Blackburn Challenge 2014: Racing, Records, and Reflections
July 19, 2014, Gloucester, MA
It escapes me how many Blackburn notches I’ve accrued in my belt to date…eight? Nine? This strikes me as somewhat ironic, given the fact that as the years progress, I’m rapidly running out of notches in my actual belt. Some years were standouts, and appropriately titled: There was the Year of Huge Swells, each seemingly as large as a house. There was the Fog Year, when the race was called by the Coast Guard, and we ran sprints in the Annisquam. The Greg Barton Year, when the Olympic champion showed up and kicked booty in an off-the-shelf sea kayak. The Sea Shanty Year, when Sean regaled me in our double with bawdy sea tunes the whole way ‘round. And who can forget the Rocky Horror Picture Show Year, when competitors dressed as their favorite characters from the cult classic, culminating in a massive flashmob dance to ‘Time Warp’ on Pavilion Beach? Yes, memorable… What would 2014 bring? This was the Year of the Dynamic Duo Teaming in a Surfski Double. None other than the legendary ‘Big O,’ Oscar Chalupsky, paired with the very first surfski inductee into the Blackburn Hall of Fame, his friend and ours, Joe ‘Glicker’ Glickman.
‘Oppressive’ and ‘heat’ were the buzzwords for 2013’s race; paddlers were literally flopping in narcoleptic clusters into the water for some respite from the redline temperatures. This year’s climes couldn’t be more agreeable, remnants of another far-more-agreeable polar vortex. Temps were unseasonably cool in the low 70s, with just enough of a mild breeze to ruffle one’s hair seductively for photo ops passing Halibut Point.
On the Friday before, missing one of our quartet, who would join us later that evening for dinner, we enacted the famous lyrics from ‘The Beverly Hillbillies’ theme song: “We loaded up the truck and we moved toward Beverly…” On this occasion, we dragged a shiny aluminum, twelve boat, trailer, in tow. In March, I teamed up with three friends: Jim Hoffman. Steve Del Gaudio, and the aforementioned Glicker, and opened an eastern satellite of Ocean Paddlesports, selling the Fenn and Epic lines of surfskis, paddles, Mocke vests, and accessories, as well as several brands of SUPs. This past season, we’ve loaded up the trailer with demos of all the models, and road tripped to multiple race locations, surfski missionaries spreading enlightenment to the unwashed masses. On this trip up…traffic, traffic, and more traffic…we finally arrived in Peabody to drop the trailer and deliver Wesley’s new Fenn Spark at the hotel, then continued on to Gloucester.
Team Ocean PaddleSports East – Steve, Mark, Glicker and Jim
After some time reclining on a towel, watching Tom and Jim surf an SUP on Good ‘Hah-Buh’ Beach, a group of paddlers gathered, 15 or so, at Latitude 43 for some chat and sustenance to fuel us for the next day’s efforts. Jim, Steve, Tom, Chris and Leslie Chappell, Chris Sherwood, Glicker and Beth, rower Pete and friend, Doug, who would be paddling a Stellar double, the Big O and lovely wife, Clare, Greg Lesher and Marybeth Gangloff…the list goes on… Two big guns, Chris and the mighty Lesher, would be sitting out. Chris chose to forego several hours in a compressive posture. Instead, he would graciously videotape each surfski competitor from the rocks, posting personalized footage to FaceBook the following week for their viewing pleasure. Greg’s scratch came as a bit of a shock. I mean, we all remembered when he was mortal, but in recent years seemed to be anything but. Evidently, in one of his Lesher ‘give it everything you have’ workouts, characterized by enlisting every single body part, vestigial and otherwise, Greg had unfortunately pulled his uvula. He had a mini cast on it, which we all signed, but dinner conversation for him was stilted at best. We did miss the presence of the Echols, Timo Dwyer, and those crazy Canucks from Montreal, Richard and Chantale Germain, who all had their Dr. Denton’s on and were fast asleep by 6:30 PM.
Rising as they say, at the asscrack of dawn the next morning, the laugh was on us. Shuffling with the rest of the zombie apocalypse into Dunkin’, we entrusted caffeine to work its magic, en route to registration and the captain’s meeting at Gloucester High School.
