Narrow River Race: Seriously Soggy

In its 8 years of existence, the Narrow River Race has grown from a thinly-attended ragtag affair to Rhode Islands’ preeminent shallow-water surfski competition. Jointly hosted by Wesley Echols and Tim Dwyer, hardly a paddler in New England doesn’t have a hair-raising tale of adventure on this treacherous river. I myself spent the better part of a month stranded on a mid-river sandbar a couple of years back, surviving only on quahogs and gel packs.

Rhode Island’s recently unveiled tourism campaign (“You’ll come for the volcanoes, hot springs, and hákarl, you’ll stay because you’re stuck thigh deep in the mud of our tidal rivers!”) was apparently a resounding success. A record twenty paddlers braved the elements on a rainy Saturday morning, vowing to get as sodden as necessary in an effort to beat the Narrow River. Women paddlers were particularly well-represented, with Leslie Chappell, Jenifer Kreamer, and Carly Tillotson (on a SUP) joining habitual masochist Mary Beth.

The Narrow River is a sinuous inlet of Narragansett Bay that provides sheltered waters nearly ideal for abnormally short-legged wading birds and frugal retirees who thought stainless steel was a bit too extravagant for their knee replacements. Amateur local historian Bob Wright assures me that in bygone days, the river was lined with repair shops configured to overhaul schooners, brigs, barques and all other manner of sailing vessels. Unfortunately, captains preferred to send their boats to more accessible shipyards in the White Mountains. As a result, the destitute families of the Narrow River shipwrights were forced to survive on quahogs and agar slurries.

Early April weather in this area can be unpredictable, and the conditions for this year’s race may have been no exception. Who can tell? In any event, with temperatures in the mid 40s and drenching showers, I had half a mind to write a strongly worded complaint to Sigmundur Gunnlaugsson (and what the hell are the odds that this joke [sic] would be rendered obsolete between the time I started and finished writing this report). Between getting outfitted in the rain before the race and de-outfitted after, everything I own is now covered in mildew.

Due to a shifting sandbar at the mouth of the river that would have necessitated a true overland journey to complete the normal course, Wesley and Tim carefully plotted out an alternative that would lengthen our early season agony to 11 miles. It’s that kind of dedication to craft that makes these two the consummate sadists. We’d head downriver, turn around a mid-stream piling after 1.25 miles, paddle back the way we came, pass the start, continue up the winding river to where it widens into a small lake, turn on an orange buoy at the northern end of that lake, then reverse the entire process (including the downstream piling turn). Seemed simple enough when Wesley ran us through it, but would one of the inexperienced first-timers manage to botch it up?

Wesley: Impassioned. Bruce: Rapt. Matt: Contemplative. Mike: Uh… Stoned?

In attempt to gin up a little extra speed by paying for it rather than earning it (and they say we need to make America great again!), I bought a V14 late last season. This was to be my first race on this flat-water thoroughbred, although I had put in quite a few training hours learning how to remount and practicing my crop technique. Settling into the bucket, I adjusted my pogies, then slipped on those mitten-like hand protectors (what those are called again?). As we warmed up, the steady rain intensified to a vigorous downpour. What luck! With the extra precipitation, the river might just be moist enough to keep lighter paddlers afloat.

Wesley soon corralled us into position, then counted us down to the start. Apparently many of the other paddlers had only recently roused themselves from hibernation (and I think Kirk might have still been semi-comatose), since my habitually sluggish start seemed positively sprightly in comparison. I figured Mike Dostal, Ben Pigott, and Chris Chappell would be out of the gate like rabid polecats, and they didn’t disappoint. Seeing no reason to get mixed up in that pack of snarling mayhem, I was content to scamper up to fourth position within the first couple hundred meters. After a few more minutes, I was able to overtake Chris. From a safe distance off to one side, of course.

Ben was now pulling lead, with Mike off his starboard quarter. With an effort that left me wondering whether my insurance premiums were fully paid up, I managed to pull onto Mike’s wash. Never having raced in the V14, I had also never drafted with it. Maybe the shallow water was exacerbating the wake turbulence, or perhaps Mike had fitted his boat with that asymmetrical vortex generator I had seen him tinkering with before the race, but I found myself bouncing around like a monkey at a Bananarama concert (still waiting on that reunion tour, ladies). Throwing brace strokes left and right, I struggled fruitlessly to calm my steed. It quickly became apparent that I wasn’t going to remain in an upright posture if I stayed behind Mike, so I peeled off to the starboard and nestled into a side draft.

With Ben pulling us through the shallows leading into the first turn, I shouted out a few helpful navigational tips to ingratiate myself with our hard-working leader, all the while plotting my strategy to overthrow his oppressive reign (after all, he hadn’t asked if we were satisfied with his speed, nor offered us any refreshments). A quarter mile before the turn, I gave the signal to Mike. In retrospect, I probably should have apprised him of our joint insurrection. As it was, my call of “Sic semper tyrannis!” was met with what I can only describe as confused indifference.

The mind-blowing effort required to catch Ben and Mike reduced my head to little more than a diffuse blob. It coalesced later, but I’m not happy with the results.

Left without a wing-man, I pulled smoothly out front… into four inches of water. The quicksand-like bottom threatened to suck the paddle out of my grasp as I struggled to adapt my stroke to the thin layer of liquid I now found myself balanced on. While Ben had followed me onto the same shoal, Mike had remained in navigable waters and pulled past us – his paddle decadently submerged to the throat on each stroke.

