A few months ago, Wesley suggested that I write an article describing my recent transition from sea kayak to surfski – the rationale for my decision, the learning process, and any other observations that might be useful for kayakers thinking about “moving up”.  That sounded like a good idea, so here’s the story of how I went from weekend kayaker to burgeoning ski nut.

I got hooked on kayaking after a couple of weekend trips with Maine Island Kayaks and a 10-day adventure in Alaska’s Icy Bay.  After doing some canoeing in my youth, the kayak was a revelation.  Faster, more maneuverable, more likely to actually make progress into a headwind, less likely to be overturned by your bonehead paddling partner standing up to take a picture – just plain more fun.  My girlfriend Mary Beth and I bought composite kayaks (a Current Designs Gulfstream for me, a P&H Capella 169 for her) from New England Small Craft in 2002.  For a couple of years, these served as the centerpieces of our apartment living room in Beverly, MA, until we decided to buy a house up the road in Hamilton.  In 2003 we made the short drive to Essex to watch the start of the Essex River Race.  I was enthralled.  I couldn’t believe my misfortune in having to wait an entire year before I could race my Gulfstream in it.  I considered doing the Blackburn that year, but I didn’t feel comfortable enough with my paddling skills to brave it.

Starting in 2004, I became a bit obsessed with the Essex and Blackburn races.  I’d pore over past results to figure out who to watch for and create spreadsheets to estimate tide-adjusted times to various waypoints.  I pulled all of the past results off the Blackburn site and created a computer program that would allow me to quickly assess exactly who was paddling what each year.  I attempted (with limited success) to develop an algorithm that would normalize Blackburn results from year to year (no getting around Greg Barton’s 2:32:58 in an Epic 18X in 2007 as the most mind-blowing feat, if not quite the fastest kayak time ever).  I managed to spend a little time away from my computer, too, trying to get to that magical place where I didn’t feel like I was just thrashing the water.  I did progressively better in my class over the years, finally winning both the Essex and Blackburn in 2008.

But something was missing.  It wasn’t lost on me that very few people in my class were actually racing.  With a few notable exceptions, most of those in the Sea Kayak (SK) class were there for a fun day out.  Even I was just dallying – my training program (ahem) was haphazard at best.  I really enjoyed my duels with Tucker Lindquist (whom I inched out in the 2009 Essex, but who neatly extinguished my hopes for repeating in the 2009 Blackburn) and the amazing Sarah Evertson, winner of a half-dozen (or more) Blackburns in various categories.  I wanted more of that kind of competition, even if it would inevitably mean that I was no longer near the top of my class.  It was clear I was going to have to step up to a sleeker boat in a more competitive division.

Of course, the Fast Sea Kayaks (FSKs) and High Performance Kayaks (HPK) hadn’t escaped my notice in all those races.  Since my SK class generally started 10 minutes before the HPK class in the Blackburn, I’d know that the skis were back there, gaining on me.  I’d challenge myself to see how far I could get around Cape Ann before I was caught by the lead pack.  To see the lead group glide by in their slivers of kevlar and carbon with effortlessly graceful strokes, mere inches apart from one another – that would’ve made my heart race had it any beats to spare.  I was awed by the glamour of the surfskis and felt compelled to compete with the big boys.  At the post-race festivities, I also noted that the HPK gang seemed to be a close knit group of interesting folks – yet another reason to step up.

Rather than jumping right from kayak to surfski, I decided to a schedule a brief lay-over in FSK territory.  Having narrowed my choices down to an Epic 18X and a QCC 700X, I ultimately decided on the latter, paired with an Epic mid-wing paddle.  My orange over gray QCC arrived in early August of 2009 – not quite enough time for me to feel comfortable taking it to the Jamestown Counter Revolution of that year (although as things turned out, the mill pond conditions in the abbreviated race would have posed no problems).  In the 2010 Essex and Blackburn races, I got the measure of the greatly increased competition in the FSK class.  I managed a 2nd place finish in the Essex, but unexpectedly arrived in the 3rd circle of Hell (you know – the one reserved for paddlers who go out way faster than their fitness level merits) only an hour into the Blackburn, weakly flailing for the next two-plus hours to manage an exhausted 4th.  Nevertheless, I remained motivated to step up another class.

