Ride the Bull: Crash Course

By now we're all familiar with the origin story of Ride the Bull.  Concerned that surfski races were just too sedate to land a lucrative ESPN live coverage contract, Tim Dwyer and Wesley Echols devised a treacherous coastline course guaranteed to have viewers slavering at the carnage.  Taking a cue from Big Tobacco, they figured that with all the youngsters recruited via the sexy publicity, they could afford to gradually kill off their best customers.  It took them a few years of tinkering with the course, but they finally arrived at a sustainable attrition rate.  Although Wesley had taken over sole directorship some years back, his conscience finally got the better of him.  He handed the reigns over to Tim and myself this year.  Proud to carry on the tradition, we summoned paddlers to Fort Wetherill for the annual Narragansett Bay culling extravaganza.

Before getting down to the race itself, let's take a quick detour to discuss my 2022 fitness strategy.  I've started to incorporate more cross training this season, folding in healthy doses of cycling and running to my time on the water.  In general, athletes might adopt such an approach to promote sport-specific recovery, enhance motivation, or avoid overuse injuries.  My principle motivation, however, was to extend the life of the 20 year old neoprene shorts I paddle in.  If I didn't seriously curtail my bucket time, a mid-race disintegration (think Thanos finger snap) was all but inevitable.  As part of the preservation effort, I bought a new road bike this spring.

While I enjoyed riding a couple of times a week, I recently realized that although I was getting an aerobic benefit from this cross training, I should also be looking to enhance skills that would also be useful on a surfski.  With this in mind, the day before the race I found a flat and straight section on a country road to practice my remounts.  Moments later as I lay sprawled in the ditch alongside that road, I couldn't help but think that there should have been more planning on the dismount phase of the drill.  First off, a bed of poison ivy probably wasn't the ideal landing zone.  In my defense, though, even had I identified a more suitable target area beforehand, it would have been difficult to navigate to it while rag dolling along the shoulder.  Which brings me to the second major deficiency in my dismount maneuver.  In retrospect, decelerating to a stop while on the bike would have made a lot more sense.  There's a reason (perhaps a few) they don't make brake pads out of human skin.  My third and final planning faux pas was not alerting area residents that a drill was in progress.  To an unknowing observer - say an elderly woman on her mid-morning walk - it can be difficult to differentiate between a true 911 emergency (like a cyclist wiping out and disappearing off the side of the road) and a minor training snafu (same).  Next thing you know, you might be asking the EMTs if they have anything for acute embarrassment.

I'm in excruciating itchiness, but otherwise fine - my body absorbed most of the impact.  Just some minor scrapes and bruises.  Also snapped off part of my shifter assembly, but I'm told it will grow back.

Paddlers are easing back into the intimate camaraderie we had before COVID, but we're not quite there with the traditional pre-race huddle.

I'm not exactly sure why we were roasting Chris, but Tim had some of the best oceanographer-related zingers I'd ever heard.  I'm never going to hear "Woods Hole" again without laughing.

Back to Rhode Island.  Lest we get too big for our britches (that's assuming they're still in one piece), every year we order a world-class paddler from the ICF to compete in at least one of our New England races.  You never know if you'll get a Sean Rice, an Austin Kieffer, or a Nate Humberston, but we've never been anything less than completely humiliated at our relative incompetence.  Hold on.  I take that back.  One year they had a shortage and pawned a Jan Lupinski off on us.  Oh sure, he probably won, but nobody wanted to quit the sport afterwards.  This year we got the Sean Brennan model - a real bargain since we only had to pay freight charges from New Jersey.  We last saw Sean at the 2021 Sakonnet Surfski Race, immediately after which the local used surfski market crashed due to the glut of sellers.

Although it seemed improbable that Sean would be seriously challenged, if anyone could be forgiven for dreaming above their station, it'd be fellow out-of-towners Rob Jehn and Ed Joy.  Rob has been repeatedly kicking the beloved local favorite in the groin this season and yet for some reason we keep letting him come back.  Although Ed has some mileage on him (including serious off-road ventures while a younger man, as he told us at lunch), he's got a rebuilt drive train and the best rough-water navigation system money can buy.  And as the two-time defending champion, he wasn't about to let a "candy-ass teenager" like Rob beat him on this course.  I figured.

We're not even halfway through the list of outside barbarians that stormed the gates of Fort Wetherill.  For weeks, Rob had been frightening me with tales of Anthony Colasurdo's ferocity from shared NJ training sessions.  New York's John Hair is always a wily competitor, but this year he's taken things to a new level - creating a bogus Strava feed designed to make it look like he hasn't been training much.  Finally, Epic Kayaks muckety-muck Bruce Poacher would be paddling a double with Eric Costanzo (yet another Jersey boy).  Bruce flew his parents over from South Africa and then drove them up from Tennessee so that they'd have a chance to apologize for the cold-hearted manner in which their other son (Ross) had eviscerated me in the 2019 Blackburn.  That's the kind of thoughtful gesture that makes everyone love the (non-Ross) Poachers.  Also, Bruce brought snappy Epic hats for everyone.

I just found out about the "Psychedelic" setting on my GoPro.  Groovy.

The area we use at the park also serves as a base for scuba diving certification, so for once we weren't the silliest looking bunch of weirdos in the parking lot.  We were however, the baldest, with nearly half the paddling crew opting to redirect our supply of testosterone to, uh... more critical areas.  Eyebrows, ears, noses, etc.  Behind more than a few diving masks, I noticed the distinct glint of envy.

With an assist from Sean's encyclopedic knowledge of the navigational markers of Narragansett Bay (get that guy on Jeopardy!), Tim deftly guided us through the 8.8 mile course at the captains meeting.  Starting from West Cove, we'd motor west to round a rocky island just inside Mackerel Cove, head out into the bay to turn on bell buoy G7 (recently refitted with a state-of-the-art Hayes-Kendall "Monsoon IV" free-swinging clapper, as Sean helpfully informed us), continue northeast past West Cove and the House on the Rock to G11 (criminally outdated with a Maritime East "Flop-About" dangler), and return to the mouth of West Cove.  Just to make sure we got it right, Tim asked that we then repeat the loop a second time.  After that, we'd be rewarded with an extra leg that would take us directly back to G7 for one more glorious bell recital before returning to the finish. 

The launch area was congested with floating weeds and scuba students (almost always grounds for an automatic failure), so once we picked our way through to open water, we carefully checked each other's rudders for tangles of regulator hoses.  We soon made our way next door to West Cove and lined up for the countdown start.  Tim's gotten so good at counting backwards that he earns a little extra dough on the side as a test subject for anesthesiologist training.  Based on general demeanor I suspect he may have taken a few too many hits of ether over the years, but on the brighter side he never has to worry about his tonsils, appendix, or gall bladder giving him any problems.  He was in fine form today, though.  We were underway exactly 54 seconds after the one minute warning.

Knowing we'd soon be making a hard right turn around a particularly solid looking rock at the mouth of the cove, I had lined up on the left side of the pack to avoid any temptation to heroically cut things close.  Struggling to get by Tim on the outside, I couldn't lend much attention to what was happening in the thick of things over to the right.  Based on what I saw after clearing the turn (and Tim) and angling towards the point marking the entrance to Mackerel Cove, however, I can only assume that what had been happening was a whole lot of cheating.  That's the only rational explanation for the fact that scarcely a minute into the race I had already lost contact with the first 5 boats.  Sean, Ed, Rob, Bruce & Eric, and Anthony were well out in front.

Once clear of the well-protected start cove, the true nature of the race conditions were revealed.  Between the brisk northwest wind, swells from the south, boat traffic, and refraction from the rocky coastline, there were waves traveling in pretty much any direction you wanted.  Conanicut Island was blocking most of the 12-15 mph wind, so none of the legs would be an upwind slog.  Technical conditions, but not overly demanding.  I figured it would give competitors with years of varied ocean paddling (like Sean, Ed, and Tim) the benefit.  I have more than a decade of open water experience under my belt (and, quite often, over my head), but by stubbornly refusing to learn much from this exposure, I remain mid-pack in my abilities.  Perhaps by waterlogged osmosis I had absorbed skills enough to catch newcomer Anthony, however.

