The weather for the final race of the season went off-script, ad-libbing uncooperative winds and a light but steady rain. Despite the gloomy day that lacked proper downwind conditions, 25 skis, a rowing shell, and 3 SUPs gathered at Long Sands Beach in Maine for one last grab at fame, glory, and riches. Eric may have oversold the race in that regard (not a single reporter, for example, and an embarrassing lack of laurel wreathes), but nobody seemed too disappointed in the end.
While on the topic of disappointment, though… We discovered at the race that Borys and Beata won’t be joining us next season. Having put in their time in the minors (and in the winters), they’re being called up to The Show. They’ll be moving to Hawaii in December. Based on their extra-human abilities, I’ve questioned whether these two are native to our planet, but since they haven’t once tried to enslave us or eat our faces, I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. Worst case – they came in peace. Despite their dominant performances over the years, Beata and Borys have competed with humility and good humor. They’ve also been relentlessly patient and helpful with slower paddlers (that is to say, all of us). I’m excited for them in their new adventure, and anxious to see what they’ll be able to accomplish with year-round training in the Pacific. But I’m sure going to miss paddling with them. I’d wager I’m not alone in that.
Our three-time champions. And some homeless guy with a head wound who wandered into the shot.
Given that we weren’t going to get much of a downwind regardless of which way we ran the course, the consensus was that we should save ourselves the shuttle and just run a loop course from Long Sands. With that easy consensus out of the way, we commenced a vigorous debate over the substitute course. Charts appeared and candidate routes were plotted. Twigs, fingers, and what appeared to be a Dollar Tree discount card were recruited as crude measuring devices. Alliances were formed and then broken with bitter tears. Like an old-time political primary, we went through 34 ballots before a winning course was selected. Fifteen minutes later, a powerful lobbying group convinced Eric to ignore the plebiscite (my high school nickname, oddly enough) and select a shorter course. That’s the way things work in both the halls of power and the shores of leisure.
We’d start out going around Nubble Light off the north end of Long Sands, then head south to a large can marking the entrance to York Harbor, then back for another nibble at Nubble, then back home to Long Sands. The course would be between 4 and 23 miles, depending on who was making the measurement (if you had 9.1 miles in the pool, you’re the winner!). As the light rains and slight northerly winds continued, we lined up for an on-water start. Eric called out the 2 minute warning, followed 10 seconds later by the 1 minute warning. Several seconds after this, we were off. My hopes that the entire race would follow Eric’s accelerated pace were soon dashed as time stubbornly resumed its habitual cadence. Maybe even slower than usual.
Andrius Zinkevichus and Jan Lupinski jumped out to an early lead. My strategy was to let them get ahead at the start, then slowly ease myself back so far that I’d finish just ahead of them in next year’s race. We’ll have to wait to see how that plays out. Mario Blackburn, a newcomer from Quebec with a long history in marathon canoeing, settled into third place in his black V14, pulling Eric and me, with Bruce Deltorchio off to my right. From time to time, I’d see other skis nose into my peripheral view but I found that if I pretended they weren’t there, they’d eventually go away. Mary Beth has tried that approach with me for years, with far less success.
“Bruce and the Nubble” – one of my favorite bed-time stories growing up.
Halfway to the Nubble, Borys decided to start using both paddle blades and slipped past Mario. Eric jumped on his wash and also pulled away, but I couldn’t match their power. As we got closer to the lighthouse, Mario dropped off a bit, Matt Drayer panned himself into view, and Bruce advanced slightly ahead with a disturbingly relaxed stroke. Up until that point, I had been wondering (patronizingly – sorry Bruce) how long he would be able to keep up. I was now realizing that it would be more appropriate for him to be wondering that of me.
Coming around the back of the Nubble about 10 yards off shore, I spotted a rock awash up ahead and several feet to my left, called it out to warn others, then did my level best to smash into it. At the last second I lost my nerve, tilted the ski on edge in an attempt to save my rudder, and skimmed over the shoal with only millimeters to spare. Tim Dwyer, who had a good view of the terrifying incident, told me afterwards that he saw my whole life flash before his eyes, and that as a school psychologist, he’d be happy to offer his counseling services. Immediately afterwards, always-helpful Matt rafted alongside to help stabilize my now-swamped boat. What’s that, Matt? What kind of so-and-so swerves wildly in front of someone and then slows to a crawl? OK, I will get out of your way, but I take some issue with your characterization of me as a “toothless hillbilly”.
Many a vessel has ended its days on the Subnubble.
