2008 Jamestown Double Beaver Race Summary – by Mark Ceconi

Conanicut to Beavertail and Back: Tales from the Cockpit by Mark Ceconi

Blue skies and sunlight flooded into the guest suite at Hacienda de la Dwyer in historic Jamestown, RI, two blocks from the docks at the Conanicut Yacht Club where the Jamestown Race was due to begin at 10 AM. My family and I had arrived the night before, graciously hosted by our friend and race organizer, Tim Dwyer, his lovely wife Alyce, and children, Gaelyn and Finn.

The 13.5-mile course would start off the docks in the mooring field of the yacht club, trace the shoreline past the harbor and downtown area of Jamestown, through a small channel past the striking house on the rocks known as Clingstone, then travel south toward the lighthouse around Beavertail Point. After swinging north around the point, racers would paddle along the cliffs to a small cove, circle counterclockwise around a mooring buoy and then retrace the course. The open sections approaching and crossing Mackerel Cove and the rocky outcroppings along Beavertail promised challenging conditions that did not disappoint.

To see just what I was getting myself into, my family and I drove out to Beavertail the night before to experience the sunset. Rolling sets of swells hissed around the buoy off the point into the wind’s teeth, crashing on the rocks in spectacular displays of foam and frenzy. My stomach rolled in chorus with the waves in anticipation of being out there amidst the spray the following day, making a mental note to stay well offshore and clear of the breakers that would do exactly that to my surfski, along with every bone in my all-too-mortal body.

The wind had abated the following morning much to my relief, and Tim’s reassuring words over numerous cups of French press coffee had me juiced and ready as cars with surfskis bound to the roof crunched down the gravel road and unloaded on the yacht club lawn. The Beverly Boys were in attendance: the Mikes, Ken, Cory, et al, the boys from Brooklyn: Paul and Joe , with transplanted South African paddler, Gary Shaw in tow, who had been paddling since the tender young age of 10. Kathy M. and Ken unloaded, Kathy asking my advice about whether to run the 4” or 8” rudder on her R. Picturing the swells pounding the local geology into so much rubble, I calmly replied; “Ohhh, the 8, I’d go with the 8.” The Maine contingent was there, our website commander Andrew, and the father/daughter, OC-1/surfski duet of Rod and Alex McLain, along with a selection of other familiar, friendly surfski faces. Alyce and Bob Wright manned the registration desk with smiles, handing out numbers and taking box lunch orders. After a brief captain’s meeting led by Tim explaining the course, hulls were wetted and paddlers warmed up for the start amidst the moored boats.

At the countdown: “4 minutes, 2 minutes, 1 minute, 30 seconds, 10 seconds…GO!” racers exploded off the line, falling into tightly formed packs to wind through the moored boats toward the ‘house on the rocks.’ The frontrunners scored the holeshot, receding into the distance toward the rocks and open ocean ahead. After passing through a narrow scenic channel, the water’s texture abruptly changed, from the short chop of the harbor to the more rolling swells of open ocean and refracted waves off the rocks. Traveling upwind, some current was apparent from the relatively low numbers displayed on my GPS.

As we came towards the longish crossing of Mackerel Cove, the texture changed again, the swells increasing in intensity and duration; the water’s tone became lumpy, bumpy, confused in nature, making it difficult to keep a rhythm. From my position, the leaders were somewhere out of sight over the next series of swells, and I was in the good company of Rod McLain and Alex, and friend, Wesley Echols, whose orange and white S-1X special was in front of me. I concentrated on matching Wesley stroke for stroke, mimicking the occasional hip snap or milli-brace needed to course correct. The area between Mackerel Cove and the steadily increasing in size Beavertail Light was a no man’s land, the water intensifying in its undecided state.

Approaching the marker buoy off Beavertail, the fury of the swells sweeping the point peripherally appeared to my right, their powerful push on my beamside port became increasingly insistent, and I had only a few seconds of minor shock at the sheer size of the buoy can that appeared so small from the shoreline, before I realized that if I didn’t dig for it NOW, those swells would plaster me up against the painted metal like a stick on Garfield figurine on a hatchback window. My stern skidded around the rocking cylinder, lifted on the building wall of water now at my back and there were several moments of that weightless feeling one gets when dropping in on a swell…or being dropped by one. It was here that Alex and Dad passed me, Rod digging a hole in the ocean, and Alex smoothly and gracefully following suit-it was immediately obvious they had experience in these conditions. I followed their lead as they angled in toward the rocks to attempt to pick up the occasional ride, then angling back before the danger zone.