Amazingly, there seemed to be some merit to this hypothesis.  Anthony had dragged me around most of the Narrow River Race a couple of months earlier, but in livelier conditions I was rapidly closing his early lead.  Being in a more stable boat doubtless helped.  Turning around Southwest Point into Mackerel Cove, I took a tight line inside him (only semi-heroically close to the rocks) and moved safely into 5th place.  Now all I had to do was linger close enough to the pursuit group (Ed, Rob, and the double) to pick off any exhausted stragglers.

You'd never have expected it from him, but as we passed in opposite directions at turns I heard a steady stream of motivational obscenities directed at the "gutless maggot" up front by drill sergeant Bruce.

At the completion of the first lap, the pack ahead extended their gap while demonstrating an uncommon degree of cohesion.  The two smaller boats and the larger double appeared to be atomically linked - the H2O of the paddling world, so to speak.  I'm working towards a spectacularly tortured metaphor/pun here, so bear with me.  Here's the premise.  Water is known as the "universal solvent" because almost everything dissolves in it.  But "solvent" also means "having sufficient funds to pay one debts".  So if the group is universally solvent, they have unlimited resources.  Which explains why they were showing no signs of fatigue!  I spent about an hour unsuccessfully trying to craft this harebrained premise into a Shakespearean turn of phrase that would at best elicit a collective groan, and would more probably elicit a collective "Close Tab".  I mostly write to amuse myself, and I failed at even that.  I did come up with the hilarious-to-me phrase "pithy apothegm" while brainstorming, however, so it wasn't a complete loss.

Enough self-indulgence.  Let's get back to the actual topic of this report.  The advantages of liquidity!  The inseparable Fluid Crew were nimble and flexible, while I plodded behind, all of my assets frozen in stodgy long-term investments (like life insurance, which I might well dip into sooner rather than later).  Sorry.  I could've sworn there'd be a payoff in doggedly pursuing this angle.

The remainder of my race overflowed with adventure and excitement (look for the Netflix miniseries in October), but since I've wasted so much space on tangents, I'll distill it to the essentials.  Periodic checks on Anthony after each turn revealed that I was maintaining a solid grasp on 5th place.  As the pursuit pack pulled further head of me, it became difficult to tell how close-knit they remained, but at the final discordant turn on G11, I could see that Rob and Ed had dissociated themselves from Bruce & Eric.  The singles would struggle for supremacy over the final couple of miles, with Rob out-sprinting Ed for the silver.  In winning 4 minutes earlier, Sean had established a new course record of 1:11:56.  Finishing 4th overall about a minute behind Ed, Bruce & Eric were forced to share the doubles crown, leading to quite the fracas in the parking lot.  We had a couple of fatigue-based DNFs, but a 100% survival rate.  We'll have to try harder next year.

I guarantee you that in reality, the field wasn't nearly this photogenic.

For a final ocean tune-up before the Blackburn Challenge, you have two options.  If you just can't seem to kick the Rhode Island habit, head back down for the Jamestown Double Beaver on July 9th (register at PaddleGuru).  For those looking for a different kind of fix, you can see what kind of thrills New Jersey has to offer at Toms River Paddle Race on July 10th (register at PaddleGuru).

Sakonnet Surfski Race: Becalmed

The Sakonnet Surfski Race celebrated its 15th installment this past weekend.  This is the longest continuously operating surfski race in New England.  The youngest competitor this year, Sam Duffield, wasn't even born when the gun first fired on the Sakonnet.  Oops.  Might just have blown his cover with the Navy.  When Wesley Echols started the race way back 2008, who could have guessed that any of the competitors in that inaugural race would still be paddling today?  Now well into their twilight years, four such elder statesmen showed up this year, although only Wesley seemed to know exactly where he was.  

Several years back, Wesley and his neighbors convinced their town to restrict access to their local beach at McCorrie Point to only those with resident permits.  Unfortunately, not all paddlers got the memo that they were now persona non grata at the ancestral home of the Sakonnet race.  As a result, in early June of every year, the town constabulary has to extract neoprene-clad geezers stuck firmly in the razor wire and rake up the detritus left by those who made it as far as the mine field.  We probably have a few more years of safe access to the new venue at Island Park Beach before the inevitable lock-down on invasive species, but if you notice a red dot on your chest or a billowing yellow cloud of noxious gas heading your way - maybe just drop your boat and start running.

Tim's attempts to recruit new members to the Narragansett Paddle Drill Team were, once again, unsuccessful.

You can thank me later for cropping this photo in such a way that exactly what Igor just realized he forgot isn't explicit.

Although there was historically a "standard" course for the Sakonnet, varying weather conditions (and now the venue change) have necessitated frequent ad hoc changes.  At times, these revised directions have had the distinct feel of a scavenger hunt.  One year, the winner was the first paddler to return to the start after finding (1) a Clorox jug inscribed with the Sanskrit word for "fellowship", (2) a bobbing flock of Buffleheads ducks, and (3) a patch of floating seaweed in the shape of Poland.  So naturally I was suspicious when Wesley instead described this year's course with clinical precision.  We'd proceed 4.63 miles towards the mouth of the Sakonnet, turn on navigation buoy RN6, and return to the start.  I kept waiting for him to add "... and also circumnavigate the completely submerged wreck of the trawler Glory B", but he kept silent.  Doubtless he'd wait until just before the start to spring that course addendum on us.

With just a few days left until the race, it appeared that the entire field might earn spots on the podium.  By Saturday, however, our ranks had been swelled by procrastinators, impulse registrants, and parolees assigned to the paddle release program.  Twenty-one paddlers showed up, but since there were only 18 boats we played musical buckets to decide who had to double up.  We can't seem to move our races far enough from New Jersey to keep Rob Jehn from attending.  As winner of the last couple of races, he was naturally the favorite.  Matt Drayer was also competing.  I had recently beaten Matt in consecutive races in our Tuesday night league, but my margin of victory had shrunk alarmingly between the two.  Another 4 days worth of whatever super-soldier serum he's been taking might well make the difference here.

Since discovering that tattoo removal isn't covered by his insurance, Timmy has taken to passing the hat.

In our previous two races, I had clung desperately on Rob's draft until my grip gave way, then faded gradually behind in quiet despair.  I'd only been 15 to 20 seconds back at the finish, but the gap seemed so insurmountable it might as well have been 18 to 23.  Those earlier races had been contested in dead flat conditions, but any hope (unwarranted, granted) that the rougher water of the Sakonnet would mix things up were dashed by the forecast - a whispered breeze from the north at race start, dying to a preternatural calm (weird for the National Weather Service to phrase it that way, but whatever) midway through.  I therefore decided to just make a couple of tweaks to my tried-and-true "draft, fade, despair" strategy.  As we lined up for the start, I could barely contain my excitement at implementing the improved "draft longer, implode, despair" approach.

To maximize drafting time, I maneuvered to set myself up on Rob's port side as Wesley counted us down to the start.  He must of forgotten about the course adjustments.  The usual suspects - Chris Chappell, Tim Dwyer, Matt, and Rob - shot off the line, but this time I was dragged along with them.  Unaccustomed to the g-forces associated with such sudden acceleration, I blacked out briefly.  When I came to, I was still safely ensconced in the warm embrace of Rob's generosity, pulling away from the rest of the field.  It might have been a little warmer if I wasn't catching a paddle-scoop of water in the face every few seconds, but after the race I was happy to provide Rob with a few tips for maximizing my future comfort.

