The East Coast Surfski Championships
(a.k.a. The Jamestown Counter Revolution)
Providence, RI, Saturday, August 27, 2011
~Mark Ceconi~

The San Francisco Surfski Champs is an infamous race, no doubt about that. They have it all; the wind, the waves, the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz…not to mention Ghirardelli chocolates and Helen Workman. Not to be outdone, okay, outdone maybe more than a little, we east coasters still needed something post Blackburn to get our own competitive juices flowing, now that the Mayor’s Cup is no more. Thanks to the hospitality of Dan Gorrarian, Race Director, they’d opened their ‘Jamestown Counter Revolution’ rowing race to paddle-powered craft a number of years back, figuring the more the merrier. We are all brethren of the waves. As Wayne Lysobey proclaims: “Long live open water!”

The Counter Revolution…’Counter’ describing the direction, and ‘Revolution,’ one complete cycle of Conanicut island. This 14 mile race circumnavigates Jamestown, RI, under the shadow of the Newport Bridge, providing a mix of conditions: somewhat sheltered harbors, as well as the more open water of Mackerel Cove. ‘Circumcision’ might be a more appropriate, albeit less politically correct, term, as the course bisects the tip of Beavertail Point. At this juncture, I’ll desist, lest media censors step in and cordon off this innocent race recap in crime zone tape. Wesley Echols came up with the idea for the East Coast Surfski Championships as a race within a race and he asked Stellar Surfskis and Kayaks to provide prize money ($1500) for the surfskiers. The Kayak Centre in Wickford offered a hotspot of $250 for first surfskier across a set line, and the newly crowned East Coast Surfski Champs Race was born.

Visit Kevin Klasman’s Excellent Photos of the Race!

Sadly, despite the media blitz on the websites of www.surfskiracing.com and the Yahoo groups, someone failed to notify Mother Nature, who scheduled Hurricane Irene for the very same weekend. The Coast Guard issued its decree: No marine events, in light of the fact that entire coastlines were being evacuated in anticipation of the storm. ‘What to do?’ pondered Race Director, Dan. “Hmmm…” thought he, “Perhaps we might do the same thing we did two years ago when disastrous weather descended on the very same weekend of the race. Let’s move the venue to the sheltered waters of the river and harbor in Providence, shorten the race to a tad over 10 miles, and have a go!” Problem solved. While lacking the grander scenery and mixed conditions of the JCR, the race would go on. Folks that wanted to row or paddle this weekend in a competitive way would have the opportunity to do so, without requiring Coast Guard search and rescue choppers, or ‘Lost at Sea’ headlines in the local tabloids. In a nutshell, as the adage goes, when nature deals you lemons, whip up some lemonade.

A race in place, off we went. The surfski class would be a dogfight from start to finish, with strong talent attending: Borys Markin, international sprint competitor originally hailing from the Ukraine, had decimated the field at the Run of the Charles by such a margin, rumors flew that he had pulled a Rosie Ruiz and hopped the T to the finish. Reid Hyle and Rob Mirlenbrink mosied up from the Sunshine State of Florida. Ed Joy surfed on in from the Aloha State of Hawaii, and Sean Brennan, arrived from the What Exit? State of New Jersey. Eric McNett journeyed from Lobstah’ Land, Maine, and Joe Glickman rolled in from the Matzoh Ball capital of the five boroughs, Brooklyn, New Yawk… The field unfolded beyond, with the usual suspects hailing from RI, CT, and MA. I’d again be paddling my Fenn XT double with tandem partner, Sean Milano, heading up Friday night to stay over.

I picked up Tommy ‘Kahuna’ Kerr late afternoon in CT, and we inched our way from traffic jam to red light up through New Haven and finally, onto I95. I expected a mass exodus away from the coastline due to the dire forecast, the opposite direction of our intended path, but I95 gridlock remains an immoveable force even in the midst of a natural disaster. It seemed a long trip up to Portsmouth, and the hospitality of the good Mr. and Mrs. Echols. Unfortunately, we missed the dinner get together of paddlers organized by good friend, Tim ‘Timo’ Dwyer, so TK and I stopped for steamers, scallops, and fried calamari (When taking to sea, it is best to welcome the sea into you.), touching down at the Echols’ in time to share our predictions for the next day, monitor the track of the hurricane up the eastern seaboard, then fold ourselves into bed. After struggling with my newly acquired iPhone, which was draining its battery faster than a wino on a bender, I fell into a deep sleep.

