Quickie Quiz Question:
What do the following have in common?
a.) habaneros
b.) Mount Kilauea
c.) the plastic slipcovers on Grandma’s furniture
d.) the 2013 Blackburn Challenge
Answer: the ability to produce overwhelming, oppressive heat
For the 27th running of this infamous east coast event in Gloucester, MA (Say ‘GLAW-stah.’), the cruelest of the weather gods must have been smirking and chortling the whole while. The northeast had been socked in a heat wave for the past three weeks. It felt like the deep south, midday Florida hot, only with a heapin’ helpin’ more humidity. My entire wardrobe now consisted of flip flops and light-colored garments consisting only of wicking fibers.
Sean and me just after crossing the Finish Line
Photo by Betsy Echols
Steve and I headed up early on Friday, in an effort to beat the usual traffic up 128. Tommy Kahuna had been detained at work, and Big Jim was vacationing with his family in RI, so he’d drive up early the next morning for the race. The outside temperature readout in my RAV was singing out numbers like ‘100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall,’ only in ascending order. The lineup for our crew would be the same as in previous years: Jim and Steve would pilot their Fenn Elite double, while Sean and I would do the same with our XT double. Tom, action figure that he is, would go it alone in his V12.
When it’s 105 degrees and counting, what do you do for entertainment having exhausted sitting in A/C and sipping on iced lattes? You go to the beach, of course. As check in at our rooms in Peabody (Say ‘PEE-buh-dee.’), was not until three, we shot straight, up 128, to Good Harbor (‘Hah-buh’) Beach. The lot was closed for residents only, but you could park your car a quarter mile away and trek along the scorching macadam toting your beach gear. Those we passed attempting it, resembled stumbling nomads plodding alongside the sands of the Kalahari. Didn’t seem appealing, so we wound up at Cape Hedge Beach in the beautiful little neighboring town of Rockport. We could see the course halfway point of Straitsmouth across the cove in the distance. There was a cooling breeze, and the water was a gift from the kinder weather gods-hovering in the high sixties-perfection.
The physical ordeal of driving back to the hotel of course required sustenance. After wandering into two restaurants back in Gloucester in search of seafood, to find their A/C units were woefully outgunned by the current temps, we ended up with lobster (’lob-stah’) rolls bigger than your head, and frosty Lagunitas IPAs at Latitude 43. Dinner that night with Tim Dwyer, Wesley and Betsy Echols, Greg Lesher and Mary Beth Gangloff, Steve, and Tom Kerr, was delightful. We talked boats and the racing of boats, checked the NOAA forecast every thirty seconds, and continued our support of the Lagunitas Brewing Company before returning to the hotel, to rise before the red sun that was sinking like a fiery yolk over the trees.
The 5:15 wake up call was jarring. I suited up in more wicking fibers, and mixed electrolytes with a higher salt content than usual in hopes of hanging on to some semblance of hydration. Opening the door from the hotel lobby to the lot, the oppressiveness of the day hit you in the face like a steamy towel. The air hung thick and heavy; a haze of moisture molecules suspended. A quick stop at DD’s to caffeinate, and fuel with an egg and cheese on a toasted sesame, and it was off to Gloucester High School to begin what would prove to be a true test of endurance and fortitude.
At check in, the cafeteria was abuzz. If it was already muggy outside, it was 7 degrees more so within. Adventurous Joe was doling out coffee and shots of espresso, and the stoic volunteers manning the reg sheets, and handing out numbers and khaki green t-shirts are to be commended for not only doing so, but with a smile and pleasantries to boot. Thankfully, Sean had already picked up our numbers, so after a brief attempt to remain inside the building for the captain’s meeting, I elected to catch the action outside through the window with a host of others, including fine friend and Webmaster of surfskiracing.com Chris Chappell. As always, it was wonderful to see familiar friendly faces, Roger Gocking, Rick Floyd, and the like, some of whom you only come across at this event, and to meet others only corresponded with through social media sites like FaceBook. Jim was already there on two hours of sleep, having driven through the early morning hours. He and Steve were sporting ‘Team USA, Sea Cows’ jerseys he had printed for us some time ago. Sadly, I must be more manatee than the rest, as I couldn’t fit my size XL over my arms. They reported that whenever they passed someone, the overtaken racers would low at them: “Moooooooooo! Moooooooooo!”
