Gazing over the placid waters of the Sakonnet River, it seemed that I had been granted a reprieve. With all of my training thus far done on flatwater, I was hardly ready to compete in any significant ocean conditions – what some traditionalist sticklers might refer to as an “actual surfski race”. I can appreciate the thrill of clutching desperately to the shattered hull of your boat as you’re being swept helplessly out to sea as much as the next person, but as I fade into my twilight years, I find myself welcoming a gentler passage.
With a light wind in our face and the tide in our favor, we’d run the classic out-and-back course 6.25 miles south from McCorrie Beach down the Sakonnet to the turn-around at Third Beach. After the turn, we’d struggle against the tidal current and the increasingly oppressive heat until – about 4 miles later – every last paddler would wonder if this stupid race would ever end and why-oh-why won’t Jesse just pull ahead already and put me out of my misery? I’m pretty sure that’s what the PaddleGuru course description said, anyway.
I miss the old days, when we could just show up and race without having to first suffer through another of Wesley’s Rhode Island timeshare presentations.
We’d been getting increasingly hostile letters from the National Surfski Racing Accreditation Board threatening expulsion unless we starting complying with Subsection 13.C of our licensing charter. With Ben Pigott AWOL and Eric McNett’s dermatologist laying down the law regarding further sun exposure, we’ve been without the requisite shirtless paddler for too many races. I’d have stepped up to the plate, but I’m a bit self-conscious about my “Avoid the Noid” tattoo and the vestigial spiracles. Fortunately, Matt Skeels agreed to descend from the wilds of the Adirondacks to save the day (before knowing that Personal Chafing Devices were mandatory, I’m guessing). A flatwater specialist and newly anointed Epic Expert, Matt would be participating in his first ocean race. Seems that you can’t swing a paddle these days without hitting an Epic Expert, which has resulted in quite the payday for those of us enrolled in Fenn’s generous bounty program.
As usual, during the captain’s meeting I lingered just out of earshot so that I could plead ignorance after cutting the course or violating some other for-squares-only “rule”. Presumably fearing a repeat of my Narrow River performance, Wesley tried to corner me one-on-one afterwards to verify that I could identify the correct turn marker, but I barricaded myself in the port-a-potty until the threat had cleared. To those of you forced to relieve themselves in a bucket while the outhouse was in use, you’re just lucky I hadn’t started my GoPro.
For Tim, race day invariably starts out with breathing exercises and Kegels.
Because Mary Beth didn’t accompany me to the race (something about “needing some time away from those people”), I brought down a discreet quiver of boats. With flat conditions at the starting line and an innocuous forecast for light winds, however, it took only modest prodding from mischievous cohorts to convince me that the V14 was the right boat for the day. Against the likes of Jesse Lishchuk, Eric Costanzo, Matt Nunnally, Matt Drayer, and our newest Matt, I could use every theoretical advantage.
Soon 22 boats were molded into starting formation by Wesley, who wasted no time in setting us off via a rolling start. While I had expected Jesse to surge immediately out in front of the pack, it was Matt Skeels who seized an immediate and commanding lead – apparently attempting to complete a 12.5 mile course in a thousand meters. Over the next few minutes, I worked my way by Wesley, Bruce Deltorchio, and Chris Chappell until I was in clear water.
Chris, remember when time froze for everyone but us, and I wanted to change everybody’s feather angles and rudder alignments, but you argued that rather than taking advantage of the mysterious space-time anomaly for personal gain, we should use the opportunity to clean up the beach or some such goody two-shoes crap, and then we compromised and shaved “Epic Rulz!” into the back of Wesley’s head? That was wild.
While Matt was forging his own path in the steely waters to the right, I looked left to see what appeared to be the entire remaining field strung out in a neat line chasing Jesse. He was pushing the pace, and they craved what he was selling. I could identify Eric Costanzo, Matt Drayer, and Matt Nunnally behind Jesse, but the remaining row of paddlers merged into a kaleidoscope of colors, boats, and paddles. I angled over to join the parade, slotting myself cleanly behind Jesse. I wasn’t exactly sure if a “Thanks, Eric!” or a “Sorry, Eric!” was called for after taking his place, so I settled for the “Eric? Never heard of him.” approach.
You’d have thought Jesse would have been tuckered out from hauling so many paddlers, but he kept steaming ahead at a blistering pace. I soon fell back a boat length or so, but managed to decouple myself from Eric. Matt was flagging up ahead. I initially wasn’t sure if he was surrendering or trying to catch a ride, but given how spryly he jumped on my wash as we reached him a few minutes later, it seemed like he had plenty of fight left in him.
Betsy had to swap in a wide-angle lens to capture the commanding lead that Matt Skeels took in the opening seconds. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols and SurfskiRacing.com)
After another quarter-mile of agonizingly slow gains, I finally managed to close the gap on Jesse and get back on his draft. I was just getting snuggled into my bucket in preparation for a cozy Lishchuk-powered ride to the turn-around, when Jesse eased up for a moment. I wasn’t sure if he was grabbing a drink or urging me to take a pull, but since I didn’t want Matt to pass, I took the lead with only a single put-upon sigh.
