2009 Double Beaver Race: ‘The Year of the Weebles’ – by Mark Ceconi

‘Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down,’ or hopefully, in, as the situation may warrant. This was the catchphrase of the day for the 2009 running of the infamous ‘Double Beaver’ Race, innocently named for the out and back course that twice rounds Beavertail Lighthouse in historic Jamestown, RI, just a stone’s throw across the bridge from Newport. Last year saw big (by East coast standards) conditions, and this year would bring challenging conditions as well.

Roadtripping up at the proverbial crack o’ dark with Steve, one of my merry band of amigos from Team ‘On a Wing and a Prayer’, we made great time and took a short foray out to Beavertail to check out the conditions. Waves were breaking as usual against the rocks, but the demeanor seemed to be one of long, rolling swells. The forecast was for waves 3’-5’ and with residual swell from the storm action the day before, it was bound to be, uh, interesting. Tom was heading up solo, as was Jim, who was attempting to move heaven and earth, boarding two ferries from Shelter Island to New London, to make this event. All three buds will be attending the Surfski Champs in San Fran later this month, so they were in search of big water training in preparation.

Graciously hosted by Tim and Alyce Dwyer, on the grounds of the Conanicut Yacht Club right below the Newport Bridge, racers would head out through the harbor, past Clingstone, ‘the house on the rocks’, and make a right turn out into the Atlantic, crossing several coves, and rounding the green buoy can around Beavertail Lighthouse. Hooking a hard right around the can, competitors would ride the incoming ocean swell into the small cove to the right, down to the halfway point turn buoy, a mooring ball anchored just offshore. Circling this counterclockwise, back they’d go in reverse past the lighthouse again to complete the course; hence the ‘Double Beaver’ moniker.

The usual band of northeast regulars was there, and one or two first timers to this event, my friends included. Chris Chappell, webmaster extraordinaire for this site, would be racing it for the first time, as would Marcus Demuth and Joe Calto, who had made the drive up from NYC, and Bob Capellini, from Long Island. Glicker was there with family, hoping to introduce them to his long lost friends from Mackerel Cove from last year. Wesley, Cory, the McClains, the Kens (Cooper and Larson), Bill LeConte, Jeff Beneville, Dave Grainger…the list goes on. The day was hot and sunny, and a breeze was building. Alyce and Bob would be our registrars and timekeepers, aided in setup by Finn and Gaelyn Dwyer; it was a family endeavor. Big Jim Hoffman came flying in with time to spare, having no doubt shattered several land speed records to accompany his transcontinental two ferry crossing. We were set.

At our timekeepers’ “Five minutes, two minutes, one minute, thirty seconds…GO!” signal, the field was off. Immediately, the big dogs leapt to the front and a long train of surfskis snaked its way amongst the moored boats in the harbor toward Clingstone, and the narrow channel leading into the ocean. Not two minutes in, I witnessed Cory leaping into the water to clear a hawk’s nest of eelgrass from his rudder. Unfortunately, the rudder itself was broken, taking him out of the race early on, an unfortunate mishap, as he was Glicker’s main competition in the field. Not thirty seconds after that, there was my buddy, Steve, in the water remounting. Steve rarely swims, so I hoped this was not to be an omen for what lay ahead. I was struggling to stay with the groups, and my lack of interval training was coming back to haunt me, as I dropped from stern to stern.

Inevitably, I found myself shucked off a wash, with the field starting to disappear into the distance. There’s nothing worse than being in ‘No Man’s Land’, caught in between packs and forced to tough it out solo. Resigned to racing my race, I could only hope that others faded, or by some act of God, I might be able to close in the miles ahead in rougher water.

Crossing between two rocky outcroppings populated by what seemed like a Woodstock Festival of raucous seagulls, we emerged into the ocean. Here the texture changed. Gone was the predictable gentle swell of residual boat wake of the harbor, replaced by wobbly bits that required your attention, swell punctuated by rebounding waves from the coastline. ‘Weebles wobble’…let’s hope we hold true to the rest of the slogan.

Moving from the Fort Getty area toward Mackerel Cove, the size of the incoming ocean swell increased. We were paddling up and down, up down, rolling fields of waves, the foothills of what would later become the mini mountains of Beavertail. Up ahead I could see the distinctive Think Evo of Jeff Beneville, and Rod MClain powerfully digging his usual hole in the ocean in his OC-1. Looking to my left, Surprise! There was Steve again; no doubt propelled by the small electric motor attached to his hull. Where did he come from? Sliding down into the wave troughs coming from my port bow, I came abreast of Jeff. He yelled out: “It’s gonna’ be some sleigh ride back!” I came past Rod as well, just concentrating on chugging along, and not getting hit by meteors. (Wink.) Then, there was Tom, to the left. I could scarcely contain my enthusiasm at actually seeing people. Steve gapped us, his textbook deliberate catch finding purchase in the wave tops, and started receding over the ‘wave hills.’ He would appear every now and again, as we crested the tops of hummocks overlooking the valleys.

As we made our way along Beavertail, the warning foghorn blaring, the rollers were sliding in and crashing against the rocks. Not wanting any part of that action, the pinpoints of paddlers ahead were remaining safely out to sea. As we rounded the large green can clanging our turn into the cove, the swells seemed tremendous, rising and falling in long periods. Ken Cooper came around me here, all smooth stroke and full rotation. I briefly hated him for it. 😉 As they say, ‘imitation is the sincerest form of flattery’, so I followed his lead, picking up the same swells he did, propelling us into the cove toward the turnaround mooring ball. The waters calmed, and the obvious cooling effects of the breeze were gone. It was hot, furnace hot, and flat. Concentrating on technique, I watched my heart rate finally dip below the 170 mark by a few BPM, and tried to stay efficient, knowing that shortly, we’d be going back into the fray. Ken, at this point, was long gone.