We continued peacefully in this mutually satisfactory manner.  The sea was so smooth that we'd occasionally see stripers finning at the surface ahead, darting away in a confused swirl at the last moment.  Rob made perfunctory efforts to shake me from time to time, but it was obvious that he wasn't seriously committed to these attack intervals.  He could hardly maintain his delusion of being in a competitive race if he dropped me so early.  I wish he would have made a little more effort to sell these break-out attempts, however.  Checking email while ostensibly sprinting?  Come on. On my part, I didn't bother with even a token show of trying to seize the lead (or take a turn pulling, as Rob might have worded it) - the most credulous audience would hardly have bought such a fiction. 

Halfway to the turn buoy, I sensed we had established an uneasy truce.  I'd keep on his draft so that Rob didn't have to admit to himself that he drove 5 hours for a cake walk, and he'd let me stay on that draft because he sensed the looming darkness of competitive irrelevance that lay in my future.  We'd carry on this pitiful charade until the buoy, at which point Rob would break our wispy bond of mutual deception.  And that's pretty much what happened.  Rob's Nelo gave him superior turning agility and his strength gave him superior acceleration.  There's no way I could keep with him.  At least, that was the rationalization I used for not gutting it out and fighting back to his draft immediately after being dropped.  

I took some solace in surveying the oncoming field as we headed back towards the start.  Rob had pulled me well clear of Matt, who in turn had opened up a solid lead on Tim.  For the first couple miles of the return trip, I managed to keep within a half-dozen lengths of Rob.  My planned implosion was disappointingly fade-like - my end came not with a fffwoomp, but with a whimper.  As I fell further back, I resorted to increasingly wild-eyed tactics.  I weaved to and fro searching for non-existent waves or tidal currents I could exploit to negate Rob's advantage.  I'm ashamed to admit that I grew so desperate that at one point I resorted to trying to paddle really hard.  Not my finest moment.

With a half-mile to go, I heard a tremendous splash just behind the bucket on the starboard side.  Despite any corroborating evidence from my other senses, and perhaps a little addled by lack of oxygen to the brain, I suspected that I had fallen out of the boat.  And on my weak remount side!  Fortunately, a quick head count revealed that all the crew were accounted for.  Apparently a large striper had taken offense at my trespassing through his domain and decided that retribution was in order.  The worst thing about being a fish, however, is that you lack convenient access to the judicial system.  That and gill worms.  Lacking any legal remedy against my incursion, he settled for a startling splash.

The capsize scare failed to quicken my heart rate - I am, after all, still around to write this - but it did provide a sufficient boost of adrenaline to see me through to the finish.  Rob had crossed the line 35 seconds earlier at 1:15:58.  Matt came in a few minutes later to claim the final podium spot, with Tim and John Redos taking 4th and 5th shortly after.  Leslie Chappell earned the women's title, while Bill Kuklinski & Kirk Olsen were the double's champions.

Bill placed 14th in the first Sakonnet race, but even while carrying a passenger, improved all the way to 5th this year!

Having survived the Great Kumquat Deluge of 2012, the odd banana peel doesn't phase Matt at all.

Thanks to Wesley for having us down for a fantastic day on the water.  We'll be back in Rhode Island on June 18th for Ride the Bull (no charge, but please register at PaddleGuru).  Some paddlers were disappointed that this year's calm Sakonnet didn't provide a suitable warm-up for the notoriously lively conditions at the Bull, but I think it'll make for a better consumer experience.  Would Friday the 13th have been any good if Jason made his first appearance skulking around basket weaving class in broad daylight?  No!  In his initial reveal, he's gotta be stabbing a counselor in the eye.  So buck up little campers!  You're in for a treat.

Essex River Race: Climate Change

 

After taking off a couple of years to "find itself", the Essex River Race ultimately returned to the North Shore of Massachusetts with a renewed sense of purpose.  Locals would be forgiven for believing that this purpose was to snarl Saturday morning traffic, but the true purpose is to bring together competitors in an orgy of paddling and rowing enthusiasm.  Which, now that I see it in writing, might be the actual reason that the upstanding citizens of Essex are so disgusted with us.

The 5.8 mile course entails a tour of the inner zone of the Essex River estuary.  From the start in town, competitors follow the winding tidal river until it widens into an open expanse (of either water or marsh, depending on the tide), then circumnavigate Cross Island and return back up the river.  The surfski wave would start shortly after high tide, meaning that we'd have unfettered access to many questionably effective shortcuts usually safely above sea level.  Temperatures were in the high 70s, with a light to moderate breeze from the south.

In 2021 a group of paddlers held the unsanctioned Essex River (Replacement) Race on the standard course, which Rob Jehn won despite paddling a circuitous route perhaps best described as a "search grid".  Needless to say, he was embarrassed to finally discover that he himself was the lost paddler.  Rob made the trip from New Jersey to maintain his cock-of-the-walk status.  As the last winner of the real Essex River Race in 2019, however, I strutted and preened before the match (resplendent in fluorescent plumage) to let Rob know that he was there as the imminent usurper, not the inevitable defender.  We'd be competing in a field comprised of 15 single skis.  Although several of those paddlers could also contend for the gold, I was most worried about Ben Randall.  We don't see this talented downriver paddler from Maine in our parts very often - what with the hassle of the tourist visa and all the inoculations - but he always puts up a good fight after clearing quarantine.

I thought at first maybe the guys had sighted a green-winged teal, but it turns out they had actually just spotted a much rarer red-decked nelo.

Probably the best feature of a surfski is that it seldom requires 13 people to launch.

I had more than my usual motivation to do well.  Prior to the race, but after an unfortunate incident which involved accidentally leaving the toaster timer set to "bagel", Mary Beth had told me not to bother coming home after the race if I didn't win.  Actually, she didn't include the conditional part of that statement, but I think it was implied.

The Essex River Race is open to virtually any human-powered watercraft.  For nearly an hour before the surfski start, wave after wave of more expendable boat classes (if you take offense at that characterization, cannon fodder, get your own blog) were sent out to soften up the course for us.  By the time it was our turn, the tide had literally turned.  Fourteen skis jockeyed for starting position, while I absent-mindedly let myself drift into whatever hemmed-in trash compactor site the currents took me - the doofus kid in left field picking wildflowers.  The start siren sounded.  Fortunately, by mugging Andrew Metz in the first few seconds, I was able to swipe a path to open water.  He's probably fine.

Jerry Madore, paddling a snazzy Nelo 550 so new that the gelcoat wasn't fully set (not that I tested it by drawing obscene figures with my finger), shot into the lead like an excited toddler capitalizing on his burgeoning coordination.  An opening gambit like this usually ends with either hospitalization or maritime rescue, but Jerry managed to hold form for a solid top-five finish.  Hank Thorburn and Tim Dwyer chased him along the bank of the opening left-hand bend, while Rob and Ben swung wide.  I squeezed Tim a little too tightly from the right around that first curve, which elicited a gentle reminder that although we're pals in real life, he would not hesitate to "end you right now" if I didn't give him some breathing room.  You don't want to mess with a guy who paddles with Woody and Buzz figurines lashed in his cockpit, so I gave him more leeway as I moved by.

By the time I maneuvered fully past my murderous chum, Rob had pulled slightly ahead of me, with Ben in tow on his right draft.  Jerry had initially opened up a two boat length gap on the field, but had burned through a couple of quarts of high-octane adrenaline and was now in desperate need of some apple sauce and Cheerios.  Rob started to pass Jerry on the right, but after my recent upbraiding I was skittish about trying to shoehorn between the two on Rob's left draft. I instead passed wide to port, which I can retroactively pretend was actually a smart tactical decision since it theoretically gave me an advantage approaching the next bend in the river.

I hadn't seen this many people in one place since my late cousin Victor's super-spreader themed barbecue.

After converging, I found myself back on Rob's left draft, with Ben latched on my stern.  We continued in this fashion, dodging the oncoming rowers who - having started so long before our wave - were laboring through the final leg of their races and therefore well past giving a damn about maritime regulations.  Ben dropped off the draft at some point, although by doing so silently he selfishly neglected to provide any ego-boosting sustenance for the remaining miles.  In the future, Ben, I suggest shouting (in a strangled manner befitting your exhausted condition, naturally) something along the lines of "Alas!  I founder!  I must capitulate to your Herculean might and fortitude!"  Feel free to tweak the verbiage.  Hearing this would have been a real shot in the arm.  I would, of course, have conveniently ignored the fact that Rob had done the lion's share of the work.

