L2L Translates to ‘Lots to Love’: Lighthouse to Lighthouse Race 2009 – by Mark Ceconi

‘A little bit of everything,’ was how one competitor was overheard referring to the conditions at this year’s Lighthouse to Lighthouse Race, in Westport CT. The ‘L2L’, as it’s affectionately known to the coolest of the cool in paddler lingo, is a fourteen mile total out and back course that launches from Compo Beach, loops its scenic way around the Norwalk Islands past two lighthouses, roundy rounds around a third, and finishes BATB (back at the beach). A sunny forecast, winds from the northwest, and 1-2 foot seas promised a grand day on the water for all paddlecraft. It did not disappoint.

‘Feels like a mini Blackburn,’ has been the descriptor used for this race. Although Long Island Sound doesn’t offer up the potential ‘Perfect Storm’ conditions of the Blackburn, it does offer a fairly central location for paddlers from ME, MA, RI, CT, NY, NJ, and PA, along with an idyllic setting, and kickin’ finish line party, replete with raw bar. The competitor’s list was long this day: surfskis in abundance, kayak singles and doubles, OC-1s and 2s, and ‘big Hawaiian outriggers’ (M!) in attendance. The day dawned cold and crisp; fall had served notice. The hardworking folks at the registration desk were uber organized, assigning nifty plastic competitor number plates, and dispensing duct tape, and long sleeved t shirts with wide smiles. Race Director Wayne ‘Mr. Striped Singlet, Backwards Rowing Guy’, and his entourage, including Gary Williams, Jean Trapani, and Michele Sorensen, pulled off a grand event, aided by many incredible volunteers.

The surfski crowd was in full attendance. Eric McNett had arrived from ME. The MA boys were there, represented by Cory, the Mikes (Tracy and McDonough), Sean Milano, Chris ‘Jedi Webmaster’ Chappell, and even the multi-talented Joe Shaw, paddling his first and only surfski race of the season. RI contributed Wesley ‘Points Man’ Echols, and Tim ‘Overdrive Gear’ Dwyer. From CT came yours truly, Tom Kerr, and Dave Grainger. NY offered up Joe “Birthday Boy’ Glickman, Paul Banks, Steve Delgaudio, Bob Capellini and Marcus DeMuth. Finally, NJ doled out Sean Brennan, Craig Impens, Ray Zuhowski, and Kathy Kenley, who completed the event after breaking her hip back in June (Go, Kathy!), along with many other familiar names and faces.

The starts were staggered in five minute flights, beginning at 9:15. Flight #4, HPKs, lined up en masse across the line from buoy to buoy; heaps of horsepower straining against an invisible rein. At the honk of the starting horn, the field literally exploded from the line. Looking down at my GPS, heartrate already soaring past 170, the numbers inched up from 8 mph. The leaders were already going away, spurred on by Sean Brennan, who was holding an incredible pace. Before we reached the mile mark at Cockenoe Island, the field was a long punctuated train, bearing down on the back of the previous flight of fast sea kayaks. This was going to be a hard one. My view…

The wind was at our backs, and the tide was with us. My GPS settled into a steady 7.5 mph as I attempted to pick up the rebound swells off the big island. For the first four miles, there were small rides to be had if you kept your speed up and timing was on. Different folks plied different strategies, my own selecting to stay further out to sea, well out beyond Pecks Ledge Lighthouse. It seemed to be to be advantageous, running with the tide. The swell periods were longer out there also, offering the opportunity to work sets of mini runners. I jumped on Mike McDonough’s wake as he came by me in his S1-X. Huki pinned to Huki, I sucked his stern for a while like a well-schooled leech, until he simply powered away. De-mor-a-liz-ing.

About mile 4, in the opening approaching Shea Island, the texture changed. The shallow underwater topography of the area funnels current between Shea and Chimon Islands. The result is, as Wesley terms it: ‘jobbly water’. Here I was able to come by several racers, the stability of my S1-R a definite asset for this paddler in the washing machine chop. Passing Chris Chappell in his V10, he jokingly called out: “Should have taken the Spooooort….!!!” There were battles going on well ahead, the front runners already out of sight over the horizon. The tide still with us, the wind blowing steadily at our backs, I knew the return trip back was not to be so pleasant, and was picturing what the turnaround several miles ahead at Greens Ledge Lighthouse would be like-wobblies and jobblies…’Beware the Jabberwock, my son!’

