Nobody can deny that Rhode Island has a proud history worthy of appreciation. Crafting a full-fledged state out of a forgotten parcel small enough to be written off as a surveying error? A real credit to Yankee ingenuity. Let’s say on that basis that Rhode Island merits a couple of surfski races a year. As the honorary ski capital of the region, it was granted a third race. A coalition of Rhodies greased the right palms and somehow obtained a fourth race. Not quite fair, but you gotta admire their gumption.
Recognizing that no rational paddler would consent to a fifth surfski race in Rhode Island without some additional incentive (what with hapless Connecticut starving right next door), Tim Dwyer sweetened the pot by somehow tricking defending world champion Sean Rice into racing with us. Coincidentally, Tim would also be hosting Sean (and his partner Emily) for two sold-out weekend clinics. Padawan Jesse Lishchuk would also be attending the festivities.
During the captains meeting Sean sized up the competition, but even that didn’t help us.
The weekend’s race was formerly called “Rose Island Lighthouse Battle of the Bay”, but too many people were dozing off before getting to the end. Now it’s just “Battle of the Bay”. We’ll be cutting out 3 more words from the name each subsequent year, so vote now for which one word you’d like to remain next year (I’m throwing my weight behind “Of”) and start thinking about which two words we’ll be removing from the English language when we go negative in 2017.
The course was to be a 5.3 mile loop that would take us across the bay around the north end of Rose Island, through Newport Harbor inside of Goat Island, back across the bay to Clingstone, and returning to the Yacht Club. With some bouncy chop, two busy channel crossings, and the old-money decadence of Newport, we’d experience a full range of conditions in our short journey. To give us ample opportunity to be humbled mid-race by their superior skills, Sean and Jesse would give us more seasoned paddlers a head start (of 5 and 3 minutes, respectively).
Once everyone had met the new kid and listened attentively as Tim reviewed the rudder-shredding perils that awaited us if we failed to keep the rusty steel ball to our right, we paddled out for a start into the quartering waves. True to form, Andrius Zinkevichus and Jan Lupinski took the early lead on parallel tracks. I climbed my way past Wesley, Tim D, and Joe Shaw to move into third position. From there it was a long jump to catch Andrius, but a menacing sailboat provided precisely the boost of terror I needed to bridge the gap.
By the time we reached the rusty steel ball, I had pulled into the lead, with Jan and Andrius trailing by a couple of boat lengths. The run to Goat Island was largely downwind, with some kiddie rides available for a small fee. I noticed Jan well off to my starboard, obviously looking for a way to cut to the front of the line. He didn’t seem to be gaining ground, so I stayed my more direct course.
A quarter mile before reaching Goat Island, Jan slid in unexpectedly from the left and latched onto my port bow wake with an audible click. Apparently he had found the loophole he had been searching for. The champagne and caviar I had packed in expectation of a leisurely sight-seeing cruise through Newport Harbor were going to have to wait. This would be grueling.
Nobody has more naked disdain for stand up paddlers than Tim, so I wasn’t surprised to find that he had scheduled our race to coincide with a SUP race around Goat Island. If we “accidentally” thinned out their herd when we crossed paths, Tim would shed no tears. Jan and I sliced through the lead pack of shuffling water zombies, careful to evade their highly contagious marketing hype so as to avoid finding ourselves balanced precariously on a 14′ slab with a cooler of beer behind us. At our race after-party nobody called me “brah” or “dude”, so it looks like we all made it through unscathed.
Uh-oh. Could be that it’s really Tim’s antiSUPism that’s dangerously infectious.
The trip through Newport Harbor was unexpectedly lucrative. Apparently thinking that nobody would intentionally captain such insubstantial craft (powered by hand levers, no less!), several philanthropically-minded mega-yacht owners took us for beggars and tossed silver dollars and junk bonds into our footwells. Some less compassionate aristocrats threatened to call the gendarmes, however, so I didn’t tarry. In my haste to escape the harbor, I managed to gap Jan.
The beamy waves on the crossing back toward Clingstone meant that I daresn’t chance a peek back to check for stalkers, lest I tumble from my steed (sorry – the Newport influence). As I rounded buoy G11 near Clingstone to turn for home, however, I did catch a glimpse of Jan about a half-minute behind. I searched gropingly for a higher gear, but the grinding sound and cloud of smoke issuing from my transmission indicated that I’d be lucky if I could keep it in first.
Even though Sean had given us a five minute head start, there was little doubt that he would catch me before the finish. Long before I could see him, I felt a reassuring warmth on my back that could only be the aura of approaching greatness. Halfway between G11 and the Yacht Club, the nose of his Uno Max surged into my periphery. I tried to avert my eyes, as we had been taught, but he exploded into my field of view so quickly that I couldn’t shift my gaze in time. The full splendor of the reigning world champion remains imprinted on my retinas (which, I’ll admit, has proven a bit distracting when trying to get a good look at the sun).
Sean offered no words of encouragement as he passed. A simple “Wow! I didn’t know Dawid and Jasper had another brother!” would have been nice. I’m not sure Sean even noticed me. He wasn’t a fellow competitor. This was a steely-eyed pro doing a training session that just happened to coincide with our race. Based on his measured cadence and lack of apparent effort, Sean was warming down by the time he reached me. Of course, this didn’t stop him from streaking by like a well-oiled springbok. I suggested to myself that we hop on Sean’s draft, which had us both rolling in the bucket with laughter.