I devoured any information I could find on individual surfski brands and models.  My main resource was, of course, the thorough reviews and charts available at surfskiracing.com.  However, I also leaned heavily on the reviews at paddling.net and the reviews and forums at surfski.info – the latter a particularly good source for comparisons between skis X and Y.  Based on these sources and the availability of skis in New England, I narrowed down my choices to the Epic V10 Sport, Think Evo, and Huki S1-R.  I was particularly drawn to the latter based on several reviewers commenting on its rock-solid stability, especially in rough conditions.  Wesley’s tables indicated a very favorable speed-to-stability ratio for the S1-R as well, along with a relatively easy remount (which I was pretty confident would come into play).

As fate would have it, Wesley was selling his bright green S1-R and invited me down to give it a test spin on the Sakonnet River, just minutes (if that) from his home in Rhode Island (who among us wouldn’t sell a semi-vital organ to live that close to a great launch).  He also brought out a Stellar SE, urging me to give it a try.  After a few quick tips from Wesley, I tried the Huki and found it to be a little unstable in the small chop, but considerably more stable than I had anticipated.  I was quite surprised by how maneuverable it was – the response to the rudder was instantaneous and dramatic.  I then hopped on the SES, which Wesley assured me had considerably better stability – particularly secondary stability – than other boats with comparable beams.  Regardless, I got my first lesson in remounting shortly after heading out, and my second lesson moments later.  I was pleased to find Rhode Island waters considerably warmer than those north of Boston.  When I returned to paddling the Huki, it now felt a bit slower but extremely steady.  I was sold.

Over the next few weeks, I put as many hours as I could on my new Huki, splitting time between the ocean and nearby Chebacco Lake.  In flat or mostly-flat water, I had no trouble at all staying vertical in the Huki, even when paddling near 100% effort.  Every time I went out, I’d make a point of practicing a half-dozen remounts or so from each side.  I couldn’t seem to avoid bruising tender body parts with the straddle mount, so I mostly stuck with sidesaddle remounts.  I’d occasionally miss a remount, but I was delighted to find the process much easier than I had anticipated.  I make no claim to great paddling form, but there’s no doubt that my stroke improved dramatically as I paddled the Huki.  In my FSK, I’d in theory work on a good, tight catch and solid hip rotation and all those dozen other factors that make for a good stroke.  But on the ski, I had a much better feel for how good mechanics impacted my speed and balance.  And, of course, the design of the ski itself was a great help in encouraging good habits.

Conditions conspired to keep the ocean frustratingly calm whenever I was able to get out for the next couple of weeks.  I was anxious to see how the boat felt when I couldn’t see my reflection in the water.  Then, finally, I got a day with a little attitude – confused seas in Salem Sound on a bustling Saturday morning.  I was surprised by how stable I felt as I started out at an exercise pace.  I was also surprised by how quickly I got upset by a quartering wave.  I didn’t have a teakettle with me, but I nevertheless went for an unexpectedly violent tumble that had people on the nearby beach fumbling with their iPhones to upload the next viral hit to YouTube.  My remounting practice paid off, however, as I was able to get back on the ski quickly enough to acknowledge the applause from shore.

I had few other spills that day.  I was consistently taken aback by how quickly things went south when they did: “I feel good, I feel good, I feel good, I’m under water.”  A paddle stroke where there wasn’t actually any liquid, a wave oddly reflected off the shore, a moment of inattention.  Because I was frequently caught off guard, I seemed to be traveling at full tilt during each, uh, full tilt.  As a side note, I’d kind of like that to be my racing nickname.  Even though I got bumped around a little by the spills, falling off a ski didn’t feel as traumatic as flipping a sea kayak.  I can (usually) roll my boat back upright, but getting knocked upside down in a kayak isn’t something I’m ever too tickled about.  With the ski, you fall off, you get back on.  No big deal.   As the day wore on and I got more tired, my balance started to abandon me.  I didn’t swim any more, but I was getting dead slow and my core felt like jello.

After a relatively short time – maybe a half dozen times out – I was amazed to find that I was more stable at a race pace in my Huki than I was in my QCC in rougher water.  To maximize hip rotation in my QCC, I’d paddle in a legs together, knees up posture.  But this arrangement, combined with a relatively wide seat, meant that my connection to the boat was tenuous.  In particularly rough patches, I could always move my upper legs back under the thigh braces for stability, but I’d lose my rotation.  In the Huki, on the other hand, my hips are snug in the bucket and (if necessary) I can get additional connection via my calves.  Despite being “on top” of the boat, I feel really integrated with it.