My prediction was dead on. Shortly before the lighthouse turnaround, the area became a sloppy mess of boat wake, fetch, and backwash chop off the island. This area always displays some activity, and the winds this day furthered it along. I could see the leaders on their return trip back, rounding the lighthouse on the rocks clockwise in the lee. My buddy, Tom, was on my wash. He had recouped after I passed him earlier struggling with his Camelbak bite valve that had popped off for the umpteenth time. I knew Tommy was gunning for me, his goal to hand the other members of our informal team ‘On a Wing and a Prayer’ a heapin’ helpin’ of whuppin’ in a ‘formal race,’ as he put it. All in good fun, but I hate you Tom. I really do. “I’ll pull for a bit when we come around the lighthouse!!!” I could hear him shout over the wind. Here we came past Steve, who had angled far out to sea, ostensibly to go visit Port Jefferson across the Sound. Not wanting to disrupt Steve’s little field trip, we continued around, and upon rounding Greens Ledge, those oh so friendly winds at our back turned on us, driving cross chop into our beam.

Tom angled left toward the islands, and I stayed further out. And he began to pull away. Crossing back through the jobbly section, I noticed many other boats staying closer to land. Eventually a synapse fired somewhere in the vacuous interior of my brain, and I connected the low numbers on the speed readout of my Garmin with the realization that I was smack dab in the middle of the opposing current. Duh. Angling in, following others’ lead, I was relieved to see the numbers climbing again, a full .6 of a mph faster in several hundred yards. Too late, Tommy had kicked it into overdrive and was gone, baby, gone. Resigned to damage control, I settled in, concentrating on stroke, my mind visiting many things: little oily baby geese, cannollis, Sno Cap nonpareils, the usual-my mind wandered through fields of randomness. When you’re paddling alone for distances, the little mind games commence to make the time and miles pass by, like counting state license plates on car rides as a kid. With several miles to go, it was slow going. I could make out Mike McDonough in the distance, and set my sights on reeling him in. Gary Williams and Phil Warner in Phil’s beautiful Guillemot Fast Double mahogany tandem were off to my left. They had gapped me earlier and I was closing. Thank goodness I was doing something right-I credit the encouraging words of my close friends the day before, who had pooh poohed my disclaimers about lack of training, encroaching old age, etc. Thanks, ‘Fam.’

The last two miles were brutal. As we rounded Cockenoe Island, the wind intensified, straight into our faces. I passed Mike finally, but Gary and Phil were right there. Out of the shelter of the big island, the wind was a relentless wall across the open area of the Saugatuck River Harbor facing Compo Beach. I could hear stroke cadence called out behind me. To my surprise, Ziggy and Jeff in their OC-2 slowly pulled around to my left. They were flying, having started in the last flight five minutes behind. Gary and Phil were three boat lengths ahead on my right, and all three boats converged in staggered formation. Three different boat classes to be sure; single versus doubles for the final sprint into the wind’s teeth to the finish. Ziggy and Jeff put it together, and gapped us by several boat lengths, digging their proverbial holes in the ocean in unison. Gary was calling an unpublishable cadence for the final stretch as I gave it my all. We finished literally nose to nose-we’d have to go to the videotape to see who edged who. Done, done, and done.

Racers were cheering fellow competitors on in the shallows off the beach, telling tales, slapping backs, and clacking paddles in congratulations. The wind was still blowing and I was shivering. Tim assisted me in throwing the ski on the roofrack, and I dove into the car to change out of my saturated clothes. Craning over into the backseat for some dry apparel, I happened to glance up in the rearview mirror-my face was pure white with crusted salt spray; I was a human salted pretzel.

Racers continued to come in, burgers and dogs were grilling, beverages were flowing freely, and pots of seafood and corn chowders, and two types of chili were percolating. The burger line stretched with hungry folk like tweens on a Miley Cyrus concert ticket line. Volunteers were working doubletime to feed the ravenous racers. I take my hat off to you and thank you from the depths of my two cheeseburger, seafood chowder heart. Some time later, Eddie Stillwagen and his oyster and clam raw bar wagon arrived and set up shop. Many of us wait all year for this; he was shucking like lightning. Life was good. Awards were announced some time later, and eventually, albeit reluctantly, people packed up for their road trips back home. It was a grand day. ~ Mark