem to be slowing.  Since Mike was on an inside line while I stayed much further out, it was difficult to judge our relative positions.  Over the next 20 minutes, however, it became clear that he was falling more and more to my side.  And there eventually came a time when I looked to my right and couldn't spot his bright orange boat.  As I discovered later, he had at this point started falling more and more to his side. He had been baptized in the warm Rhode Island waters just off McCorrie Point, almost exactly where I had been similarly indoctrinated my first time in a ski five years ago.  With this new-found bond, a sudden realization came to me... Mike was no different from us.  I imagine a similar thought crossed the mind of the last dodo the first time he saw a human laying an egg.

Now it was only Jan ahead.  Way ahead.  He also was well to the inside of me, but no amount of absurd "yeah, but I'm on a better line" self-deceit could actually convince me that I would be catching him.  Conditions continued to improve as we progressed further down the Sakonnet, with the waves becoming larger, cleaner, and more predictable.  Even a downwind bumbler like me was able to link together some quality runs.  I still missed some good rides here and there, but for once I wasn't grappling in a life-or-death struggle with each wave.  Nevertheless, it wasn't until I was 50 meters from the end of the leg that I convinced myself that I wasn't going to be passed.

It was a tie for first, by the way.  Left lateral incisor and right 2nd bicuspid.

After an excruciatingly slow and wide turn at the final turn-around, I finally got a look at the field behind me.  Given that we had just completed 5 miles of open downwind, I was surprised to see how close the next 6 paddlers were clustered.  It looked like Eric, Andrius, Matt, Joe Shaw, Chris Chappell, and Bruce Deltorchio would be competing for (what I sincerely hoped would be) third place.  These guys were perhaps 90 seconds behind me, but unless I increased my upwind pace from "near-standstill" to at least "laggardly", that soon wouldn't be the case.  In the latter stages of the downwind leg, I had averaged something north of 8 miles per hour.  Struggling against the wind and waves, I was now barely breaking 5.

Eric, Andrius, Matt, and Joe vie for 3rd though 6th, apparently not understanding that there's a limit of one ordinal place per paddler.  (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols and SurfskiRacing.com)

There's a saying in my family: "Make Greg eat it."  That's not particularly relevant in this case.  Another saying is: "Nobody hates X as much as I do."  There's an implicit challenge there - "I dare you to say that you hate X more than I do."  Over the years we've ceded certain Xs to particular family members.  My mom has "hypocrites", a cousin has "snakes", and an oddly-specific racist aunt has "Samoans".  I have a lock on "the sun" and "garden hoses" (my blood pressure went up 20 pips just typing that out).  For 30 years, my father, my Uncle John and I have been arguing about who gets "wind".  I'm happy to announce that I've now unilaterally awarded it to myself.  During the upwind leg I achieved a medical grade purity of hatred - a poisonous knot of rancor that threatened to sear me from the inside out unless I spat out the excess venom.  Needless to say, I was grateful to have an assortment of scripted curses at hand.  A non-stop stream of profane invectives powered me through the last leg.  Wind power, I suppose.

For the fourth race in a row, Jan was the first ski to the finish.  As far as he's concerned, he should now consider me utterly bereft of fighting spirit.  A beaten man.  A demoralized husk.  In short, definitely not someone who would spend every waking moment over the next three weeks training to avenge his recent drubbings when we meet again at the Casco Bay Challenge.  So maybe it's OK for him to have a few extra cheeseburgers or to exchange an interval session for a bubble bath.

Jan collected his $50 hotspot winnings, only to squander it immediately on a generous charitable gesture.

Although Eric nabbed the final podium spot, he was frustrated by his less-than-optimal line to the down-wind turn-around.  I was pretty OK with it.  Andrius managed to hold off a hard-charging Matt for 4th, with Joe, Chris, Bruce, Tim Dwyer, and Wesley rounding out the top 10.  Positions 3 through 7 finished within the span of a minute.  Despite not being at the race, Mary Beth took the top female spot.  Mike and Ben both finished the race strong and upright - a non-trivial feat given the conditions and their lack of ocean experience.  Dave Grainger - who's comfortable enough in rough water that he's been known to nap during downwind runs - was having so much fun he immediately got back in line for another ride.  Many thanks to Wesley and Betsy for organizing the race and the post-race spread - great job as always.

The next race weekend will see our field split in two, as the folks in the New York area head to Eric's inaugural Seas It Downwinder in New Jersey, while the rest of us Ride the Bull in Narragansett Bay.  The winners of the two races will then compete in a best-of-five rock-paper-scissors match at a neutral site to determine the week's Northeast regional champion.