I was paddling in my native waters (which should give you some idea of just how hard I was working).  Ostensibly, this would provide me with a navigational advantage.  I'd thoughtfully remind Rob of this periodically by suggesting minor course corrections.  I've found that steering from a draft position is seldom appreciated, but it's just not my nature to keep unsolicited, unreliable advice to myself.  To the extent that he heeded my guidance, I didn't lead/follow him into any trouble.  Which perhaps gave him a false sense of confidence (in me, that is) when I veered behind him to cut right towards Conomo Point as the Essex River widened.  After following my lead (but, paradoxically, through absolutely no fault of my own), we both suddenly found ourselves in what a duck might consider navigable waters, but a goose definitely would not.  Shallow water alerts rang in our ears, although I quickly silenced them by closing my mouth.

Rob managed to avoid disturbing the delicate intertidal seabed by artfully heeling his boat to one side to lift his rudder clear.  While I admired his ecological sensitivity, I opted for a bull-in-a-china-shop strategy - leaving a sad trail of uprooted eelgrass and disoriented clams in my wake.  We both came to a virtual stop, but only one of us also managed to make a bold metaphorical statement about mankind's callous indifference to nature.  The point having been made, I plowed my way back to deeper water.  Rob soon rejoined me.  With an inexplicable holier-than-thou attitude, if I'm not mistaken.

We resumed our customary drafting arrangement, but I could tell that Rob's commitment to this relationship was flagging.  Shortly thereafter he started straying off my preferred line, despite continued exhortations from behind.  Hoping that perhaps he just needed some time to come to his senses, I gave Rob some lateral space.  He apparently misinterpreted the directional bounds of his newfound freedom, instead insisting on also adding longitudinal distance between us.  By the time we passed Conomo Point and rounded the bottom of Cross Island, he was two lengths ahead.  When we cleared the top of the island several minutes later, Rob had extended his lead to a half-dozen lengths.

Heading back towards the river mouth along the shore of the island, we were now crossing a broad expanse of sandy-bottomed water only a few feet deep.  Recalling from the Narrow River Race that my V14 was better in shallows than Rob's 560 (or, to be more precise, "sucked less"), I redoubled my efforts to close the gap in this stretch.  It was calm enough that the progressively smaller transverse waves trailing obediently behind Rob were clearly visible.  Starting from the 6th wake back, I managed to climb forward to the 2nd wake before my progress stalled back in deeper water.  In an attempt to make further gains I tried varying my technique.  Faster cadence.  Exaggerated hip rotation.  Samba syncopation.  Having sowed my wild oats exploring these deviant paddling techniques, I discovered I was back home on good ole wake #6.

Sam's a solid paddler and a good guy and all, but mostly we want him around for PR purposes.  He's 30 years younger and 75 points cooler than the average New England surfskier, but nobody else needs to know that.

Clearly I also didn't have the might or fortitude to beat Rob.  I'd have to rely upon my wits and wiles.  That's admittedly a shallow well to draw from, but at least a mental battle was apt to hurt less than a physical one.  Exiting the broader estuary for the river proper, I therefore decided my only hope was to out-navigate Rob.  Perhaps I could escape the outgoing tide by paddling ridiculously close to the riverbank in search of eddies.  You probably have serious doubts about this strategy given that I'd already run aground once.  And your instincts wouldn't be wrong.  Nobody had to pour water over my gills or pull me by the tail back into deeper water, but I can provide you with a detailed report on sediment strata based on empirical paddle sampling.  These close encounters with the bottom had no impact on the outcome, but I document them to suggest otherwise to gullible readers.

While I was shaving the shores, Rob took a more sensible line back up the winding river - avoiding the brunt of the tidal current while still maintaining a safe operating depth.  He finished in 47:24, a half-dozen boat lengths ahead of me.  Ben, who had been forced into soloing the course after dropping off our draft, pulled in some moments later to claim the third spot.  Leslie Chappell had little trouble in seizing her fourth consecutive crown on the Essex.  The best race of the day, in the sense of being both the closest and the most, uh, let's say "strategic", was between the three doubles of Robin Francis & Phil Warner, Mary Beth & Phil Sachs, and Patty White & Chris Sherwood.  Each boat held the lead at some point in the race, but they finished in the order listed above, all within 7 seconds of one another. 

Would it have killed the photographer to use a wide angle lens here?  Oh.  He did?  Well, maybe try a fisheye the next time. (Photo courtesy of Granite State Race Services).

Thanks to the stalwart volunteers of the Cape Ann Rowing Club for making a return to Essex possible.  The scene cuts back to Rhode Island for our next race this coming Saturday - Tim Dwyer's Battle of the Bay.  Register (for free) at PaddleGuru.  Tim asked me to remind everyone that the change of venue (from his home on Goat Island to Fort Adams State Park) was definitely not because his neighbors threatened legal action if he didn't "keep your degenerate friends out of our gazebos".

Narrow River: One Man Race

The Narrow River Race is essentially the Groundhog Day of the New England paddling season.  And not just in the sense that its recurrence triggers an existential crisis of feeling trapped in an endless cycle of  meaningless behavior.  But also because your performance at this race is a harbinger of things to come.  Limp past the finish and you're likely to spend the next six weeks in your burrow, eating tubers and grubs.  Power majestically through the race, however, and you'll be able to enjoy those delicacies right out in the sunlight.  Where the farmer can get a clear shot at you.  Whew.  I see we're starting out dark this year.

Under race director Tim Dwyer's watchful gaze (that is, once I rapped on his car window to wake him up), 20 racers assembled in North Kingstown for the 14th instance of the NRR.  I've told him repeatedly that he'd get even better attendance if he watered-down the race tagline ("The suckiest suck-water around!"), but he's a staunch believer of truth in advertising.  Drawn by the extravagant prize money and novelty of pumping their own gas, a full quarter of the field made the trip from the wilds of New Jersey.  John Costello arrived with a bandaged hand and the charred tatters of Rob Jehn's remaining clothes were still smoking, but they'll get the hang of it by the end of the season.  They were joined by Melinda Schlehlein, defending women's champion Loukia Lili, and newcomer Anthony Colasurdo.

Local favorite Mike Florio was attempting a three-peat at the Narrow River, having demoralized the field so thoroughly with his 5+ minute win margins in 2021 and 2022 that officials instituted a mercy rule to prevent further humiliation.  Should Mike's lead ever exceed 200 boat lengths, the rest of the field would be forced to sell their skis and take up a new hobby.  This past fall, Rob got the better of Mike at the Essex River (Replacement) Race, so anticipation of the rematch was palpable.  The parking lot resembled the floor of the Chicago commodities exchange as paddlers excitedly fought to place their bets with the bookies.  One of those two would surely win.  The best I could hope for would be to feature in the final tier of the trifecta.  Given the field, however, finishing outside the octofecta was a distinct possibility.

We're all feeling the years.  Tim used to be able to hit that high C in "I Will Always Love You" with no problem, but now he needs to strap on the Depends before trying.

As Shakespeare wrote about a remarkably similar situation, "Uneasy is the head that wears the crown."

The women's field looked to be a battle between Loukia and former Narrow River champs, Leslie Chappell and Mary Beth.  Based on her Facebook posts, Loukia apparently spent the off-season paddling through extreme conditions and sleeping in a hypoxic tent tuned to simulate the oxygen-poor atmosphere of Mars.  I can't speak for Leslie, but Mary Beth's winter regimen leaned more towards electric blankets and eating peanut butter out of the jar.  Just as exacting a program, in its way, but perhaps not quite as beneficial to paddling fitness or coronary health.  As a handicap, Loukia consented to paddle her K-1 while the other contenders were on more stable skis.