At the start on the Annisquam, it was a veritable logjam of paddlecraft. One team actually appeared to be paddling a hollowed-out log, replete with a chain saw sculpture of a beaver mounted on the prow. It took them several minutes to realize their heat (literally) had started, and wrestle their wooden beast over the start line to cheers from the other competitors. 19.4 miles did not look promising for them. Even their beaver looked worried. The heat evidently did not deter many paddlers. The HPK class alone had approximately 38 racers in single skis. The forecast 15-20 kts. of wind from the SW never materialized; there was maybe 10 at best, and what there was, was not particularly refreshing.
When our class went off, the doubles teams of Francisco/Flavio in the Stellar S2, Lance/Tina in the Huki S2, and Jim/Steve in their Fenn Elite seemed shot from water cannons. There was no wind, and the river was brutal, all suckwater and weed. Knowing it would be sheer suicide to attempt to match their cadence and speed, we slipped into a more mortal pace, reasoning that to go out too hard, too fast would spell certain disaster. We overtook Gary Williams and Tom Tarrant of Team Achilles, Gary all outfitted with head-mounted GoPro. Gary had attempted to assist me in getting mine going on the start line-I have some fantastic portraits of parts of his head craning over the lens.
Our speed dipped considerably, and I suspected insidious weed. Sure enough, when we stopped shy of the river mouth and backpaddled, a cluster the size of one of Lady Gaga’s headpieces drifted clear. From the jump in speed realized once sans vegetation, I suspected we might have dredged up Lady Gaga as well. She’s worth at least six bungees worth of drag. Prior to emerging into the river, we caught Phil Warner and Robin Francis in Phil’s stunning mahogany fast tandem; two great folks.
After ‘Lob-stah Pawt’ Alley, the green and black Nelo Waterman of Tucker Lindquist and Sarah Everts ahead of us drew closer, then further, then closer again. We had diced with this boat before in previous years, when Dana Gaines had captained, so it was a familiar nemesis. We eventually reeled them in, and dropped them like a bad habit at Folly Cove, or so we thought… (Blatantly undisguised literary foreshadowing here…)
We were reeling in boat after boat from previous classes, mostly fixed and sliding seat singles and doubles, and a smattering of OC-1s and 2s. The wind (What wind?) was at our backs, and the seas were starting to roll a bit, as they always do approaching the halfway point at Straitsmouth. Sean was providing his trademark conversational chatter, although I sadly noted he hadn’t sung a bawdy sea shanty in quite some time. (Choruses of C.W. McCall’s hit ‘Convoy,’ over the cellphone en route to the race don’t count.) Somewhere here, we came by Carey Bond, mirroring a chiseled Greek statue in motion atop his paddleboard. Man, I give those fit SUP men and woman great credit- little wonder they develop twelve packs with the core strength required to dig a hole in the ocean for that distance with those glorified pizza paddles (Your pepperoni and mushroom is almost done…). I, myself, sport a one-pack, or ‘onesie,’ as I affectionately call it. It should display a sign that instructs: ‘Rub for health and happiness.’
With Straitsmouth just ahead, the sea state started to change. Although still fairly flat, glassy rollers marched in from our port three quarter beam (Here, he attempts to use nautical lingo…). At this point, a white-tipped and tailed Darth Vader black Epic V-12 appeared to our left. “ Whaaaa?! Who is that?!” both Sean and I enunciated simultaneously (Always in sync, true tandem partners endeavor to speak in unison like the Doublemint twins.) “Never before has any single overtaken us until at least near Dog Bar! We are aghast!” we may have added. It was Dorian Wolter, fresh off the heels of his class win, and 14th overall placing in the ICF Surfski Worlds in Portugal. If you’ve ever shaken this oh-so-gracious and humble athlete’s hand in greeting, you’d know it appears your phalanges have been compressed in a vise. In the immortal words of Ivan Drago: “He is not human; he is like a piece of iron.” I’ll never forget when, years back, Dorian borrowed my Custom Kayaks Mark 1 ski for the Lighthouse to Lighthouse Race. He proceeded to cut up a pair of his foam flip flops, glued them into the fixed footwells for blocking, won the race handily going away, then reassembled his flip flops for the beach party afterwards.
Dorian was positively putting the hurt on the water. We exchanged pleasantries for several moments, he never missing a stroke, before he motored cleanly away. It would be almost twenty minutes before the next superfit paddler, Borys Markin, would overtake us. This would place his incredible effort in even more graphic context.
Passing the headlands of Thacher and Milk Islands, what wind there was shifted head on, but it was a warm wind, like someone suddenly trained a handheld hair dryer set on ‘low’ directly into your face. Not in the least refreshing. Just to rub it in, what small current assist we had somewhat enjoyed turned on us also, and the seas rolled all the more. I had loaded two hydration bottles into the cockpit fore of my foot pedals, and having run the first one dry, shifted to the second tube clipped to my fluorescent orange Mocke pfd.
