Snow Row 2011, March 12, 2011, Hull, MA

> Rounding the island’s sandy spit, all the massive wooden boats seemingly converged at once, churning up the wind-driven fetch into a foamy latte-like frothing. I was faced with a choice: thread the proverbial needle between two six-person Whitehall gigs, or be a little pansyboy, avoiding confrontation and hugging the rocky shoreline shallows, also running the risk of center punching an unseen boulder. Fueled by the aggressiveness of four large cups of high test coffee under my belt, I chose the type ‘A’ route, diving between the flurry of eight foot long oars stroking in succession, like the cilia of some colossal paramecia. It was a hairy thirty seconds, but the laser-like steering precision of my trusty Huki, ‘Ring of Fire’, saw me safely through, lest I be, quite literally, paddled into submission.<

The Hull Lifesaving Museum’s signature-rowing race, the Snow Row, was taking place on this Saturday, March 12, 2011 at the Windmill Point Boathouse, in Hull, MA. The Snow Row comprises a 3 3/4 mile triangular course, launching off the beach at Windmill Point, continuing around Sheep Island, past the vertex of the Peddocks Island day marker, then vectoring back to shore. Crowds gather on the beach beside the museum’s Windmill Point Boathouse to witness the wild, LeMans-style start for the larger rowing craft, and admire the gathering of a veritable smorgasbord of wooden pulling boats — peapods, dories, wherries, whitehalls, ocean shells, pilot gigs, captain’s gigs, and Irish currachs, along with kayaks and more recently, surfskis. For the tenth year, crews from Cornwall, U.K. would make the trip ‘across the pond’ to participate, joined by youth and adult crews, and rowers from all over New England and the East Coast. The race has five boat categories: workboats, livery boats, coxed boats, ocean kayaks, and ocean shells. The surfski class would be allowed this year to go off in the fourth and last wave, to avoid being squeezed like grapes between the hulls of the larger vessels in the mayhem of the start.


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Tom (Kahuna) Kerr and I roadtripped up from CT early Saturday morning, the wind building in intensity as we travelled further north. Coming into Hull, the three colossal vanes of a wind turbine towered above the skyline, spinning concentric circles at high speed. Another marked the entrance to Boston Harbor. The wind was whipping; it was to be an interesting day.

There is an olde world flavor to this race: a bounty of beards, rubber boots, woolen watch caps, and individuals who appeared primed to, at any given moment, break out in a string of bawdy sea shanties. Conversely, the surfski crowd appeared to have touched down from some alien planet, replete with gaudy multicolored drysuits in colors like mango and cobalt blue, neoprene booties, and pogies. We were like skinny Teletubbies, replete with our equally skinny surfskis, our intergalactic transport vessels. While missing some of the crowd of usual suspects from the NE paddlers’ crew, it was great to see familiar friends freshly emerged from winter hibernation: Wesley Echols, Tim Dwyer, Chris Chappell, Sean Milano, Dave Grainger, Rob Flannigan, and Timmy Shields. It was my pleasure to meet new faces: Greg Lesher and Marybeth, and Francisco Urena and Michelle. Later, we’d have the opportunity to share stories and converse over food and spirits post race at an establishment back in town.

After registering in the ‘oh so cool’ creaky boathouse, and duct taping numbers on the bow, the masses attended the official coxswain’s meeting, run by a bearded (of course) Ed McCabe. We had run into Ed at the Crash Bs indoor rowing competition several weeks back, where he had bettered his PB by a whopping ten seconds. (Keep on pulling, Ed!) We straddled skis and began the requisite warm up circles waiting for our start.

At the gunshot signaling the first start wave, it was sheer carnage. Bulky wooden rowing craft were sideways, forwards, backwards (and one or two, we later learned, upside down), careening into one another like bumper cars at an amusement park, in a clattering and clashing of oars, coxswains barking orders at their crews. Whoa. I did not want any part of that madness. Eventually it all was sorted out, and they were on their way. Subsequent groups were far calmer, and then we came to the line. Since there is no countdown to the start, when the gunshot fires, Sparky, you’d better have your game on. At a quick ‘Kapow!’ we were off.

Immediately, my heart rate spiked into the stratosphere. Coming off two weeks of a recurrent flu-like malady, I had left the HRM chest belt in the car, viewing this race as a ‘for fun only’ proposition. If I was going to be in the red zone, I didn’t want to know exactly when nuclear meltdown would occur. Better to go up in a spectacular, flaming fireball, providing additional entertainment for the spectators viewing the race on the high-speed ferry following. (“Look Gladys, that racer in the boat with the flames just spontaneously ignited!”)

