>If a boat could have body English, the slow turn away from the cove they thought was the finish, communicated two four letter expletives and a crushing sense of disappointment.<

It was the exact opposite of last year’s weather conditions, replete with monsoons and violent thunderstorms on the way up, to race Wesley Echol’s Sakonnet River Race. This day dawned cool but sunny, and if we had any wind, would be the perfect recipe for this out and back race down this tidal river to the mouth of Rhode Island Bay.

Big Jim crashed out in the back of the pickup, having pulled an all-nighter once again at work, as we made our way up to Portsmouth, RI. Stopping briefly for Fatulli’s Bakery visit #1, we bumped over the sand at the sun-washed beach at McCorrie Point to discover a good bit more wind than expected-there were some small white horses breaking offshore, coming from the north. This meant a mini roller coaster ride down to the turnaround buoy, and an into-the wind slog back.

Although the turnout was smaller than in previous years, it was nice to see familiar faces: good friend and tenacious competitor Tim Dwyer, Uberman and the one part of the surfskiracing.com trilogy Chris Chappell, Bill Stafford, back on the mend, and going strong, Greg Lesher, Mike McDonough, Bob Capellini, Mike Tracy, new-to-the-surfski racing-scene kayak paddler, Chris Sherwood, and lo and behold, elite racer, Sean Brennan, who arrived without a car. It was rumored he had paddled from his home in New Jersey (“What exit?”), to collect the Stellar ‘King of the Waves’ pole position prize, then would paddle back. Of course, the ever-so-lovely and ever-so-funny Betsy Echols was setting up registration, handing out hand-written numbers on pharmaceutical pad paper that Jim was convinced was an alternative for Viagra. Not exactly an inspirational vote of confidence for us middle-age, mid-packers. Told you she was funny.

After a brief captain’s meeting to go over the course, Sean and I scurried to hurriedly set up our loaner for the day, a brand new Stellar double surfski in the Excel layup. I sold the infamous ‘watermelon’ Fenn Mako XT, so it would be interesting to see how we’d do in a much lighter, lower volume double ski. Jim and Steve would be aboard Jim’s Fenn Elite double, in a similar face off as last season’s race.

Powering the Stellar Double Across the Finish Line

Thankfully, rather than sabotaging our boat setup a la last year, the two scrambled to help us pull it together before race start, assisting with footplate fit, footstraps and the like. Thanks, boys; you may have some redeeming qualities after all.

As soon as we got in the boat, our combined Clydesdale weight popped the rubber drainage stoppers like corks out of test tubes (“Ptewooie!”), and water burbled up through the venturis like the iceberg scene out of the Titanic. “We’re going down!” I yelled to Sean, laughing. “Save yourself!” At over the optimum bodyweight of this particular tandem, we could only hope that the footwells would clear as we gained some forward momentum; hips literally at water level.

At the rolling start, Sean Brennan kicked in his afterburners like an F-16 on takeoff and was GONE. I think I heard the ‘WHOOSH!’ I’m sorry, but it’s my feeling these races should be limited to humans-no cyborgs allowed, especially if they’re from New Jersey. Refocusing from the rapidly receding pinpoint in the distance that was Sean, we set our sights on those that could conceivably remain in our sights for this race. Thankfully, within forty-five seconds, our double bathtub had completely drained dry. Game on.

The wind at our backs, I was instantly regretting long sleeves, at the same time Sean commented; “I’m way overdressed; I’m overheating,” proceeding to dip his hat for the first of 2,427 times. Sean, being his sociable self, was attempting to strike up a friendly conversation with Mike McDonough, who gave a few single syllable responses, as we attempted to pick up any ride we could on the little rollers.

As we came by Bill, I heard a splash and looked back to see him going for a refreshing dip. “You all right?!” I called. “I’m good!” he returned; so we carried on.

The Stellar double is a quick and stable platform. The three-point footplate allows a rock solid brace to drive off of. I was surprised that more waves did not find their way into the cockpit, and its light weight enabled us to accelerate and drop quickly into the little runs. My heart rate hovered around the 168-170 zone-pretty high, but a level I knew I could sustain for a less than two hour race. Sean, unfazed by Mike’s lack of chattiness, amused himself by singing a bevy of sea shanties that all had my name in them. Unfortunately, in the rush to get started, Sean slightly misjudged the leg length of the footplate, setting it too far out, thus ending up playing ‘toesies’ in an attempt to get any leg drive at all.

Soon Tim came into view. Tim is far more conversational at sea than Mike; he and Sean discussed local news, economic reform, relations with Pakistan, and, I believe, Lindsay Lohan’s most recent brushes with the law. I really don’t know, as I was intent on attempting to reel in ‘Chappy’ Chappell in his bumblebee black and yellow Stellar SE, and keeping Jim and Steve in our crosshairs. Sean dipped his hat 427 more times. Miraculously, as the miles ticked by towards the turn buoy, we were pulling closer.