Although my own on-the-water training has been less than rigorous this spring, I had figured the "30 Days to a Better You" motivational tapes I had recently started would more than compensate for any physical shortcomings.  In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have waited until Providence to begin listening.  As we pulled into the parking lot and shut down the car, I was just learning that the key was "leveraging mind over matt...".  Maybe mattresses?  I was already feeling pretty nappy after getting up at 5, so that made a lot of sense.

There was some concern that Tim would unilaterally revert the course to its former 10 mile infamy, but after shaking down a few paddlers who looked particularly anemic, he committed to maintaining the somewhat more forgiving 8 mile joyride of recent years.  This would encompass a 3 mile upriver jaunt, followed by a luxurious 4 mile downriver excursion past the start, capped by a delightful mile-long junket back upriver to the start.  The temperature was around 50 with a 10 mph breeze blowing from the south.  Despite being tidal, scientists have somehow found it impossible to nail down the ebbs and floods of the Narrow River.  As such, the race-time tide was listed as having a 65% chance of receding.

If you have a drone photo, you're contractually required to include a drone photo.

What I would imagine was a brief captain's meeting underscored the need for me to pay more attention to these kinds of things.  The start was soon upon us.  Always striving to become the best me I can be, I hit play on my Walkman as Tim counted us down to the gun.  "...er."  So... no nap, I guess.  That threw off my game plan since I had been settling in for a good opening doze.  By the time I roused myself, I had fallen behind Mike, Chris Chappell, Rob, John, Tim, Anthony, Wesley Echols, Sam Duffield and a few other paddlers who weren't even attending.  Egad!  Since resisting the urge to panic never actually works, I succumbed whole-heartedly.  Bugging out my eyes and gibbering half-formed cuss words, I flailed away with abandon. 

Chris and Mike had led the charge off the line, with Rob and Anthony not far behind.  Within the initial quarter mile, order emerged from chaos as the heated frenzy of the start cooled.  Mike was pulling away from the field, with a dotted line of paddlers in hapless pursuit - Rob, Anthony, Chris, me, Tim, John...  With an all-out effort I'd characterize as "unseemly" (mostly because of the weeping), I managed to slip by Chris and latch a death grip onto Anthony's stern.  I read that once a Gila monster bites down on its prey, even cutting off its head won't cause its jaws to release.  That was my drafting goal, although I've been known to faint after nicking my neck shaving, so that level of devotion might exceed my tenacity.

Leading up to the race, Anthony had been the focus of the latest scuttlebutt (it's been going around - try a few doses of amoxicillin and a hydrating ointment).  Although he had been perfectly content as a collegiate track athlete and prone paddleboarder, some damned fool had suggested he try a surfski.  That was sometime around last Tuesday.  Now here we all were, facing the indignity of getting beaten by yet another New Jersey paddler.  In a ski apparently built during the Nixon administration.  He had certainly gone out fast, but did he also have the fortitude to pull me around the course?

After a mile or so of drafting, I took a slightly different line around a bend and ended up alongside Anthony, with Rob several lengths ahead.  As the Narrow River widened to a narrow lake a few minutes later, I started to separate from Anthony.  Yet another flash in the pan, apparently.  A fool's golden boy, much like Mike and Rob before him.  And as with his predecessors, I expect I'll never need to adjust that assessment.

Reaching the end of the upriver leg, Mike enjoyed a two minute lead.  Rob was a half-dozen lengths ahead of me and Anthony roughly the same distance behind.  Chris was next in pursuit, but had fallen back by more than a minute.  We were now beating back against a modest breeze - not nearly strong enough to shake an enraged fist at, but as every paddler knows, even a slight headwind is sufficient to drain the color from life.  Making our way back down the now-drab lake, Rob maintained his lead over me, but repeated glances behind revealed that I wasn't holding my end up of the status quo.  Despite my iron-clad assumption about his endurance, Anthony had taken up the slack and was reeling me in.  Which explains why it felt like I was paddling in honey.

I figured a bow would pierce my periphery at any moment, but his overtaking velocity was so extreme that Anthony himself burst unexpectedly into my central vision, appearing bodily from nowhere.  I half expected him to throw his arms wide, shouting "Ta-da!!!" as his cape flowed theatrically around him.  Once the shock of his sudden materialization wore off, I got down to plotting my endgame strategy.  With Anthony now openly practicing black magic, my only hope at getting on the podium would be to ingratiate myself as a dark acolyte.  I dutifully stationed myself on his starboard draft, where I was subjected to a bone-chilling baptism of wind-driven paddle splash.  After several minutes of this occult initiation, I took the hint.  He was looking for more of a mindless disciple than a right-hand man.  I dutifully dropped to the appropriate position of subservience at his stern.

Sam slipped me a ten-spot to include this photo.

As I had hoped, Anthony continued powering downriver after pulling ahead of me, gradually narrowing the gap to Rob.  Perhaps a mile after joining forces (in a partnership of equals, some might say), we finally caught Rob.  For the next mile and a half, the three of us snaked along in linear draft formation, with me at the tail.  With two strapping fellows furrowing a veritable drafting trough and blocking most of the headwind, I basically could have stopped paddling.  Or so you'd have thought.  In reality, my heart rate barely dropped in this stretch.  Rob was setting a brutal pace.  That didn't bode well for the time when our reluctant camaraderie inevitably reverted to enmity.

With less than 2 miles left in the race, our group began to splinter.  Anthony fell off Rob's draft.  I pulled alongside the former in an attempt to pass.  We hung together for a few poignant moments, and then I started to move ahead.  Although Anthony would probably attribute his fade to some combination of leg cramps and fatigue, I suspect a different reason...  Over the hour or so we'd spent paddling together, he had come to view me as something of a mentor.  Under my tutelage Anthony had blossomed.  Also, maybe I reminded him a little of his father.  Or his father's older brother.  In any event, as a sign of esteem, Anthony was offering me one last chance at silver-clad glory (Tim's kind of a cheapskate). 

Which I completely botched.  I caught Rob a minute or two later, but was unable to stick on his draft.  Approaching the turn to the final upriver leg, I hoped to be able to carve a graceful arc that would erase his three length lead.  Unfortunately, any turn that spectators would describe generously as "lumbering" is unlikely to be effective.  Rob's maneuver wasn't exactly a pirouette either, but it was sufficient to stay ahead.  Efforts to overtake him in the final mile were rebuffed with scoffing laughter, although when he told me afterwards that he "really didn't want to get beat by you", he had the courtesy not to scornfully emphasize you.  Mike had re-established Narrow River dominance by finishing in 1:03:40 - more than four minutes ahead of any of us Betas.  Anthony notched an impressive 4th place finish in his 1st race, with Chris taking 5th.  In the women's race, Leslie held the lead past the first turn, but Loukia tracked her down and eked out a repeat victory in a thrilling sprint finish.  Mary Beth took third place.

Nothing like that third crown to ease the head.

Everything in moderation.  You got a taste of brine in the Narrow River, but before you dive headlong into the ocean proper, you need to acclimate yourself to slightly higher salinity and less protected conditions.  Where better than the salt marshes of Essex?  After a couple of years on sabbatical, the Essex River Race returns on May 14.  You'll come for the scenery and fellowship, you'll stay because, once again, you badly mistimed the tides and were arrested after being discovered wandering the mud flats without a clamming permit.

Essex River (Replacement) Race: Meandering

The Essex River Race was an early casualty of pandemic restrictions in 2020, and was originally rescheduled this year from its traditional spring date to early October.  When the Cape Ann Rowing Club subsequently decided to cancel the race, I had no choice but to step up and volunteer Bill Kuklinski to step up and ask his friend Tom Lawler to propose a surfski-only replacement race to the Town of Essex.  The town approved, although they stipulated that both shenanigans and tom-foolery be kept to a bare minimum.  I congratulated myself for a job well done, only to discover that due to some woeful misunderstanding, I was now "in charge" of the event.  Fortunately, by constantly referring to it as an informal race, I was able to get by with slipshod preparations.