I spotted Chris Chappell over to my right, bobbing up and down like a white carbon cork over the quartering waves; he was opening some daylight between us. Further still to the right, waaaaaay over, actually, were Wesley and Tim, also opening a lead; they had selected a completely different line from the rest of the group. I realized that Wesley was attempting to stay out of the large boat fray as long as possible, hoping to angle toward the island, tucking into the lee of the land, and use the surfskis’ ace card advantages of acceleration and maneuverability to swing tight around the island. Smart guy, that Wesley. I decided I would try and join him. Chris had a similar idea. As the wind-driven waves grew in size and struck more beamside, I saw Chris throw some small ‘Hail Mary!’ braces. Although my S1-R doesn’t possess the out and out speed of Wesley and Chris’s Stellars and Tim’s Epic V-12, it is a superb rough water platform, enabling me to put every ounce of power (Trust me, I didn’t possess much of it, and welcomed every bit I could.) down through the messy bits. I was slowly reeling Chris in.

Eventually, I was a boat length behind, and hung there for a while, wondering how close I could stern suck in the up and down troughs. Tucking in a trifle closer, I rode wash for three or four minutes, trying to conserve a tad of energy, and maybe figure out what might be the best strategy for the turn at the island so as not to run aground, nor be crushed like a bug between the big boy boats. I peeled off to the right, looking to cut the distance to Wesley and Tim, and beat some of the traffic jam of prior waves to Sheep Island.

Rounding the island’s sandy spit, all the massive wooden boats seemingly converged at once, churning up the wind-driven fetch into a foamy latte-like frothing. I was faced with a choice: thread the proverbial needle between two six-person Whitehall gigs, or be a little pansyboy, avoiding confrontation and hugging the rocky shoreline shallows, also running the risk of center punching an unseen boulder. Fueled by the aggressiveness of four large cups of high test coffee under my belt, I chose the type ‘A’ route, diving between the flurry of eight foot long oars stroking in succession, like the cilia of some colossal paramecia. It was a hairy thirty seconds, but the laser-like steering precision of my trusty Huki, ‘Ring of Fire’, saw me safely through, lest I be, quite literally, paddled into submission.

Finally in the clear, I wondered how far off my back Chris was, and just where the heck was Tom? I wholly expected at any moment to have my doors blown in by him, and also knew Dave Grainger could likely have me in his crosshairs. Dave’s boat handling skills of his highly caffeinated Mako 6 have progressed in leaps and bounds; he’s comfortable in this sloppy stuff, and his stroke is smooth as buttah’. The rest of the group was back there somewhere-I dare not spin around to take stock, or tempt being run down by a speeding wherry. Much to my surprise, I was gaining on Tim. ‘I must be dreaming,’ thought I, just in time to be jolted back into consciousness by seeing my flamed bow slice over the top of a submerged boulder, missing impact by literally inches. Subconsciously flicking my hips hard right rocked my ski on edge; I felt the shudder of the tip of my rudder just kiss the top of the rock. The accompanying shot of adrenalin and resulting increase in cadence, caused me to gain a bit more on the good Mr. Dwyer. I was now within a hundred feet of him. Little did I know that Tim had inadvertently accidentally nudged his bailer drain in the cockpit closed. The beam waves commenced to fill up his footwells, miring him down and destabilizing his V12. Once he realized this at the island, he was able to wrench it back open, increasing his lead once again.

At the three-legged day marker turn, there were a few more tense moments. Once more, I flirted with fate, squirting in between a smaller dory and rowing shell that were duking it out to cut the tight line around the buoy. Thank you Jude; thank you little Huki! A hard shove on the right rudder pedal enabled me to pivot at a right angle, neatly skidding my stern around in the five or so feet available before carbon fiber crunched rusty metal buoy can. A classic Ricky Bobby move. Yeeee Hah! Shake n’ Bake, baby!

The finishing stretch to the dock wasn’t exactly as envisioned; maybe a small lift of the stern here and there, but none of the sleigh ride I had hoped for, having spent almost two full segments what seemed like into the wind. Tom later wryly observed how he was puzzled that each direction we went in appeared to have something working against us-no free rides to be had this day. As short as it was, it was good to see the beach. 3.75 miles is essentially, an extended sprint. One by one, the various oceangoing vessels came across the line, and when the last competitor laid down paddle or oars, the annual kickoff to the paddling season had officially closed its curtains.

As the chowdah’ line stretched down the splintery wooden dock, we said our goodbyes, pulled our official souvenir ‘Snow row 2011’ woolly hats down over our ears, and loaded the cars to rendezvous for some gab and grub down the road a piece. Our restaurant, The Red Parrot, overlooked the Atlantic rolling in, wave after wave of perfect sets, wet-suited surfers bobbing between them. Another grand day under the windmills.

~Mark Ceconi

2011 Snow Row SurfskiRacing.com Race Series Results