For those who have never done the Blackburn, it feels like something epic from the get go. The morning gathering brings watermen and women from all disciplines, rowing and paddling all manner of seagoing craft. It’s a time to reacquaint with friends not seen since last year; a nervous energy fills the air. The parking lot is strewn with boats on stands, prepped and readied for the circumnavigation of Cape Ann to come. This was a Blackburn where course and personal records would be shattered. The weather gods smiled upon all, gracing us with mild temps and overcast skies, accompanied by just a whisper of a breeze to follow our paths around.
Duct-taped, gels secured, numbered, and drinking tubed, Sean and I clambered into 24.6 feet of Fenn XT double ski for our first outing since last year. In retrospect, it might have been advantageous to practice a bit prior to, at least our remounts, but life happens-we each reside several states away, and this past winter was more suited to Inuits than two surfski paddlers from New England. Shooting the gap under the drawbridge en route to the start line, some funky currents boiled to test us. The XT twitched a bit, yawing back and forth, an indication of ‘greenness’ in the boat. I knew that under no circumstances did I wish to swim; unlike last year, this water was ankle-numbing, Maine cold. We arrived at the start line with less than a minute to spare, slotting in next to Oscar and Joe, who I enlisted to raft up and start my GoHero cam. Of course, once again, it failed to record.
The doubles were amongst the first waves to blast off the line. Immediately, Oscar and Joe were GONE, shooting hydrofoil-like plumes of spray. Hanging wash at a reported 9.5 mph up the Annisquam were Jim and Steve in their Fenn Elite, and Andrius Zinkevichus and David Vandorpe in a borrowed XT. Jan Lupinski and Alex Ambotas, in Tom’s Fenn Elite, were nowhere to be seen. We immediately suspected Jim and Steve of their usual hijinks, which would prove to be the case. Duct tape bound and gagged with this year’s Gorton’s Fish Sticks logo t shirts, and deposited in the second floor men’s room of the high school, Jan would somehow manage to saw his way free with the cardboard tube from a toilet paper roll, freeing Alex as well. The two immediately leaped into their ski and gave chase. According to Jan, the time lost increasing with each subsequent retelling of the story, they were somehow able to make up the 55 minutes lost, bumping the other two boats down the podium to capture second place.
We kept tempo with Nick Schade and Phil Warner in Phil’s Guillemot Fast Tandem, weaving our way through the Achilles teams, calling out to our friends in their big doubles as we came by. Without warning, my Garmin decided it no longer wished to socialize in its circle of satellites, flashing a repeated series of questions to link up again, that required more button pushing than a teenager texting. In frustration, I finally gave up, to be mocked by “Are you indoors now?” staring up at me for eighteen miles. Thankfully, Sean’s GPS was operational, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, he chose to wear it on his wrist. Monitoring our speed, or lack thereof, required stopping to paddle for a reading. I suspect he planned this, but recognize as the miles wore on, my addled mind was prone to conspiracy theories. He did set the mile alarm however, which exactly replicated an elementary school dismissal bell. Hopeful, I kept looking for the buses.
In every previous year, emerging from the mouth of the Annisquam into Lobster Pot Alley denotes the transition from protected tidal river to open water. It’s where the real race begins, having jockeyed for position in the placid estuary. This year, there was no such indication where river stopped and ocean began. The water was dead flat, glassy-eyed, and slack-jawed as a duck pond, albeit with a slight, lumpy roll of the very worst kind. For me, this is the most despised water of all. It exaggerates any lack of synchronicity in a double; each paddler feels the other’s slightest twitch or tensing of the hips. Like a giant tuning fork, if your partner sneezes, it’s communicated along the length of the boat. The Atlantic was completely void of texture, and difficult to read. When the occasional swell or boat wake did roll through, I struggled to anticipate its intent.
Sliding past the sloping hills of rock spilling into the sea at Halibut Point, we heard Chris, Greg and Bill Baker cheering for us from the slabs and outcroppings. Roving cub reporters they were, videotaping and documenting my every phantom whiff of the paddle.