The cliffs to the right gradually lessened about a half mile in, and the marker became visible for our rendition of ‘Here We Go ‘Round the White Mooring Ball’ and trip home. I was enjoying the calm water, heralded by the miraculous reappearance of something resembling my forward stroke. 500 yards from the turn buoy, the leaders passed in the opposite direction. I caught a quick glimpse of the Glick Man, followed by Gary, Ken, Tim and Mike, possibly, but not necessarily, in that order. It all was becoming fuzzy, that dreamlike, trancelike state, my brow furrowed at the prospect of heading back into it again.

As we swung round the can again off Beavertail, it was hard to fathom, but the water had somehow become more frenetic, churned by the increasing number of commercial and pleasure craft headed out to sea. I thanked the good Lord above for the fact that I was in a very stable Huki S1-R, and kept repeating the mantra: “Keep the blade in the water; keep it moving. Attack; don’t brace. “ I knew that paddlers like Mike ‘Call Me Clapotis’ Tracy were no doubt reveling in this stuff. I felt in the zone, but also bent on checking my cell phone for messages from my mother upon my return, as I called for her a few times and was certain she could have heard me from three states away. As we approached Mackerel Cove, I could see the McLains far off to my left seemingly heading toward this destination, simultaneously realizing I was perhaps five miles out to sea. A flash of bright yellow to my right, and there was Mike McDonough in his S1-X; I was relieved to see him and called out if we were to turn in here. I could faintly hear his voice over the waves telling me to turn in between the island up ahead.

Back through the no man’s land, I looked to my right to see a ship roughly six times the size of my high school building looming on the horizon. It was a Coast Guard buoy tender, and I kept awaiting the monstrous wake I could see it producing from the furrow of white plastered to its bow. Just when I thought I was in the clear, another huge pleasure craft bore down from the left throwing its own sizable wash, and the monster wake of the CG craft and pleasure boat converged by some cruel joke at the exact same moment to form a pointed peak of water that had me balanced on the top, like a beetle on a pin, before pivoting and shooting down the trough, pointed once again out to sea. Eventually, I decided that Block Island was not in fact, my destination, and regrouped.

As we neared the island, whom should I see but the Glicker himself (?) off to my left. This baffled me, as the normal scenario has him home in his slippers before I even finish. Seems that the self-proclaimed ‘nearsighted goof’ had dropped the pack, mistakenly turned in early, paddled clear down to the bridge, gotten out, had an ice cream, and was singing sea shanties with the locals before realizing that Tim didn’t move his house to Mackerel Cove. He then leapt back in his ski after exchanging numbers and addresses and promising to write, and resumed the race. After spotting Joe, I converged upon the McLains, as if by some reunion unwritten out at sea.

We passed back through the narrow channel into the harbor, and the final push toward the finish. Caught some rides here, watching the GPS shoot up into the 10s as I attempted to milk it for what it was worth. Coming out of the passageway, we were soon winding our way amongst the pleasure boats toward the ‘big, white tent to the left of the bridge’, and the oh so welcome enthusiastic cheers of the onlookers on the dock. Gary had taken it, followed by Mike ‘I Like the Bumpy Stuff’ Tracy, Ken Cooper, then Tim, who had an ‘Epic’ performance as well. Conditions were challenging as expected, and anyone participating should be commended for testing their mettle against the Rhode Island Atlantic.

Part of the allure of racing stems from the opportunity to recount events that took mere seconds in tales lasting an hour’s duration or more. As wraps, rolls, and paninis were passed, and competitors settled onto picnic tables to enjoy good company and the infamous Dwyer Magic Bars, many tales were told. Thanks to Tim and family for organizing, to Bob for time keeping and scoring, to Epic for the donation of prizes (the wing paddle being won by none other than Wesley, who was forced to DNF due to his own paddle self destructing right after the turnaround-how apropos…), and for all those who turned out to make this another memorable chapter in surfski racing in the northeast. ~Mark