As you may recall, last year’s inaugural Casco Bay Challenge was more like a chapter from the Odyssey than a ski race. We wandered aimlessly through a boundless oblivion, arriving an eternity later on the other side of the bay, astounded to find that only a few hours had passed in the living world. This year’s trip promised to be somewhat less mythic, with clear conditions and a moderate breeze from the south helping us along. It turns out that Casco Bay is more than just a featureless gray expanse (if you at the Maine Tourist Board want to use that, please feel free). There are islands, lighthouses, lobster pots, and the other picturesque trappings of our 43rd state (I think there may have been some kind of filing error). I was disappointed to not see any moose, but they must have been foraging in the deep.
Matt getting prepped on the beach. PFD? Check. Hydration system? Check. Banana? Che… Hey, which one of you ski monkeys ate my banana?
As we flocked on the beach before the race, our typical ski family was joined by members of a different feather, many of whom migrated up from the DC area. Starting this year, Casco Bay is part of the ECORA (East Coast Outrigger Association) point series. As a result, we were joined by seven or eight of these winged monstrosities. Although we’ve been raised from childhood to mistrust and fear outrigger paddlers (Eric and Rod excluded), it turns out they’re just like us. Only asymmetric. And constantly chattering gibberish about amas and iakos. We forgive them these shortcomings, however, and welcome them with open arms. Now SUPs… that’s another story.
The islands of Casco Bay are mostly aligned along a southwest-to-northeast axis, arranged in such a way that we would be gently guided by these isles across the bay from Fisherman’s Beach in South Portland to far-off Mere Point Landing. From Google satellite photos, the correct path is apparent. From a lower Earth orbit – say 2 feet above the globe’s surface – it can be a little trickier. Prior to the race, Eric had provided us with detailed maps and GPS waypoints. He supplemented this info with a captain’s meeting in which he blathered on about staying to the left of this and the right of that. Since I had my GPS, I was sure I’d be fine.
This is exactly why I stopped going to the beach.
As those who have raced with Eric know, he doesn’t like to be more than a boat’s length away from shore. I’m not sure if it’s because he fears the inky depths or because he’s got irritable bowel syndrome (in which case open seas would be his Waterloo, I suppose). In any event, I expect this aversion to the ocean explains why we started the race only six feet off the beach. This led to the awkward spectacle of surfskis and outriggers attempting to back into the starting line after warming up. I was just able to make out the starting whistle over all the beeping, and we were off.
Francisco rabbited off the line to a quick lead before settling into a more maintainable cadence. Although ostensibly the wind should be helping us, the first half mile was characterized by mildly confused conditions with the occasional random boat wake thrown in. After this, we entered the downwind section of the race, which would last to the finish (albeit against a reluctant tide, especially in the last few miles). After some jockeying, I pulled into a modest lead. Francisco fell back while Eric maintained his distance several lengths behind but well off to my left. With Borys lollygagging somewhere behind me, I was forced to do my own navigation. Not that following Borys is necessarily a good idea.
Our course through the first 3 miles was pretty clear, after which we emerged into an open expanse to the inside of Long and Chebeague Islands. Eric had told us that we were to keep the smokestacks on Cousins Island to our left (note to future world dictator self – avoid building industrial blights in middle of glorious bays). Or perhaps it was to our right. One of those, I was pretty sure. I consulted my GPS, but it displayed a screen that showed only the words “off course”. I’d occasionally throw glances back to check on Eric’s trajectory, although this strategy was becoming more difficult as I managed to put some distance between us. I was catching some respectable rides. Based on my increasingly infrequent Eric sightings, I correctly reckoned that we were to stay right of Cousins Island.
Borys, who I soon spotted back several dozen boat lengths far off to my right, inevitably caught and passed me about 8 miles into the race. He then proceeded to turn to the left, crossing my path and heading, with purpose, off what I had taken to be the rails. Shouldn’t we be keeping to the right of the upcoming islands? I couldn’t manage to spot Eric behind me to confirm my course.
Like a compass over an iron ore deposit, Borys’ heading was swinging wildly from thataway to thither. Since I couldn’t take my bearings from an unreliable navigator, I decided to bite the bullet and try my GPS again. Sure enough, I was “off course”. Helpful. I tried randomly pressing buttons on the Garmin, but that only made it angry. Finally, after consulting the Chilton GPS repair manual, phoning a friend, and renouncing several of my lesser vices (I’m gonna miss those YouTube kitten videos), I was rewarded with a display showing my actual and intended paths.
It turned out that I was only marginally off course. I banked to the right (a close call) then angled over (another close call) to the correct line. Borys, who was periodically checking back to see if I knew anything he didn’t, mirrored my corrections (minus the close calls). It was at about this time that I hazarded a glance back myself to see how my lead over Eric was holding up. With my eyes focused on the distant horizon in search of him, it took me several seconds to register that the blurry white blob that frustratingly kept obscuring the horizon was actually Eric’s Epic. I blinked him into clarity (you’re welcome) and let off an involuntary shriek. The guy I thought I had dropped 5 miles back was only a handful of boat lengths back. In my boat, at least, nobody was happy with the reemergence of Eric.
One eye on my GPS route and the other firmly fixed at its peripheral limit in search of a surging Eric, I pitched myself forward. Well, “pitched” may give the groundless impression that there was great speed involved. Tossed might be a better term. Let’s go with lobbed. As a matter of fact, let’s drop the throwing analogy completely and leave it with me making a marginal degree of extra forward progress. Ten minutes later, I figured my Nolan Ryan-like efforts had paid off. Eric surely was little more than a fading memory. It was at this point that I spotted him at least 20 boat lengths ahead of me off to the left. I was too dumfounded to even rend my garments in frustration and rage.
Turns out this saved me having to needlessly replace my Mocke vest and favorite paddling T-shirt (True story – only short-sleeve shirt I’ve worn on a ski since 2011. Scares off the competition.). It wasn’t Eric. It wasn’t even a surfski. Or a kayak. It was a little Boston Whaler. I’m not sure how exactly I momentarily mistook one for the other, but in my defense, Eric is pretty wily.
Lest my hallucination become premonition, I tried to push hard through the next few miles. I hit the wall hard during this time, but a liberal application of power gel to my face really seemed to help. We had been told that once you enter Mere Point Bay, there was hardly a kilometer left to the finish at the pier of the Mere Point Boat Launch. With the ebbing tide now working against us (with ebbing muscles not helping the matter), I seemed to be catching little runners, but my GPS was stubbornly refusing to show a respectable speed. On the positive side, I was relieved to find that I was finally “on course”. I might not finish strong, but at least I would know where to tell the 911 operator I was.
You should see the other guy…
The pier at the finish line was visible from several hundred meters out, which is right where it stayed for, oh, about three lifetimes. Eventually, by closing my eyes for twenty strokes at a time, I was able to sneak up on it and complete the race. Borys was already on shore doing his interviews, of course. Eric pulled in shortly after me for third, followed by Matt Drayer and Peter Kahn. Beata finished sixth overall to top the women’s race. Once the remaining paddlers were all accounted for (a much simpler proposition this year), we retired for snacks and awards.
Thanks to Eric and family (with an assist given to the lingering high pressure system, the month of June, and Adventurous Joe Coffee) for a spectacular day in Maine.
The Blackburn is upon us. Tremble.
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