On paper, the 5.8 mile course is straightforward - you travel out the Essex River to where it widens into a broad estuary, proceed around Cross Island, and return back up the river.  Between sand bars, clam-rich mud flats, and homogenous expanses of marsh grass, however, most paddlers will spend the race second-guessing their navigational decisions - more often than not with good reason.  Living 5 minutes from Essex, I'm pretty familiar with the river.  And with finding myself suddenly run aground, inexplicably a hundred meters in all directions from navigable water.  In preparation for this year's race, I performed a comprehensive survey of the estuary.  We're talking reconnaissance paddles, drone overflights, side-scan sonar mappings, sedimentation modeling, etc.  I was going into the race armed with the two most powerful weapons of all: knowledge and the delusional belief that this knowledge could somehow compensate for my other deficiencies.

While Chris got the memo with the event details, Hank came prepared for an après-ski party while John was just hoping to find something to burgle.

Having suffered many such indignities in the past, Tim is giddy at the turnabout potential of a traditional caption mocking the race coordinator at the captains' meeting.  I'm pretty sure he doesn't understand how this works.

There was a disquieting buzz in air that I eventually tracked down to the growing excitement over the first ever matchup between Rob Jehn and Mike Florio.  When we last saw Mike he was peeling out of the parking lot of the Narrow River Race while the rest of us were still reacting to the start gun.  Rob, of course, has amassed a gaudy collection of victories this season in his relentless quest to drain the joy out of my life.  We had expected that local Janda Ricci-Munn, fresh off his record-setting solo performance at the Josh Billings run-paddle-bike triathlon, would also contend for the crown.  Unfortunately, he was unable to make the race due to a freak calendar malfunction.  Standouts on the women's side were Leslie Chappell and first-time New England racer Frances Hiscox.  Frances specializes in endurance paddling, having completed the California 100 and Missouri River 340 (and soon the Suwannee River 230), so the ER6 would be the equivalent of a marathoner walking from her car to the start line.

In keeping with my slapdash approach to organization, I held a cursory captains' meeting which consisted mostly of mumbling the names of past UN Secretaries General as filler.  With the 10am start approaching, we launched our boats and lined up for the starter's call.  Chris Chappell positioned himself appropriately for the initial left turn and got out to the early lead, with Rob just off his starboard side.  Mike and Jerry Madore followed in a second mini-wave, with me, Tim, and Hank Thorburn as forward-thinking third-wave excursionists.  I had sworn to go all-in at the start in an effort to get on the draft of Rob or Mike, but apparently nowadays even the most heart-felt pledges aren't worth the notarized, legally binding forms they're printed on.  Rather than kill myself catching the leaders, I limited myself to some superficial maiming and adopted a wait-and-see attitude.  Perhaps sometime within the next few years there wouldn't be such fierce competition.

I figured a few love taps might fix the GoPro glitch that's been causing it to record such awful technique.  No dice.

Happens every time.  You're just chillin' on the water with your buds...

...and all of a sudden a race breaks out.

Rob slipped by Chris on the first straightaway, while Mike and I also freed ourselves from our wave-mates to move into the 2nd and 3rd positions at the next bend.  I lunged for Mike's draft, but due to a gross miscalculation in how far he was already ahead, ended up grasping at open water 3 lengths behind him.  Rob enjoyed a similar lead over Mike at the time.  My only hope was to play to my home field advantage.  My mind racing through bathymetric charts, tidal flow diagrams, and old Family Circus comics, I plotted the optimal route to within 4 lateral inches.  While the leaders took a conservative central line, I cut inside berm-like islands, wove crazily (in the fox sense, mind you) from shore to shore, and laughed uncontrollably at Billy's hilarious malapropisms.  It perhaps goes without saying that Rob and Mike continued to separate.

Even the sure-fire ace that I had up my sleeve - staying well to the right while approaching Conomo Point to avoid the speed-killing sand bar of the more direct route - failed to have much impact.  Leaving the narrow strait between the point and Cross Island, Rob was was about 15 lengths ahead of me, with Mike a length or two behind him.  It would take a staggering navigational faux pas up ahead for me to have any hope.

What I've been referring to as Cross Island is cartographically 3 tree-covered islands (Cross, Corn, and Dilly) connected by low-lying wetlands.  To get a tide high enough to actually make the inter-island area navigable, however, the moon would have to be knocked into a perilously tight orbit.  Perhaps the map makers were just future-proofing against melting ice caps.  Lacking the patience to wait for either cataclysm, Rob and Mike decided to attempt what might be deemed a "liquid portage" between the islands.  Before reaching the end of the super-island, they cut left into a meandering channel.  I could barely contain my glee at the thought of them wandering aimlessly in the marshland while I claimed the race title and then rooted through their cars for loose change and candy.  Rob and Mike?  No, haven't seen them.  Tootsie roll?  All I had to do was keep my trap shut and let nature take its course.

Unfortunately, I wasn't confident that the paddlers behind me wouldn't witness such silent treachery.  I reluctantly called out to alert them to their mistake.  Rob and Mike quickly corrected course, having sacrificed perhaps 10 lengths to me.  I thereafter adopted the roll of the elderly nanny trying to corral a pair of rambunctious toddlers.  Since I couldn't keep up with them, the best I could manage was shouting directions and telling them to stop putting every little bit of flotsam in their mouths.

The visibility of your mistakes is one of the perils of bursting triumphant onto the scene, resplendent in full glory.  The more sensible approach is to build up a solid foundation layer of bloopers and gaffes while paddling in mid-pack obscurity.  When the better paddlers inevitably age out, get injured, adopt a new hobby, or move to Hawaii - you then use your journeyman status to back into a few victories before the next wave of athletes reminds you of your true station in life.  It's true, however, that when you have a considerable advantage in fitness and skill, you can afford a blunder or two without suffering serious consequences to your final race position.

To wit.  Rounding the northeast point of Cross Island [sic], Rob gave more than ample berth to the rocks I had warned about at the captains' meeting (somewhere between U Thant and Boutros Boutros-Ghali), then did the same for the northwest point.  However, he then continued out away from the island rather than keeping to the shore.  Mike took the more traditional line.  Thinking that perhaps Rob was heading out to deeper water to avoid the sandy shallows I had mentioned to him before the race, I held off on yelling out a corrective warning.  By the time it became clear he was freestyling an entirely different course, he was either out of earshot or self-destructively bullheaded.  Apparently he had fixated his tracking mechanism on a different cluster of houses than the one I had described as a landmark during the meeting.

I assumed that once Rob saw Mike and I paddling a couple hundred meters to his port, he would surely adjust his course.  And yet he continued to veer further to the right.  When I asked him about this after the race, Rob said that he figured Mike was only marginally more familiar with the course than he himself, and thus paid him little heed.  "But what about me?"  I asked.  Time slowed to a viscous crawl as I realized the humiliating enormity of my mistake.  I had lobbed Rob a softball which he could hardly fail to hammer into the bleachers.  And yet... he merely poked a blooper just over the shortstop's reach.  "I couldn't see you."  That was all!  Was it Rob's generosity of spirit or his lack of killer instinct that kept him from adding the coup de grâce?  "I didn't have my binoculars handy" or "Ever since the exorcism I can't spin my head around that far" or "[long pause] Who are you, again?"  In any event, I appreciate Rob letting me slink away with my dignity tattered, but at least intact enough to still cover my shriveled ego.

Despite enjoying only a 14 second lead over Mike at the finish, diva Rob absolutely refused to share the frame.

So let's also give the Rhode Island Ripsaw a shot of his own.

Bruce got such a good deal on fluorescent decals that he's actually affixed them inside the hull as well.