This is always the spot of the race where you could tell how well (or how poorly) you were doing, as racers doubled back on the course passing fleetingly in opposite directions, like ‘two ships that pass…’ well, no need to get dramatic here. Much to my surprise, I was gaining on Steve, and quickly squeezed off a GU pack, because I knew I wouldn’t be taking my hands off the paddle shaft for nuttin’ later on. Approaching the mouth of the cove, the lighthouse looming to the left, the swells grew. It was quite intimidating, the sheer size and power of these bad boys, and I wondered if the same icy needles of fear and respect were running through Steve’s thoughts, just ahead. I hoped that as we made our turn around the huge buoy, some deviant swell wouldn’t make up its mind to crest and swallow us whole, spitting us out in little carbon fiber toothpicks against the rocks. At the buoy, I caught Steve, rounding it on the inside, happy to have someone in proximity for the return trip back.

I’d like to say that the return trip back was the whooping, hollering, “Look at meeeee!’ roller coaster ride of swell and runs that we anticipated, gauging what we paddled over on the trip out. Sadly, this was NOT the case.  Somehow, the sea had cruelly changed its mind, denying us the rides we were so looking forward to. Instead, it was a jobbly, wobbly, jiggly mess of confused chop and swell, coming seemingly from all directions. It lured you into thinking there was a ride to be had, as the swell would lift up your stern, and shoot you forwards down the face…only to be slammed sideways by something incoming beamside. It required your full concentration to stay upright, and not get spun around like a novelty spinner every whichaway.

Portside, starboardside, beamside, sternside…it didn’t seem to matter; they came from all directions, and with no frequency of predictability. It was tiring and frustrating at the same time. “I hate this!!!” I heard Steve shout, “I can’t find a ride anywhere!!” punctuated by a few unprintable expressions of embellishment. ‘Don’t talk to Steve,’ I thought, antisocially, knowing that a momentary lapse in concentration could mean deciding which flavor of the day, cowboy or sidesaddle, would be my choice of remount at any instant.

Literally miles of this later, across the Jabberwock (‘Beware, the Jabberwock, my friend!) of Mackerel Cove, I was starting to get concerned where to turn in. My field of vision was remarkably narrow, as if wearing blinders, focused on the flamed bow of my S1-R and maybe five feet ahead. The few times I did glance up, the land all appeared the same, and I wondered where the turn was. Craning my vision forward, I could just make out the Coast Guard Orange blaze of a Mocke P.F.D.’d paddler waaaaaay off on the horizon. Steve yelled: “Do you know where you’re going? Where do we turn?” “Follow…orange…vest…ahead!!!” I yelled back, carefully selecting the bare minimum of words for concise communication to prevent my practicing my backstroke. Here I insert another shameless plug for the S1-R and Huki. This boat gets better the more confused the water becomes-it thrives on it, in fact. Thank you, Jude. Thank you.

Focused on Mr. Orange Vest ahead, disappearing around a bend in the rocks, I knew this was finally, the channel. The strains of Simon and Garfunkle’s ‘Homeward Bound’ coursed through my head, and Ho! What to my wondering eyes should appear? Off to my right, Ken Cooper (Huge cheer!). Cutting back through the seagull party, now off to the left, music, actual music, filled the air. Momentarily concerned that I was lost in my own fantasy, or in fact, this truly was a heavenly choir of angels heralding our return (I’ve heard them before…), I realized that the Newport Folk Festival was ongoing across the harbor, and we’d have a little ambience to entertain our final push to the finish.

“There’s Ken, again! And up ahead, Jimmy!” I shouted to Steve, off to my left, realizing that Orange Vest Guy was, in fact, our rather large friend. “Let’s try and catch ‘em!” Pouring coal to the engines, I witnessed my HR soar to 177 BPM and…Ken began to recede into the distance again! “Fudge!” I shouted in my head, or something phonetically similar. This, coupled to Jim’s balletically smooth stroke disappearing into the constellations of moored boats on the harbor (set mood here), were the proverbial carrots on sticks for the final push.

Here, a lapse in concentration could easily send you swimming, as fatigue accompanied by the increased boat traffic heading out onto the water to enjoy the day, made the texture far more unpredictable than our trip out. I was waiting for Steve to come around, having ‘smelled the barn,’ as he so often does. By some miracle, I was able to hold it to the line, still losing ground on Jim and Ken ahead. The cheers of onlookers on the dock welcomed us, and everyone immediately dunked into the water to cool our internal reactors, needles pegged in the red zone.

Joe had, of course, taken it. And Marcus ‘Three Entrée’ Demuth, in a ‘Caddyshack’ style ‘Cinderella story, come from behind victory,’ outsprinted Mike ‘Wobbly Water is My Middle Name’ Tracy to take second, followed by Tim, and Hoff himself, who juiced it in the final stretch to pass both Wesley and Alex for a stellar performance.

As boats were pulled from the water, racers changed (Chris and I looked like twins in our matching ‘Onnopaddles’ t shirts, with smashing Pacific Islander graphic.), and enjoyed a plethora of picnic sandwiches and goodies gazing out onto the harbor in the shadow of the backup on the Newport Bridge. Tim and Alyce’s ‘oh so adorable’ daughter, Gaelyn, pulled the raffle prizes tickets from a hat, and winners selected their choices. The Epic Mid Wing paddle, donated by Epic, went to a very happy Jeff Beneville Thanks, Epic. Thanks Dwyer family, Bob, and to all our fellow racers for making this event possible! ~ Mark