The next day dawned far too early, Stellar co-owner Dave Thomas rendezvoused with us in the faint light, and we convoyed up to Providence. After unloading and registering, we set up boats, assessed the slate skies yet again (no flying houses or whirling vortexes yet), then convened on the deck of the boathouse for the prerace Captain’s Meeting. Captain Dan led the meeting with a level of preparedness that was impressive, combined with a superb sense of humor.

Being that we surf ski/kayak types propel ourselves forward, it’s altogether too easy to pooh pooh the hazards that await the rowers, who face the opposite direction and cut a swath roughly twice our paddle span. Each aspect of the course was dissected, from buoy size, shape, color, and date manufactured, to the most advantageous lines through each section. There was addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division required, along with some random trigonometry. (‘Take the tangent of co-sine buoy ‘b’ and divide by the trajectory of rower ‘r’…) For a while, as the twists and turns of what was essentially, an isosceles triangle of a course, were scrutinized in minute detail under a rowers’ microscope, once again I was reminded of a scene from ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail,’ this time the one involving the Holy Hand Grenade. Upcoming smoking gun surfski racer, Francisco Urena, approached after the debriefing, and looking a wee bit puzzled, queried, “Did anyone get that?” “Counterclockwise around the huge sno-cone buoy, in between the orange buoy and the power boat and the rest of the course is open and fair game!” we replied. For such a seemingly rigid set of directives, in essence, we had consummate course freedom. Hence, the ‘I’ll meet you after the Revolution’ graphic on the race t-shirts. Love it.

Ah, the race. Rowers were off on a shotgun start, and the kayak types and OCers lined up at a 2 minute interval, en masse. Team Achilles was in attendance with two tandems; outstanding folks putting the pedal to the metal to further a worthwhile pursuit. Firefighter Timmy Shields and Andy Gallonio, who dusted off the cobwebs of competition this year and climbed back into the saddle, were piloting another Fenn XT double. At the airhorn, everyone exploded off the line, the cream rising to the top, as the single boats of the previously mentioned front runners quickly disappeared into the horizon, trailed by the others, hoping to cling to the Big Dogs as long as possible, before fading back onto the porch.

We had current on our side, and the pace was impressive. Timmy and Andy sprinted out with the urgency of someone responding to the siren’s wail of a five-alarm fire. We unabashedly leached onto their wash, with the determination of a honey badger (‘He just takes what he wants…’). 10 plus miles is a tough distance; short enough to basically feel like an extended sprint, and long enough to assure you’re firmly entrenched in Pain Central for the entire distance. My heart rate quickly climbed to 168 BPM and hovered there. This was to be on the low end of the spectrum for this little outing.

Up river we flew; the field splintered into two distinctly separate packs in front of us. Tom was hanging tough to our right, and just before mile two, we passed Timmy and Andy (berated nonstop by Andy, I might add, for our blatant stern-sucking strategy). We closed on Mike McDonough in his Huki S1-X. Catching Mike, Tom suddenly had someone to draft, and focusing our collective lenses a bit in the distance, we fixed crosshairs on Kirk Olsen up ahead.

The river opened, and our happy little group beelined for the pilings to our left to pare some distance around the bend, where the course widened further. How close could we go, before hearing the feared crunch of rudder striking piling, punching up through carbon hull? Shades of Dirty Harry: “Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya’, punk?” By now, my HR climbed to a steady state 170 bpm-race on.