When Rob did eventually come to the conclusion that he was on the wrong path, I could hear him ratchet up his determination - even from my distant listening post.  His deviant behavior had temporarily cost him the lead, but he was resolved to integrate himself back into respectable society.  Rob sliced a diagonal line to Mike, chewing away the gap at a thrilling rate.  Within a few moments of the course adjustment, the two were paddling side-by-side at the lead.  Seeing this gripping battle unfolding ahead of me, I made an adjustment of my own - abandoning my futile goal of catching these guys in favor of keeping close enough to them to see who would emerge victorious.  Just as futile an ambition, as it turns out, but at least it kept me paddling.

That was useful, because a group of competitors had formed a raiding party behind my back.  Unwilling to sacrifice the esprit de corps they'd fostered as part of the Stone Dam Six at the previous race, Tim and Kirk Olsen recruited a new band of brothers for the Essex River.  Chris, John Mathieu, and Jerry joined the ensemble.  These 5 paddlers would finish within a minute of each other, with numerous lead changes along the way.  As at the Great Stone Dam Classic, Tim succeeded in breaking free in the final stretch, putting 30 seconds on Chris.  Kirk, John, and Jerry finished next in short order.  This cooperative-competitive grouping has proved so popular that in the face of record demand, Tim and Kirk have announced an invitation-only policy for subsequent races.  Kickbacks aren't strictly required, but it never hurts to grease the Keels of Progress (as the guys now call themselves).

From my vantage point, it was becoming increasingly difficult to tell whether Rob or Mike was in the lead.  This was mostly because there was usually at least one curve of the river blocking my view, but even when I caught the rare glimpse of the pair slipping around the next far-off corner, they were too speck-like to disambiguate.  But it was Rob who pulled ahead as the finish neared, ultimately finishing at 47:00 even to Mike's 47:14.  I came in a couple of minutes later, trying to exude a "Yeah, you guys dropped me about a mile back, so I just dogged it in after that" vibe.  For the third time, Leslie claimed the Essex women's title, with Frances taking second.  There were no doubles in the race, but in recognition of his long-time dedication to the race, let's say Bill Kuklinski would have won.  If only he hadn't have been DQ'ed for lacking a partner!  A rookie error from the least rookie-like guy not out there.

In a tender moment of reconciliation, Tim and I finally let bygone be bygones.

Thanks to Mary Beth for acting as photographer, timekeeper, and health care proxy.

You blinked and summer was over.  You didn't do half the things you planned, and the other half was a sorry mess.  Before you blink again and find the racing season also over, why not make one last effort at finding fulfillment for 2021?  Skip on over to Wesley Echol's Plum Beach Lighthouse Race on October 16.  Register at PaddleGuru.

Great Stone Dam Classic: Startled by a Turkey

When they named the Great Stone Dam Classic 10+ years ago, co-chairs Francisco Urena and Shawn Burke were taking a risk on the initial and final words.  Great and Classic.  OK, it's named after the Great Stone Dam on the Merrimack River.  And, yeah, "classic" is sometimes used as a synonym for "race".  Put both those words in the same name, though, and you're setting yourself up for false advertising lawsuits.  And yet Francisco and Shawn have batted away claim after claim.  They've got the best legal team a community-based non-profit can afford standing behind them, sure, but their defense has been that both adjectives are objectively true.  Hosted at the Abe Bashara Boathouse by the fantastic Greater Lawrence Community Boating Program, nobody wants to miss the GSDC.

We can argue about the "best" paddling race in New England until our throats are raw and one of us finally loses consciousness from blood loss, but the debate is closed on the best value in a race.  The entertainment-per-dollar ratio of the GSDC leaves all other competitions wanting (notwithstanding the divide by zero error of some).  This helps to explains why even surfskiers who usually eschew flatwater races make a pilgrimage to the Merrimack.

The course consists of two upstream loops totaling 8.2 miles.  Starting from the boathouse dock, paddlers progress 3.25 miles to round Pine Island, then return to a "No Wake" buoy just before the dock to start the shorter second loop.  Racers must then round inflatable buoys placed just off the opposing shores before returning to finish at the dock.  I've argued that a never-ending series of increasingly smaller loops should be added to the GSDC, but the race directors claim that their insurance only covers races of finite length.  So much for my vision of the Death Spiral.

My only hope was that Rob would get confused and accidentally select a SUP.

The race boasted a strong field of 30 surfskis.  Rob Jehn risked being decertified by the New Jersey Paddling Commission by attending his 6th New England race this season.  I'm not admitting to being a sore loser, but he might want to ask elsewhere for sponsors on his amnesty application should he try to emigrate.  Although he had to be the favorite, Rob would at least have some competition.  Dave Thomas of Stellar brought along a professional hitman from the West Coast and outfitted him in an SEA - The Assassin.  Ben Lawry is one of the most respected kayak instructors in the country, who - despite being younger than me - has somehow managed to train the last three generations of American paddlers.  Go ahead - ask your grandparents who honed their forward stroke.  Of course, technical proficiency doesn't necessarily translate to speed.  I was pretty sure that Ben would hold his own, though.

Local Janda Ricci-Munn would be the wild card.  Despite having taken his ski out for perhaps a half-dozen training sessions in 2021 and having a modest paddling resume, I wasn't betting against him.  Michelangelo said that the sculpture was already complete within the marble - he just had to chisel away the superfluous material.  Via his training for a fall triathlon, Janda has similarly chipped away everything from himself that's not an elite athlete.  He's lean and hungry.  Janda's sheer level of fitness makes him a threat in almost any sport - he just missed a spot on the Olympic table tennis team and placed 5th in the Kentucky Derby!  Could our David tackle the New Jersey Goliath?

That was too cutesy, right?  MB warned me that the whole Michelangelo arc was going to backfire, but I just couldn't help myself.  If you never reach for the stars, how are you going to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?  Uh-oh.  She's now threatening to move out unless I remove all this.  It's a steep price to pay, but I'm prepared to ride this metaphor to hell.

As shown here, Janda and I were virtually inseparable during the race.

Back at the 2016 running of the race, my GoPro was dropped into the Merrimack by a petulant local paddler whom may have been poked once too often in this blog.  He's always claimed that it was "semi-accidental", but the truth is still inscribed in 0s and 1s, waiting to be dredged from the river when they finally get around to straightening out the Merrimack.  I thought that Burger Kingski - to choose a random alias wholly unrelated to his real name - had finally gotten past all the innocent gibes (and the malicious slander), but when I went to snap my GoPro onto my boat, I discovered that the connector had been sabotaged.  Had I failed to notice the issue before the race... there goes $34.99 into the river (yeah, I learned my lesson about investing in top-of-the-line equipment).  Fortunately, Rob Michalec was able to hook me up with a replacement.  Based on the quantity of spare parts he had on hand, I suspect he spends a lot of time lurking on the fringes of adventure races, surreptitiously whispering "Pssst.  Need an L joint?" to competitors.  For me, at least, the first one was free.

Racers hit the water as the 11am start approached.  Like a pair of drum majors leading our parade, the lone double ski manned by Bruce Deltorchio and Ed Duggan comprised the first wave.  They refused to wear the fuzzy tall hats we all chipped in on, but their start was festive nevertheless.  All single kayaks were to take off in the second wave, one minute later.  I jockeyed for the worst possible starting position, but was distraught to find myself towards the more favorable shore when the gun went off.  Thank goodness I at least managed to remain a half-dozen boat lengths behind the line.

Rob and Francisco - separated laterally by a few boats - vaulted out to the early lead.  I'm pretty sure an 87-year old Francisco will expire from over-exertion 15 seconds after the start of the GSDC, content in the knowledge that the entire remainder of the field will have to dodge his now derelict surfski.  Over the next few moments, Rob started to pull free along the right shore, with Ben and Janda chasing.  I took this opportunity to survey the remainder of the field from stern to stem, finally working my way past Francisco to move into 4th position on Janda's draft.  Somewhere along the way, I picked up Jon Greer.

With Rob and Ben still continuing along the shore, Janda, Jon, and I started our cut towards the opposite bank in preparation for the upcoming curve in the river.  At the time, I thought we were making a bold move, but my backward facing camera later revealed that others had broken much earlier to the left.  The various lines didn't appear to make much difference, however - there were no changes in the order.  I pulled even with Janda during the crossing, who let me lead the way upstream along the left shore.  Jon dropped off the pace shortly after.  