I have no idea where Sean Brennan went-he must have rocketed past the other direction, or like a Navy Seal, perfectly camouflaged into the coastline. I never saw him pass the opposite way. As we spun in a smooth arc around the multicolored duct taped buoy can (“Hey, is that a ‘Tickle Me Elmo’ taped to it?”), we were thirty feet off Chris’s stern and about another forty feet behind Jim and Steve. Immediately the wind became apparent, a welcome relief for our overheated bodies, needles pegged in the red zone. Bring it. I like the wind, and with the double, we punch the hole of one with the power of two.

We slowly drew abreast of Chris, closing the gap to Jim and Steve a bit more. Up ahead, we could see the lime green slash of Greg Lesher’s Huki S1-R, and the orange, yellow and black splashes of color that marked Wesley, practically pinned together.

At this point, Sean began a fixation with Greg Lesher’s performance that was to continue the remainder of the race. “Wow, Greg’s really doing well… Do you think Wesley’s toying with him? If Wesley were going to kick it for the finish, where would it be? Three miles? Two miles? One mile out?”

All of these questions required additional oxygen to answer. I grunted monosyllabic responses, struggling to keep the power on through the beam waves now striking our starboard side. I own an S1-R also, and recognize the monumental effort that Greg must have been exerting to keep it at hull speed with Wesley’s fitness and his faster Stellar SES. Well done, Greg. I also know the R is the perfect platform to put the power down through the messy stuff-supremely stable. Conditions are the great equalizer between the R and other boats faster on flat water. That said, the driver is truly the deciding factor-the green R had a very strong pilot.

We traced a beeline for Wesley and Greg’s path as they hugged the coastline. Jim and Steve were experimenting with a line that took them far out into the center of the river. I knew their plan was to angle in at the last point and attempt to pick up some three quarter swell into the finish. Jim usually captains their double, and is adept at finding rides where there seem to be none had. Steve is smooth as a turbine, and their much slower stroke rate illustrated the power they were generating as they pulled away. It was hard to tell what was going on between Wesley and Greg up ahead-the water became more confused, and aside from some twitches and a small semi-brace, we managed the messy bits, tracking the inside line.

With slightly less than three miles to go, I’d about had enough. Since this was a borrowed boat, my drinking tube was about 10” too short, requiring me to pause in my paddling, and crane forward as if I were doing hamstring extensions, while suckling at the mouthpiece like a hamster at the metal tube of its cage’s water bottle. Since this was such a PITA, I was drinking hardly at all, and was starting to cramp in my right thigh. Clearly, Jim and Steve had widened their gap. There was no way we’d be able to chase down the two ahead of us as well. When there’s no carrot on a stick, the miles drag on with excruciating slowness. You try to avoid looking back over your shoulder to see who’s sighting you down. I knew Tim was there, and wasn’t sure if the immensely powerful Chris had rallied. I had that hunted feeling.

The last cove taunts you as a false finish, and I knew Jim and Steve might be lured into thinking this as well. Haha. Sean yelled out to me, interrupting his Greg Lesher banter; “Is that the finish?” “No!” I answered into the wind, “But watch, Jim and Steve think it is!” They were angling in from far out at sea, and you could tell from their tiny flailing arms, they were winding it up for a final sprint to the flag. Then they realized what I already knew.

If a boat could have body English, the reluctant turn away from the cove they thought was the finish, clearly communicated two four letter expletives and a crushing sense of disappointment. I smiled a small, cruel smile, feeling instantly guilty as these, after all, were my friends ahead of us. Then I smiled again, because they were ahead of us.

We tried to finish strong, really we did, and we managed a miserable little spurt of a ‘sprint’ across the line and farther, between two white buoys. Jim was yelling and laughing as we came by: “Mark, don’t drop your hands; keep them up at shoulder level!” Done, in more ways than one.

Sean Brennan collected his prize and was no doubt halfway home already, crossing the Connecticut state line, as we lifted skis back up onto the cars, and congregating for race times and delicious sandwiches and wraps, crowned by Betsy’s homemade cookies and the infamous Dwyer Magic Bars. Another good day of racing and friends. Thank you, Wesley and Betsy, for organizing and running this series benchmark, and for the loan of the fast double. Thanks Sean, for being the awesome tandem partner you are.

Four exhausted buddies piled back into the big, black pickup for our stockpile run #2 to Fatulli’s Bakery once again. I recommend highly the clam chowder, the Portugese macaroni and cheese, and the pastries are the stuff dreams are made of. I also recommend the Sakonnet River Race; it’s a good one. ~ Mark