Still in Sync…
(Photo by Mike Chamness)
After these headlands, one enters the backshore stretch, a longish open water crossing or ‘no man’s land’ of sensory deprivation. Time seems to slow, and yes, even double back on itself here. You start to play mind games, trying valiantly not to focus on the fact that by mile 15, you’re dead tired, your temperature needle is pegging into the red zone, and Sean has announced that his drinking bladder is empty. He was jerking on the hose a bit and only drawing air. Like a hamster on a metal exercise wheel whose little inverted water bottle has gone bone dry, he was making pathetic little sucking sounds. Later, he’d discover the bladder sprung a pinhole-sized leak; over the course of 19 miles, his meter had run out.
We picked up weed again, and once more stopped and paddled backwards to free it. What drifted loose this time my feverish brain registered as a clot of Sargassum seaweed. I could even replay the Discovery Channel special with the tiny seahorses that use its foliage for protection from predators, in a textbook example of natural mimicry and camouflage. I envisioned some gazing up at me innocently with their little beady eyes as we drifted by. “Enjoy your new home further down the coast, little seahorses,” I would say. I was losing it.
Sean was hanging tough, twitching ever so often on occasion, and only announcing his water was gone every two minutes or so. I weighed stopping to allow him a draw of mine, with the fact that we’d need to dismount and then remount to do so. Recalling the less than rock solid balance we demonstrated shortly before clearing weed, I decided this would be far too risky. By virtue of my front position with the rudder pedals, I was the captain, after all, and sometimes you need to wear the captain’s hat, even if your crew could conceivably approach the verge of mutiny. I wish I actually had a captain’s hat. Sean dipped his co-pilot’s hat in the cool, refreshing water 17 times thus far (Not that I was keeping count or anything…). Our speed had dropped considerably-we were fading from the roots like a bad dye job. Every time Sean dipped his hat, I would quickly dip my head to take a clandestine suckle from my bite valve. I tried not to let him see me do it. Raised Italian Catholic, I admit this with no small degree of guilt. In my head, my justification was if Sean were to shrivel up and lose consciousness from dehydration, I would need to paddle my little raisin friend home.
Approaching the last cove of the backshore stretch, I was ready to turn this circumnavigation into a circumcision. If glaciers could shape the landscape, what would be the equivalent of a giant mohel who could take off just the tip…? Stick a fork in me and turn me over; I was done. Well done, to be more precise, and crispy around the edges. My head throbbed. I was as bug-eyed as a pug, eyeballs aching and all swelled up in their sockets. I had this weird dry patch at the back of my tongue. My throat was sore and all tingly, like the aftereffects of eating an entire jar of giardiniera (Ask me how I know this, as you are Googling ‘giardiniera.’).
Here, a few other skis slipped by. Some were a distance away, working the rebounding waves off the rocky outcroppings, a la Barton in 2002. Glicker slid by in his new red and white V10. Our cheers of encouragement brought the briefest of acknowledgement, from a man known for his effusive gregariousness. He was a man on a mission-not the mohel I was looking for, but entertainingly close, at least in religious affiliation. There was a McNett sighting. Although this may be disputed; the racer in question had a shirt on, albeit without sleeves. Some time later, Jan Lupinski eased past, clearly a solid performance on his part, and a few others, too far away to recognize. By virtue of their anonymity, I realized I was once again, taking us far out to sea (I have this predisposition to turn left. If they ran this course counterclockwise, I’d be golden.) I think we passed a whale watch charter at some point. Destination: Stellwagen Bank, having left from Provincetown.
With this dawning, I angled us in, managing to pick up some swell rounding the tip of the lighthouse and stone jetty of Dog Bar for a short sleigh ride or two. A trio of skis was snaking close to the jumbled pilings. Our adjusted trajectory brought us right to the rocky tip, where a photographer was snapping race portraits. Whoohoo! Photo op! Hands at eye level and rotate, rotate, rotate for the camera. I only hoped my expression would be somewhere between a constipated wince and a pained grimace.