Emerging into the bay, the huge sno-cone buoy lay dead ahead. Adding my only bit of levity to Sean’s usual comedic monologue, I jokingly instructed that we were to bang a left at the Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine, followed by another around the Easy Bake Oven. Sean responded: “I had a pretzel machine.” “Me too!” I crowed in gleeful camaraderie. Just this little exchange started me wheezing, so I zipped it and focused on the big, bobbing buoy. A couple of powerboats buzzed by, close enough to give a bit of a lift on their wake in otherwise flat water. We latched on to the back of Kirk rounding the sno-cone, and peeling off quickly after cutting the turn. Mike and Tom jumped on his wash for a brief respite, before easing away after an eighth of a mile. The pleasant little breeze and current assist were gone. A slight tailwind took away any cooling effects-it was humid as all get out, and we were fighting the current now. It would be a slog to the finish.

Recalling Dan’s course tidbit #673, our ensemble ducked along the piers for the return trip, miraculously watching the GPS numbers climb back into the 7s, out of the main channel current. Glimpsing the second pack ahead of us, Sean and I smelled blood; we were closing, excruciatingly, painfully slowly, but closing nevertheless. Mike and Tom traded pulls, yet we resisted catching a ride on their train, lest we run the risk of being DQ’d for drafting out of class. Keeping pace alongside these two Type A personalities, it was no easy task-HR now 178 and climbing… I concentrated on planting the blade as far forward as possible, driving hard off the footplate; maximum thrust for each rotation. Taking a chance on underwater obstructions, we shot the gap between the lighthouse buoy’s rocky outcropping and the wooden piers; too tight a space for the rowers to attempt.

Tom and Mike traded pulls again, and managed to gap us slightly. My personal goal became damage control, holding them within several boat lengths without exploding in a spectacular fireball. We passed under the bridges marking our way out, still hugging the piers and pilings to gain respite from the current. The second pack drew closer, Chris Chappell’s day-glo yellow jersey, and Greg Lesher in his new ski.

In the closing miles, we knew the front runners would have already broken down and bagged their paddles, maybe washed and waxed their boats, showered, changed, and started first pickings on the buffet that awaited the racers in the upstairs boathouse. No matter. You race your race, and try to leave nothing on the water. I’m proud to say we hammered hard past the finish buoy, my HR pegged at 186 bpm, Tom and Mike duking it out across the line not far in front of us. The second pack had finished ahead as well, but on the return leg we managed to cut their lead severely-if only we had another mile… Old dogs, the two of us, with a combined century between us, but junkyard mongrels that did our best to hang tough.

These altogether noble aspirations quickly left us, however, in our antics beyond the finish line. Sean promptly flopped into the water to cool off. ‘Ploop!’ The considerable current dragged us right back to the finish buoy. Sean wrapped himself about the stern like a starfish on steroids, his considerable mass foiling my efforts to paddle us clear of finishing racers. Officials patiently instructed us to vacate the finish path via bullhorn, which in turn inspired Sean to hurriedly attempt to remount, simultaneously launching me into the water as well. We floundered several times, Keystone Cops style, taking turns knocking one another back into the water in our slapstick routine, before successfully remounting to exit the finish area, tails tucked between our legs. I was convinced I heard a canned laughter soundtrack, but the more serious rower types did not seem amused.

One by one, competitors finished, boats strewn once again on the grass opposite the boathouse, cast about like oversized, slender toothpicks. The after party commenced, to the tune of pulled pork, chicken, collard greens, rice and beans, and salad, punctuated by laughter and race recaps. And cookies, many, many cookies.

Dan took the floor (actually the weathered boards of the outside deck) under the DJ tent to announce the awards. The timing was perfect-the rain held until just before the final surfski medals were bestowed by an oh-so-adorable young awards presenter. Receiving your bling required you to deep knee bend to her level so she could drape the medal around your neck. Too cute. Rowers and paddlers co-mingled, one rower commenting to me that: “You kayakers have the coolest t-shirts.” Other rowers jokingly alluded to ‘jumping ship’ to the kayak ranks for the prize money, as oversized bank checks were bestowed upon Borys, Reid, and (in absentia) Sean, for their blazingly fast podium finishes.

The ceremony concluded, the first drops began, what was to become a deluge for sections of the return trip home. No matter. We came, we raced, we enjoyed. Thanks Dan and volunteers for salvaging the event, and orchestrating such an enjoyable day. As their own very cool t-shirt graphic reads: ‘We will meet again after the Revolution?’