With tears still in my eyes, I made it back to the Yacht Club a minute or so behind Sean. Although I was the second to cross the finish line, Jesse’s corrected time was more than a minute better than mine, dropping me to the final podium step. Jan and Joe Shaw comprised the rest of the top five (or the mortal top three). Mary Beth once again was in a class by herself.
After lunch at Spinnakers, Tim compelled the top finishers to don inflatable novelty hats (whispering to Sean that it would be perceived as an insult to the natives if he refused) and pose for blackmail photos. Once that indignity was out of the way, Sean was able to start his Saturday clinic at Bay Voyage Beach. Not invited to that particular party, Bruce, Jan, and I leaned back on the grills of our nearby cars and coolly mocked the goody two-shoes students to mask our disappointment and shame.
As always, Mary Beth is blissfully unaware of the mayhem that she leaves in her wake.
Overflowing with energy from the cheese-slathered and bacon-laden sandwich I had wolfed down earlier, I soon made the cholesterol-muddled decision to take another paddle. I was hoping to catch some good runs from the northerly breeze, so I powered five miles through upwind slop (supplemented by a generous helping of wakes from boats passing unnecessarily close) to the end of Conanicut Island. Exhausted by this effort and the morning’s race, my “run” back to Jamestown would better be characterized as a “limply assisted drift”. Fortunately, I eventually washed up to shore close to the Yacht Club. If any oceanographers out there are interested in my GPS track for Narragansett Bay current analysis, let me know.
We congregated at Tim’s for a post-clinic relaxation session on his front porch, where Sean and Emily graciously fielded an endless barrage of questions about their travels, other elite-level paddlers, and what it’s like to hike unassisted across Siberia. I’m not convinced that Joe Shaw knew exactly who Sean was. We then enjoyed a delicious dinner cooked up by Alyce, Gaelyn, and Tim, supplemented by a work-of-art salad provided by Tim Hudyncia (from his under-appreciated Early Quinoa period) and chowder lovingly made by Bob Wright from unsuspecting clams he wrested himself from the fetid inter-tidal sludge of Jamestown (when you put it that way, I’ll have another serving!).
Saturday’s clinic focused mainly on posing for group pictures. Don’t worry guys – you’ll get it someday.
Urged on by the rapt dinner audience, Sean regaled us with incredible stories of paddling from around the world. It’s tough to one-up a tale that involves getting bitten on the face by a seal during a Miller’s Run, but we all gave it our best shot. I thought my story of a particularly yappy little dog harassing me from his yard when I was out for a jog was the winner, but there was some push-back on that front. Agree to disagree. We concurred, however, that the South Africans were enthralling dinner guests.
Once Sean and Emily had retired/escaped for the night, Tim fired up the Apple TV so that we could binge on videos of surfski races and platform tennis matches (thanks Alyce – I was starting to feel seasick). For those of you unfamiliar with the latter, I recommend a visit to the Platform Tennis Hall of Fame site, where you can read about the daring exploits of Buffy Briggs, Flip Goodspeed, and Mortimer “Mojo” Jonglemeister III (I may have made that last one up). Eventually the rigors of the day came to collect their toll, and the remaining overnight guests turned in.
Sean checked each of us to make sure everything was hunky-dory. Chris’ foot plates were angled incorrectly and his cockpit was over-padded. But his boat was fine.
Serenaded awake by the early morning foghorns of Narragansett Bay (at about 4am), we gathered in the Dwyer kitchen. After a groggy breakfast of scrambled garlic (the key is to add just a dash of egg) and bagels, the sleep-over crew was reinforced with new recruits for the morning’s clinic at Fort Wetherill. After an hour or so of on-land instruction, we would hit the unpredictable waters of the Ride the Bull course for more advanced training. I received some practical set-up advice from Sean in the first part of the session – move my GPS to a higher position (so that I’m not always looking down), tighten my PFD straps (because otherwise I “look like a hobo”), and stop wearing the same shorts for every paddle (because otherwise I “smell like a hobo”). Fortunately, I managed to hide my lucky bindle before he got started on that too.
Tim and I had spent weeks choreographing our ski dance, but even the big finish failed to impress Sean. I guess once you’ve seen Hank MacGregor and Oscar Chalupsky perform Swan Lake on the water, you get a little jaded.
Unexpectedly mild conditions meant that our on-water work was largely concentrated on trying to keep lined up abreast so that we could properly see Sean. He walked us through several useful drills and exercises (that’s how miraculously good he is), provided valuable training insights, and provided feedback on our individual strokes. I wasn’t aware that itinerant train hoppers had a characteristic paddling style, but I apparently share it. The day after the clinic I tried one of the interval sessions that Sean had recommended. The sheer brutality of this workout made me quit surfskis and take up knitting. Does anyone know some merciless purling drills that might traumatize me back onto the water?
All too soon, the clinic was over. Sean and Emily couldn’t have been nicer folks, nor the Dwyer family better hosts (I’ll give them a pass on the foghorns). It was a truly memorable weekend. I can’t wait to see what the Rhode Islanders have up their sleeves to promote a sixth race next season!
Sean and I bonded on an emotional level that transcends the $20 I slipped him to stand next to me in the photo.
For those of you wondering how you’re going to fill your time before the next open water race in late September, why not head to the Great Stone Dam Classic in Lawrence on September 13? It helps fund a great cause, Francisco Urena (one-time local paddling legend, currently not-so-local real-world legend) is co-chair, and shark attacks are exceedingly rare. Turtles… that’s another story.
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