Up until this point, my race had been going according to plan (excepting the rock incident – I had initially outlined a right tilt avoidance maneuver). Borys, Jan, Andrius, and Eric were already out of reach, but I had expected that they’d all beat me. I was gunning for 5th place. As we headed downwind towards the can at the mouth of York Harbor, I was running in a loose pack that consisted of Bruce, Tim, Matt, Beata, Joe Shaw, and Mike McDonough. All I had to do was outlast these folks.
This was not to be. Although I was physically sound and working hard, everything about my stroke felt wrong. I had a bad case of spaghetti paddle – I couldn’t deliver any power through my noodle, particularly on the left. I became convinced that my feather angle was screwy, despite repeated pauses to verify that it wasn’t. Despite my best efforts, I could only watch helplessly as my herd abandoned its weakest member, heartlessly immune to my plaintive bleating.
About halfway to the can, Ken Cooper caught me. The wolf was ostensibly in a V8 at the time, but all those Epics look alike. I suspect that he spent the previous night transferring stickers. Although he threatened to pull away completely, over the next mile I managed to stay within shouting distance (I know because I could still hear his snarling taunts from up ahead). As we approached the can, I cobbled together a few runs and passed Ken just before the turn. Coming around the can, it looked to be Borys, Jan, Andrius, Eric, Tim, Beata, Mike, Bruce, Joe, and Matt – with the last six paddlers grouped within about 15 lengths of one another.
Given that I had passed him before the Nubble, I was a bit confused to see Mario well ahead on an inside line after the turn. A lot of us have a quiver of skis for different conditions, but Mario may be the first to notch up multiple boats in the same race. With limited ocean experience, a mile into the course he found his V14 to be too unstable, so he returned to the start, swapped into his V10, and met up with the pack returning from the York can to log some additional open-water time. A DNF, of course, but a DNF with style.
My stroke felt much better heading upwind. With Ken on my draft, I was slowly cutting the distance to Matt and Mike (whose outside line seemed to be working against him). I got to within 3 or 4 lengths of Mike, but that was it. I didn’t have enough in reserve to close the deal. First Mike started to drift away, then Ken pulled around me and I was alone. I told myself that once I rounded the Nubble, I’d throw down an incredible sprint to reel them back in over the final mile, but I practically got laughed out of the boat for giving voice to that delusion. I can’t say that my feelings weren’t hurt, but I’m growing accustomed to such disrespect.
There’s a small park at the tip of Cape Neddick from which tourists amass and stare dead-faced at Nubble Light. As I rounded the Nubble to enter the final stretch back to Long Sands, I was greeted (such as it was) by these impassive sentinels. I couldn’t help but feel that they were judging my progress. That for earlier racers they had cheered enthusiastically, but for me they were following their mothers’ advice and not saying anything at all. And also glaring. I couldn’t get through the Nubble Straight quickly enough. Which, of course, proved their point.
The protected stretch to the finish was slightly more than a mile. I started my delusional sprint, but it was soon apparent that I was actually losing ground to the paddlers up ahead. I was soundly beaten, but I resolved to finish with a strong stroke and head held high. A few minutes later, I decided that the strong stroke part of that resolve was really not that critical. A proud bearing should be sufficient to convey my moral fortitude in the face of failure. It didn’t take much longer for me to abandon that rationalization. It’s hard to look dignified when you’re moaning, hunched over from exhaustion, and throwing panicked looks over your shoulder to see if you can hold on long enough to keep from dropping another position.
Borys had closed out his New England career like he came into it – screaming and tightly swaddled in blankets. And atop both the race and season charts. Jan and Andrius, unfairly fit and just returned from their 3rd place K2 finish in the 45-49 age group at the world marathon championships, took the second and third spots. Eric, Tim, Bruce, Beata, Joe, Mike, and Matt filled out the remaining top ten positions. Ken finished 11th overall in his V8 to win the SS20+ division.
The top three finishers. Without an accent, you’re nothing in this sport.
Disappointed by finishing the season in such lackluster fashion, I sulked grumpily until the awards. The fact that nobody seemed to notice makes me think that I may need to work a little on my everyday demeanor. After the race awards, Borys and Beata were presented with their New England Surfski season championship cups for the third year running (having already walked off with the SurfskiRacing.com titles back at L2L). They’ve been winning going away since they first started racing with us, so it’s apt that they’re now going away winning.
The end of season raffle, supported by Adventurous Joe Coffee and Epic, saw half the paddlers walk away with some type of goodie. I managed to deftly weave my way through the prize field without hitting any gold mines. Bill Kuklinski took home the biggest jackpot of the day – an old-style blue-tip V10 as indestructible as his spirit (although I fear Kirk will take that statement as a challenge).
Another open-water season is now in the books. We’re all one year closer to hanging up our paddles for good. A younger generation is nipping at our heels. Winter approaches. See you next year!
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