On the shoulder of the outgoing tide, we were pushing well over 8 mph, even with a breeze in our faces. Matt soon dropped off, doubtless to attend to his worsening abrasions. Over the next few miles, Jesse and I swapped pulls a couple of times.
As we progressed closer to the mouth of the Sakonnet, the “utterly benign” conditions of the start steadily deteriorated until we were eventually confronted with “extremely mild” conditions – a very light head-on chop. Unfortunately, I’ve only been “mill pond” certified in the V14 (plus a recently added “with ducks (no geese)” supplement). Although I wasn’t in danger of swimming – beyond the baseline probability I assume whenever I get in a ski, naturally – I could feel the power draining out of my stroke. Would the first 3 or 4 miles of flatwater speed be enough to justify my boat choice? Or would the better rough-water paddlers (that is to say, most of the field) make me pay?
Between the Run of the Charles and this race, Jesse and I have spent a lot of time together. Like an old married couple, we sometimes argue about how much to tip the waiter or whether Angela Lansbury is still alive, but mostly we sit together in rueful silence. I haven’t really figured out why he keeps me around. Am I an insurance policy to help him stay ahead of third-party threats by helping with the pulls? A pathfinder guiding him through unfamiliar waters? A gentle reminder of his own mortality? In any event, I appreciate the prestige lent by my sidekick status.
As we approached Third Beach, Jesse and I pulled even so that we could discuss which among the endless field (well, three) of white-and-blue mooring buoys was our turn-around target. Fortunately, I had watched the landmark movie posted by Wesley earlier in the week, and recognized #114 from its searing portrayal of loneliness therein. Once we had made the turn, Jesse and I decided on a trial separation. I wasn’t optimistic about our chances of reconciling before the finish. At some point during the first leg, Matt Nunnally and Eric had passed Matt Skeels, and were now scarcely a couple of minutes back.
With the outgoing tide pushing at least a half-mile per hour against us, you could increase your speed by hugging the shoreline on the way back to McCorrie Point. However, if you religiously tucked into every cove and bay, the extra distance would chew up any advantage in velocity, and a stray rock might just do the same to your hull. Jesse seemed determined to take the straight line home, while I spent the first few miles of the return trip weaving indecisively in an attempt to stumble into the optimal groove. With the sun on our backs and without a cooling headwind, I was starting to feel like a nomad wandering aimlessly in the desert..
Eventually I found a sweet spot, much closer to the shore than I had anticipated. My GPS finally stopped showing sarcastic speeds like “Nope” and “N/A”, although it continued to insist that my heart rate was “Critical”. And don’t get me started on the foolishness it was showing for my elapsed distance. On the positive side, I seemed to be pacing Jesse – pulling even as I slid along the coast in each cove, then dropping back a few lengths when I had to emerge to round a point.
With the with-the-wind heat building to levels capable of melting the sturdiest mettle (or, at least, mine), McCorrie Point couldn’t come soon enough. Jesse and I were abreast of one another, roughly 50 meters apart. I would have to angle out and around the point, while he would have to slant in towards the finish. It would be impossible to out-sprint him on equal terms, but perhaps if I could shorten my distance by… (soft scratching sounds)… cutting tightly… (loud crunch)… around the… (heart-rending scrape)… point… (gentle whisper of waves lapping against grounded boat). Seeing the shallow bar looming, I had tried to lean my rudder out of harm’s way, but in water only a few inches deep, the hull itself was hitting bottom.
Jesse won this race not by finishing before every other paddler, but by… no wait, I’m wrong – that is how he won it. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols and SurfskiRacing.com)
Further from shore, Jesse skirted the shallows and headed to an easy victory as I awkwardly tried to free my ski. Let’s be clear. He absolutely would have won even had my shortcut proven navigable, but as long as I studiously avoid rereading this sentence in the future, I can misremember how only a sandbar stood between me and victory on the Sakonnet. With the help of a marine salvage team, I did manage to free my boat (a few scratches worse for wear) and take silver. Matt Nunnally came in less than 2 minutes later to fill out the top 3, with Eric only a few seconds behind. Despite having virtually no ocean experience, Matt Skeels took 5th place by an easy margin. Joe, Matt Drayer, Tim Dwyer, Kirk Olsen, and Wesley rounded out the top 10 men, while Leslie Chappell took the top women’s spot. Special commendations were awarded to Bob Capellini and Steve DelGaudio for assisting a paddler in discomfort.
I don’t recall much of the post-race festivities. I’m told there was pizza (best in the state, allegedly, although keep in mind that’s also what they say of Narragansett Beer) and a raucous sing-along around the bonfire, but I was too wiped out to join in the revelries. I just crawled under my car and whimpered. Thanks to Wesley and Betsy for throwing another great Sakonnet Race.
You couldn’t ask for a better bunch of folks. I’ve tried, but turns out this is about as good as we can get with our credit rating. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols and SurfskiRacing.com)
Like that dream where you keep running and running but never get anywhere (and also, your fingers are snakes), we’ll be back in Rhode Island on June 18th for the Ride the Bull race. Register today at PaddleGuru. It’s free, but if you’re interested in putting some money down, betting has already started on how many times I’ll be swimming.
Leave A Comment
You must be logged in to post a comment.