With Janda in tow, we chased Rob and Ben up the left shore.  I'm using "tow" figuratively here, because from what I could tell from cursory glances, Janda didn't seem exactly to be on my draft, but in some kind of no-man's-land off to one side.  And even though I was seeing him for only a fraction of a second in my periphery, his hazy blob somehow conveyed a sense of quiet ease.  I was beginning to fear that Janda might have a lot of power in reserve.

At this point, I suspect that some of you may be wondering when the damn turkey is going to make an appearance so that you can satisfy your curiosity and then bail out.  I empathize.

Rounding Pine Island required once again crossing the main current of the Merrimack.  It was Rob's turn to break early, while Ben stuck stubbornly to the left shore.  Janda and I chose a middle path, but Ben's late ferry across the channel was probably the right play.  It's too early in Rob's career to pigeonhole him as a habitual course deviator, but preliminary scouting reports have flagged him as a flight risk.  So when it appeared that Rob might try to bolt upriver to Lowell rather than turning downstream at the end of the island, we felt justified in shouting out a warning.  Whether heeding our alert or curbing his wanderlust of his own volition, he made a wide turn to head back towards the start.  Ben's deft maneuvering had perhaps cut a few seconds into Rob's lead, but the latter was clearly still in the driver's seat.  Janda moved past me halfway down Pine Island.  I jumped on his side draft as our pace quickened - the combined force of current, wind, and Janda's competitiveness now all on our side.

Kirk's always been more of a wave guy than a ripple guy.

Open water paddlers talk about catching a "paddle down" ride on a wave, but Rob managed a much rarer "paddle down" ride on Hank's draft.

When you're struggling to hold on a draft, there are some things you don't want to hear from the lead boat.  For example, "OK, I'm done with my gel break."  Or "Huh.  Hadn't realized that I was using a canoe paddle."  However, I can now tell you definitively what's at the very top of the list: "I'm going to throw in some suicide intervals."  Having never heard that term before, I didn't know exactly what it meant, but those two words together didn't exactly evoke rainbows and puppies.  I was still leafing through the index of "Fitness Training for Dummies" when the first surge of acceleration hit.  I was pulled along unwittingly on Janda's side draft for the first few seconds before realizing that if I didn't tap into my rainy day fund, I'd be unable to keep paying the exorbitant fees my body was racking up.  After a few moments of eternity, I heard my cohort say "Another one".  I hadn't even realized that the first interval was over - perhaps not surprising given that I could no longer read my GPS speed through the tears.  Through an aggressive program of deficit spending, I was able to stick with Janda, although I dropped from side to stern draft.  I was so deep in oxygen debt that in preparation for the next "Another one", I hallucinated a sympathetic bystander with a leather strap saying "Here.  Bite down on this."  It didn't help.  When the next interval rolled around, the pain was too much.  I tapped out.

I had suspected from the beginning that Janda had unilaterally roped me into a suicide pact, but he ultimately didn't hold up his end of the bargain.  I was dead and buried, but he was very much alive.  He would continue his masochistic intervals, although I suspect having deprived him of the sadistic component, it was no longer quite so satisfying.  Although he decreased the advantage held by Rob and Ben, the three would end up in the same order established within the first minute of the race, with scarcely more than a minute separating the podium finishers.

Thanks in part to the turbo boost provided by drafting Janda, with nearly half the race still left I felt secure in my 4th place position.  Upon finishing the first loop and starting upstream again for the second, I got my first glimpse of the drama that was unfolding amongst the 5th to 10th place paddlers.  Even with conditions conducive to drafting, we very seldom see more than 2 or 3 paddlers together at a late stage in the race - there aren't usually enough competitors to end up with a large group with comparable abilities.  But with less than 2 miles left on the Merrimack, here were Tim Dwyer, John Redos, Kirk Olsen, Wesley Echols, Tim Hacket, and Jon Greer within 30 seconds of one another.  These paddlers, who have since taken to calling themselves the Stone Dam Six, were together for virtually the entire race.

Much like Bigfoot, photos of the actual Stone Dam Six tend to be blurry and of questionable veracity.

For the complete story of the Stone Dam Six, you'll have to read the forthcoming 3 volume history, which advance reviews have called "sorta like Little Women, but with guys and paddles" and "completely unnecessary".  They've also penned a Manifesto, but that's mostly just Flat Earth theories and gluten-free recipes.  Here's the gist of the SDS race.  After Jon's brief stint accompanying Janda and me, he was absorbed into the collective.  He stayed in the lead around Pine Island to the Route 93 bridge, after which Tim D took command of the fleet.  John soon joined him in the lead, despite paddling a V9 amongst much faster boats.  The formation of the Six stayed fairly constant for the remainder of the first loop, with Kirk, Wesley, Tim H, and Jon following the leaders.  After a navigational blunder at the start of the second loop, however, the SDS descended into chaos.  Leads changed.  Tempers flared.  Shivs were drawn.  When the spray had finally settled, Tim D emerged victorious, followed by Kirk, Tim H, John, Wesley, and Jon.  Vive le Six!

JoAnn and Andrea duked it out in the closest finish of the day.

I keep seeing photos of people smiling during a race, but the best I can hope for is a look somewhere between "grim determination" and "severe intestinal discomfort".

As noted above, the actual winners of the men's competition were Rob, Ben, and Janda.  The women's race came down to a finish line sprint between Andrea Vogl (in a K1 trainer) and JoAnn Hanowski (in a ski), with Andrea just nosing out the victory.  Leslie Chappell took the 3rd overall spot, with Loukia Lili taking 4th (as the 3rd ski).  Bruce & Ed swept the tandem podium, and then stood alone on the spotless top step.

As we've come to expect from the GSDC, a veritable army of enthusiastic volunteers (Thanks all!) ensured that everything ran smoothly, including the post-race festivities.  Unsurprisingly, the air was abuzz with the thrilling exploits of the Stone Dam Six.  The buzz was coming exclusively from their own mouths, but they made sure to circulate for maximum narrative penetration.  I'm sure the rest of us will continue hearing about it ad nauseam, but take heart - after a year or two, the fog of time will enable all of us to proudly claim we were one of the Six.  Start prepping your wondrous tales of derring-do!

The Stone Dam Six, prior to you Photoshopping yourself in.

Months ago I confidently predicted that I'd beat Rob at the GSDC.  I might want to remember this photo before opening my big mouth next time.

The Essex River Race has just been cancelled, but locals assure me that there will be a substitute race on October 2 somewhere in the vicinity - perhaps even on the same course.  We'll be broadcasting the latest news on UHF channel 31 ("Surfski Tonight", every other Tuesday, 2am), but if you can't find your antenna, maybe just check on social media.  For those looking further into the future, there's the Seneca Monster on October 10 in central NY (which last year featured a crackerjack match-up between Matt Skeels, Ed Joy, and Jim Mallory) and the Plum Beach Lighthouse Race on October 16 in Narragansett Bay (which last year featured a humiliatingly lopsided match-up between Nate Humberston and myself).

Oh yeah.  Almost forgot.

We keep some of our boats in our basement, which has a walkout sliding glass door.  After arriving home, I went downstairs to unlock that door.  You have to pay attention down there, or you risk taking a surfski bow to the face or a Concept2 rower to the foot.  I'm halfway to the door when I finally look in its direction, only to be confronted by a terrible dark horror topped with a violent streak of red, peering directly in at me from 6 feet away.  As anyone with an acute sense of self-preservation would, lacking anyone to instinctively push forward as a sacrifice, I let out a mighty defensive scream while jolting myself backwards so violently that my brain was left hovering several feet in front of me.  I'd have a splitting headache for the next hour, but at least I showed MB that with a little help from some double-glazed glass, I'm up to the task of defending us from marauding turkeys.