At this point, we knew we had approximately two plus miles to the finish at the greasy pole across the harbor. We’ve got this, we have done this, eight times before. Don’t think about the right hand that’s been numb since mile 14, don’t think about the occasional groan from my desiccated co-pilot who may also require a hip replacement upon beach landing (based on his latest monstrations). Keep a nice steady cadence-we’re home free! I settled in for the Booze Cruise back to the beach and beer tent. At this point, dear reader, do you recall earlier in this wordy tale of misery and woe, the reference to the black and green Nelo Waterman we had dropped shortly after the river? Sudddenly, shattering my relaxed reverie, Sean shrieked: “Oh my God, they’re there! They’re gaining on us!!” Swiveling my head sharply to the right, there were Tucker and Sarah, bearing down at warp speed. They smelled blood, evil little smiles on their faces, eyes burning like hot embers. Despite being in a different class, our boats were close enough in spirit and design that it was instantly deemed we compete to the death, or at least to the greasy pole, which were in essence, one and the same. “WE CAN’T LET THEM BEAT US!” Sean bellowed, and I could feel him light the afterburners and my motivation simultaneously, regardless of whether or not our rocket assist more closely replicated that of a bottle rocket. Say goodbye to the complacent coast to the finish. We would have to dig deep for this. Inspired by my co-pilot, I wicked up my flickering pilot light several notches. Sean was counting off stroke sets to keep us in sync. Immediately, we were flying, a full mile plus per hour faster.
Round Dog Bar…and Dog Tired, on a Dog Day Afternoon (almost)! (Photo by Mike Chamness)
Anyone who’s done this race knows that the white outbuilding, smokestacks, and the wooden Lincoln Log-like structure that holds the greasy pole and finish line are deceptively far away. Couple to this the harbor itself, which is generally a maelstrom of confused boat wake and slop and chop, and it’s usually the case that this last bit can often be the most challenging. Thankfully, the heat that had kept the evidently far saner powerboat contingent at home in air-conditioned comfort had worked in our favor. Only two boats cut across our path, and both wakes were highly complementary. The stern lifted each time, and in concert with our renewed interval efforts, we kept our thumbs down on the red nitrous buttons and increased our lead, almost catching the Huki outrigger that had gapped us long before Dog Bar. I glanced down to see the HR numbers on my Garmin blinking with the urgency of a countdown timer toward nuclear meltdown, wondering fleetingly if that mild arrhythmia turned up at my last physical was something I should be concerned about, then shoved that thought firmly out of my head, doing my best Dorian impression across the line.
As we coasted past the greasy pole, there was Francisco, up in the tower, cheering us on. He and Flavio set such a blistering pace, he had time to strap his boat to the car, change into another more comfortable pair of swimming trunks, float leisurely out on a pool noodle to the tower, then meander to the top and sunbathe for a while. There too, were Steve and Jim, thankfully still next to their boat in the water. As is tradition, Sean and I both flopped (aka ‘fell’) in. As our overheated internal reactor cores came in contact with the electrolytic cooling effects of the salt water, huge clouds of steam arose, accompanied by a molten ‘HIIIISSSSSS!!!!” causing everyone in the general vicinity to quickly see what was the cause. I’ve done the same thing myself at a Mexican restaurant, whenever the waitress brings a neighboring table a smoldering cast iron skillet of fajitas.
Done and done. After eventually regaining some semblance of strength to drag our white beluga whale to the beach, we turned on the A/C full blast in our cars, and changed into our party dresses. Sean, always the thoughtful individual that he is, somehow retained the presence of mind to procure us pints of Ipswich Summer Ale, and sign us up for the free massage (also tradition). As I lay face down in the hole of the massage table while Sean snapped photos of my contorted face with his iPhone from below, I felt a degree of satisfaction. Although our time was slower than last year, not only did we finish, we did so amidst some of the most taxing conditions to date, along with all the other competitors that paddled and rowed their way ‘round Cape Ann. If Howard Blackburn would not be overly impressed, I feel he would at the very least, nod his head in approval.
The beach party was the usual festive event of pulled chicken and pork, beans, rice, and beer. The music flowed almost as freely as Ipswich from the
Post Race: Flotsam and Jetsam
taps. At one point, the beer line stretched to the Porta Potties (which, if it formed a loop, would appear to be very efficient). In the distance, the skies thundered, and threads of lightning occasionally split the sky, but the party continued on. The heat and exertion of the day eventually took their toll on this paddler, so one large iced coffee, and a large raspberry/lime Coolatta (remarkably mimicking the color and approximate taste of antifreeze) had me back on the road, chauffeured to Connecticut. Thanks to all the race organizers, support staff, and volunteers behind the scenes who once again gave their all to assure the Blackburn Challenge remains a premier race within the northeast and the U.S. at large. Until next year…
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