With only a few weeks in my Huki before the Jamestown Counter Revolution, I once again made the coward’s decision – sticking with my QCC for one last race.  I feared conditions at the mouth of the Narragansett might prove too much for me, and even though I had a few real-world spills under my belt with no lasting damage, I was still foolishly nervous about embarrassing myself in the race.  Of course, it turned out to be a mostly calm day that I think I would have been able to handle without issue.  I was able to win the thinly attended FSK class (medals for everyone!), but I felt like I had missed an opportunity.  No guts, no glory (or no 14th place finish, as the case probably would have been).  I was definitely going to get on the Huki for the Lighthouse to Lighthouse.

And I did.  The L2L was my first race on a ski.  Apart from a few squirrely moments right after the start (should’ve warmed up a little more), I didn’t have any problems.  I caught some decent runs on the downwind first half and felt remarkably stable coming back into the wind on the second.  A 10th place finish was a genuine thrill.  I followed the L2L with two final races in the season – the Salem Sound Double Header and the Northeast Surfski Downwind Run.  Particularly in the latter, I hit a sweet spot.  I felt like I was truly working with the waves, using the minimum effort to get the maximum speed.  Linking together a half-dozen bumps in a continuous run, I was flush with a feeling of utter giddiness.  Those moments of intoxication on my ski shine brighter in my memory than winning the Blackburn in my kayak.  It was just… right.

I wish I had written this article before the Snow Row, because I took a bit of a step backwards there.  It was my first time out this year and in the sloppy chop I felt as unstable as a newborn weeble.  This time out, it was me against the sea.  Mano a mar.  That’s not a fight I recommend.  Ten minutes into the race, after having thrown a few awkward, last gasp, “hmm, I seem to have stopped” kind of braces to remain upright, I was toppled unceremoniously into the drink.  Assuring a concerned nearby rower that I was OK, I hopped back on and resumed my precarious race.  Since I was already moistened, I figured another couple of spills before the end couldn’t hurt.  I finished with my pride slightly scuffed, but with my enthusiasm intact.  I subsequently had solid finishes in the Essex River and Sakonnet River races, and have been masochistically enjoying the weekly Tuesday night painfest of the Salem League.

Before that first Essex River Race in my trusty Gulfstream, I’d never participated in a race of any kind in any venue since Todd Trainor lapped me in a junior high gym class footrace.  Now I’m scheduling my vacations so that I don’t miss any of the area races.  When my cousin told me last fall that she was getting married in mid-July of this year, I was on edge for weeks until the Blackburn schedule came out and I discovered that I had dodged a bullet by a week.  I love how the multitude of little decisions that you have to make when racing have such a profound impact on your performance.  Should I skip this next stroke to restore my balance or power through it on the razor’s edge between upright and upset?  Is it worthwhile to throw in a heart-blowing interval to catch Joe Epic and get a ride on his wash, or should I conserve energy for a better opportunity later?  Do I take the longer route out of the tide (or current, shallows, weeds, wind, rowboat flotilla…) or blast through on a direct line?

I haven’t abandoned traditional kayaks.  I still like going out in my Gulfstream (although I’d like to replace it with something a little narrower and nimbler now).  I enjoy having such precise control in multiple dimensions, the versatility, the playfulness, and (at times, at least) the protection from the elements.  But slicing through flat water on a ski or feeling the rush of acceleration as you latch onto a big wave… those are feelings that can’t be matched in a kayak.  I also like how easy it is to get out on the water – throw the ski on your car (32 pounds versus 47 pounds for my kayak), grab a PFD, paddle, and leash and you’re ready to go.

In retrospect, I think moving from a sea kayak to a fast sea kayak was a mistake.  As I mentioned above, I actually find the Huki to be more stable than my QCC, at least when paddling the latter with knees up to get more rotation.  I’d doubtless have taken a few more spills had I jumped right from my Gulfstream to a ski instead of an FSK, but, as it is, I feel like I wasted part of a racing season.  Having little experience with top-tier skis, I can’t yet make a call on whether I should have jumped directly from my FSK to an S1-X/SES/V10/V12/Uno.  Many paddlers on surfski.info argue for starting with a more stable ski to hone your stroke and balance before moving up, and many others argue for jumping in the deep end to get as much time in (and out) of the bucket of an elite ski as possible.  Regardless of who’s right on that count, now I’m anxious to get on a skinnier ski.  Fortunately, I can do just that – I picked up my new V12 two days ago!