Rounding Halibut Point
For those of you who have missed my prior race recaps, my fast friend throughout the years and old high school wrestling buddy, is never at a loss for conversation throughout the race, and there’s traditionally a variety of preordained topics on his agenda. This year, Sean selected the theme song to ‘Gilligan’s Island,’ personalizing the lyrics for our ‘three hour tour.’ He emailed them to me a week prior, ostensibly that I should be practicing nightly, toward seamless accompaniment on race day. The ‘No Man’s Land’ past the halfway point at Straitsmouth is perfectly suited to soul searching and duets. We engaged in both, diverting our minds from pending exhaustion. At some point, usually around mile 16 or so, it dawns on you that you just don’t want to do this anymore. Physically strong is never enough; one must be mentally tough as well. This is the beauty of piloting a double, there’s always somewhere there to spur you on.
By this point, the water was playing tricks on my mind; it was growing increasingly difficult to discern ocean from sky. My involuntary twitches mirrored Renfield from the Dracula movies, and I began doing this weird Gilbert Grape thing with my fingers, as my right hand grew numb from its death grip on the paddle shaft. Borys Markin passed us here, working the rebounding waves close to the shoreline. Musing where the doubles that had left us in their wakes were about now, I envisioned Jim, Steve, Andrius, and David already receiving massages at the post-race party tent. Oscar and Joe, I imagined, had been done for hours, and Oscar was already boarding a flight to his next technique clinic.
As we passed OC-1 after OC-1, and even a six-person outrigger (How did THAT happen?), we staved off monotony by striking up conversations with fellow racers. Two older gents were piloting a bizarre, wooden dory, the likes of which neither of us had ever seen. It was the ocean going equivalent of a Mousetrap Game. They simultaneously pulled, pushed, kicked, and prodded wooden rods, pedals, and levers, which somehow resulted in this Rube Goldberg-like contraption moving through the water. I think it may have been propelled by frantically kicking, webbed feet underneath, like a colossal duck. Sean was highly intrigued by its mechanics, firing questions at them concerning its engineering and workings. Given their monosyllabic repertoire of “Yup” and “Nope” responses, I doubt they understood what it was that made them go, either. Here, I was reminded of a favorite line from The Simpsons television show. When asked what comprised a Flaming Mo drink at the local bar, Homer replied, “I don’t know what’s in it, but fire makes it good!”
2014 Blackburn Challenge – Team Theodoseau
At another point, we were passed by a huge, Hawaiian war canoe, Team Humuhumunukunukuapuaa, calling cadence: “HUP!” “HUT!” I brightened, coaching Sean to call back at the top of his lungs: “A HIP!” To which I responded with equal volume: “A HOP!” Repeating this chorus once more, I launched into an enthusiastic impression of the Grand Master Flash classic: “A hip, a hop, a hip, hop, pop, a don’t stop a rockin’ to the bing, bang, boogie of the beat, beat; so unique…I hit the lows, I hit the highs, my gym teacher makes me exercise…!” At this point, I forgot the remaining lyrics, and let the music fill me, take control, attempting some semblance of a moonwalk in the seatwell. This had the direct effect of unbalancing us, resulting in a paddle whiff yet again. My mind began to explore the feasibility of a ‘whiffometer,’ a theoretical device used to tally ineffective paddle strokes by a disoriented surfski double captain. Aside from me, it would likely have limited application.