Finally freeing myself from the viscous grip of the sludge, I managed to get on the new leader’s starboard draft. As we approached the right side of the turn-around piling (marked, as Wesley had promised, with a warning for kayaks to stay safely to the left of the piling), I swung wide to negotiate the U-turn while Mike attempted a tighter pivot. On the far side of the pilings, ours paths merged and we briefly attempted to occupy the same space at the same time. If we remember anything from high school physics about the Pauli exclusion principle, it’s that Pauli had the kick-ass first name of Wolfgang. And perhaps something about the same-space/same-time thing being frowned upon. Something had to give. Rather than quibble about who had the “right of way” or the “moral high ground”, let’s instead concentrate on who had the “momentum”. Me.

I skidded past Mike, completed the turn, and moved into the lead. I would never look back…

OK, so that’s not even remotely true. Mike stayed on my tail for a few minutes before I was able to put some distance between us, but he’s not a paddler to turn your back on. That makes for a real awkward stroke, though, so I had to settle for throwing nervous glances over my shoulder every few moments. Several days later, I’m still finding it hard to break that habit.

The trip upstream was notable mostly for the disorienting strength of the tidal current working against me (and, with some luck, everybody else). How could so little water be diluting my GPS speed by so much? On the positive side, the current tended to even out the notorious depth variations in the Narrow River – either you were in the deeper channel where the tide was your damned-if-you-do enemy, or you were in the shallows with the damned-if-you-don’t suck-water instead limiting your headway. You were being bled dry either way, but I took some comfort in the steadiness of the drip-drip-drip.

With the widening of the river at the north end of the course, the twin tormentors released their grip and I finally started to feel less anemic. My speed increasing to a more palatable level, I plotted a course up the center of the lake and started searching for the turn buoy. Three-quarters of the way up the pond, I began to get nervous. There was no sign of a buoy. What if I alone missed the turn while the rest of the field slipped stealthily back downriver behind me? I broke into a cold sweat at the prospect of blowing my lead. Probably. It was difficult to tell with all the warm perspiration and cold rain.

And then… I spotted a white sphere bobbing off to the left. We had been promised that the turn buoy would be orange and that it would be at the far end of the lake. This particular marker was neither, but that seemed increasingly less important as a decision loomed. I maintained my line, frantically scanning for a buoy further on that shared at least some of the properties that Wesley had described. At last, I decided that “floating” constituted a pretty darned good match. I veered abruptly to the left and turned on the mooring buoy.

Orange buoy. Check. End of lake. Check. Half-coalesced head. Check.

When you’re in the lead, you’re usually absolved for crazy changes in course and other ill-advised maneuvers (see “Trump, Donald”). Nevertheless, I was relieved to see Mike and Ben follow in my misguided footsteps. I’m told the entire field traced this path, although many saw the error of my way. I had inadvertently cut a half-mile off the course, for which the race directors later sanctioned me but graciously allowed me to retain all earnings. In an unrelated matter – Bill, I’m still waiting on your check.

With the tide now working in my favor and a rudimentary mental map of the meanderings of the channel, the trip back down the river was a blur. Mostly because of the growing pain and fatigue. As I passed the starting line again, I weighed my options. If I quickly turned my boat around and hunched over in a (wholly feigned, of course) posture of extreme exhaustion – perhaps with some theatrical groaning thrown in – could I convince the next paddler that I had just finished before he came around the corner? I did some quick calculations on my fingers (metaphorically – with those neoprene mittens on, I might as well be counting on my pogies). No good. I’d have a difficult time selling a winning margin of 20-some minutes. Ruefully, I committed to actually paddling the final 2.5 miles.

Having learned my lesson the first time through, as I approached the shallows that had threatened to strand me and Ben earlier I tried a slip-and-slide approach from my childhood. Having built up a head of steam, I threw myself headlong towards the shoal in the hopes that my boat would skim frictionlessly over the thin membrane of water. Not an unqualified success, but at least this time I didn’t end up bottom-less in the neighbor’s yard.

I negotiated the final turn without difficulty (same place, different time – thanks, Wolfgang!) and headed for home. Having to slog back against the tide for the final mile was a slap in the face, but at least this roused me from my weary torpor. And restored me to my natural state of prickly irritation. I figure if you’re not blaspheming when you cross the finish line, you can’t even call it racing (although when in Rhode Island, cursing Echols or Dwyer is an acceptable alternative/supplement). Suffice it to say, I’m not expecting any divine intervention the next time I’m in a foxhole. Nor any Christmas cards from Tim or Wesley.

After finishing, I had just enough time to start shivering uncontrollably when Mike, Mike, and (I’m pretty sure) Mike pulled in to collectively take second. A veritable host of Bens filled out the crowded podium a short while later. The remaining members of the top ten were Chris, Bruce Deltorchio, Joe Shaw (in a K-1), Tim Hudyncia, Tim Dwyer, Matt Drayer, and Wesley. Leslie took the women’s title, with Mary Beth second and Jen opting for the abbreviated 8 mile course. Carly swept the SUP division.

By this point, I was probably sleeping it off under the table.

Once we had exchanged our soaked paddling outfits for our dampened civilian duds, most of us headed over to the Oak Hill Tavern to work on reconstructing everyone’s finish time. I can’t be sure, but I think I also might have heard someone talking about boats.

The mercifully short Run of the Charles is next on the agenda up here in New England, but best of luck to those escaping the icy grip of Spring to race at the Shark Bite Challenge on Saturday. Bring back some glory.