Finally, Dog Bar and its marker lighthouse appeared. The ocean remained as smooth as a sheet of cellophane clumsily torn from the roll. I angled in closer to the jagged promontory, to hopefully milk a needed push or two off the refracting waves. A trio of single skis overtook us, including California-based visitor, Brian Kummer, in a red-tipped V10, and Team Epic sponsored muscle man, Craig ‘Impy’ Impens. Now, came the penultimate push across Gloucester Harbor to the finish, the greasy pole at Pavilion Beach. This final, seemingly endless, pilgrimage to the beach party is misleading. It’s all too easy to lollygag your way. The fact that the pole never seems to grow any closer establishes the mindset “I’ll get there when I get there.” Sean enacted a reprise of his theme song, matching strokes to the syllables of the same lyric, over and over. “If not for the courage of the fearless crew, the Mako would be lost, the Mako would be lost…”
In an almost identical reenactment of last year, Sean suddenly shrieked, “FASTER! Someone’s gaining on us!!!” I cast a furtive glance quickly back over my left shoulder to discover Brian Heath, in perhaps the only closed HPK left in the standings, a Westside Marauder, bearing down at full chat. Brian’s the real deal in a fast boat, and never you mind that we were in two different classes. When I presented this to Sean, he indignantly would have none of it. “PADDLE!!!” he screeched, “We can’t let him beat us!!” So paddle I did, and Brian did not beat us, at least over the line. Another Blackburn down, coasting in to shore to knuckle bump and back slap with those finishing before us, to the cheers of the Echols and Chappell families, and Linda Capellini, as well.
Depositing the big Mako on the sand, we made our way to the cars, cleaned up, and changed for the after events. Oscar and Joe had shattered the previous record, finishing in an unprecedented 2:29:38, more than a half hour before us. In fact, the first four doubles teams all finished in sub 2:40. In our division, we were a bit late to the party, but considering our heats started earlier than the single boats, were still able to get our names in at the top of the massage sign in sheet. Beata Cseke would also decimate the women’s record, completing the course in 2:52:25. Numerous others set personal bests, as well.
The band kicked into gear, the Ipswich Ale truck cracked its taps, and the food and beer lines grew. Eventually, as the last competitors eased across the line, the after party found its stride-great folks, and great conversation. It was wonderful to see Bill Baker once again, having successfully battled back from brain surgery. His grit and fortitude are legendary. A Blackburn would always be memorable, and starting with Bill’s presence, this year’s event would become one for the history books.
As warranted, the Cape Ann Rowing Club, organizers of the Blackburn and Essex River Races, among others, chooses to induct an individual into the Blackburn Challenge Hall of Fame. Inductees must have completed multiple Blackburns with podium finishes, exhibiting true spirit and determination the likes of which would have made Howard Blackburn proud. This year, Joe Glickman, paddler extraordinaire, published author and celebrated wordsmith, and gregarious ambassador of the surfski world, was selected-a unanimous decision. For those unaware, Joe has taken on another challenge, having been diagnosed with cancer. Always willing to assist a fellow paddler in need of technique advice, or to entertain a crowd via his gift of gab and masterful storytelling, find a circle of folks engaged in laughter, and Joe’s sure to be its epicenter. We flat out love the guy, so much so, that the entire worldwide paddling community has rallied behind him, affixing decals emblazoned with a simple five letter acronym chased by an exclamation mark: ‘O.M.M.F.G.!’ to whatever craft they choose to ply out on the water. ‘One More Mile For Glicker!’ The intent is that, whatever your training distance, at its culmination, you add on one more mile for Joe, thus building a collective, symbolic bank of training miles for him to tap into in his recovery. Clearly, these spiritually symbolic miles worked, by virtue of his performance this day.
Prior to the awards presentations, Bill Kuklinski bestowed upon Glicker his position in the Blackburn Hall of Fame, recounting his numerous competitions, and subsequent victories. Joe approached the microphone and stood tall, in straw hat, shades, and requisite ugly sandals, to say a few. As he spoke, he lifted us all. He spoke of his diagnosis, of the process involved in beating his illness back from whence it came, how much he missed his time in the boat, and how much he missed his time with his friends in the paddling community. He spoke of his trip on Epic’s invitation to return to the Molokai, not as racer, but as spectator. He stressed that you never truly realize the extent to which you miss something, until it’s been taken from you. Most importantly, that this trial focused his lens to clarify what truly mattered, not the individual races or places on the podium, but the circle of friends and family that surround and supported him, creating a community, as opposed to merely a competition.
This paddler was honored to be the recipient of his words. Glancing around at the individuals comprising our paddling community, many eyes glistening with emotion and camaraderie, I numbered myself lucky as well. This may have been perhaps, the best Blackburn of them all.
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