The Nahant Bay Cup traditionally marks a break in the summer surfski season. The savvy paddler will collect enough momentum in Mike McDonough’s race to carry him or her into the September races, coasting smoothly over the doldrums of late August. The rest of us just thrash around in Nahant Bay until we find ourselves beached in Swampscott, panting heavily and praying that some good Samaritan doesn’t try to push us back to sea.
Mike told us we should head “over their” and then “down they’re” and then “back to hear”. I would’ve corrected his spelling, but I didn’t want to be that guy.
Say what you like about Mike (and there’s been a lot said since he hasn’t been around to stop us), you can’t deny that when it comes to energetic pointing during a captains meeting, he stands alone. We, the nearly-blinded, have learned our lesson. With Nahant Bay as his canvas, Mike finger-painted a course for us in emphatic strokes. With an anemic zephyr from the southeast forecast to quicken to a hearty gale by the afternoon, he sketched a new route in the hopes of introducing a bracing downwind leg. From the pier at Fisherman’s Beach, we’d head across Nahant Bay for 2.5 miles to Egg Rock, then turn back into the bay to a cluster of orange buoys off of Red Rock Park, roughly 2.5 miles downwind from the island. We’d then reverse our course, ending on the beach adjacent to the starting pier. After a few extra jabs at the sky for good measure, Mike commanded us to storm (off) the beach with one final, imperious gesture.
At this point, Dave is more drink tube than man.
After a brief warm-up, an orderly start broke out off the end of the pier. A lead group consisting of Eric Constanzo, Andrius Zinkevichus, and Chris Chappell quickly pulled ahead of the field. A half mile into the race, I caught the trio and filed a formal petition to join their ranks. Admissions officer Chris told me (exclusively via non-verbal cues) they’d get back to me in 6 to 8 weeks with a decision. And that this decision would definitely be that I “go to Hell”. Having already visited that infernal region at last week’s broiling USCA Nationals, I wasn’t so keen on returning (although I hear it’s much nicer in late October, what with most of the demons on earth-side holiday). Fortunately, I had toughened myself against rejections through a rigorous acclimatization program in high school (with some follow-on university training), allowing me to shake off this latest brush-off with a minimum of tears.
I had little choice but to forge ahead on my own. This hadn’t worked out so well at the Narrow River Race, where I led the entire field around an improvised course, but that was a tricky “straight line in a tiny river situation”. Here I’d only have to locate a small set of buoys in four square miles of choppy ocean. I was optimistic. Mike had provided us with a landmark to key off of after rounding Egg Rock – a Christian Science church in Lynn with a white steeple and a pastor who answers to the name of “Snoopy” (a result of which is that his dog, the disastrously named “Reverend McAllister”, ends up officiating a lot of weddings). Fun fact: The fall that would set Mary Baker Eddy on the path to founding Christian Science happened in Lynn. They still haven’t fixed that pothole.
I wasn’t sure exactly what was happening, but all of a sudden, everyone started paddling. (Photo courtesy of Chun Yang)
I couldn’t quite make out the denomination from Egg Rock, but I was 90% sure that I was lined up with the right steeple. When I eventually saw the parson relieving himself on the front lawn of the church, I knew I was in business. After poking around the offshore area a little, I spotted the turn buoys. Having enjoyed a pleasant downwind ride, I wasn’t looking forward to the grind back to the Rock. Surveying the stream of skis still making their way to the turn, I took some solace in the fact that I had a decent lead over Andrius, who appeared to be in second place. For the next couple miles, I bounced my way back upwind.
Absorbed daydreaming about how I would spend the award money (torn between a V10 GT and cosmetic surgery to finally get rid of my fingernails), it took a few moments to register the surfski up ahead and to the left. Must be in a different race, I figured initially. Probably the Swampscott Ski Shootout or the Nahant Paddle Paradox. But hold on a second, that looks like Eric. Didn’t he start out in our race? So much for loyalty! Wait, though. Eric wasn’t wearing the mandatory Shootout safety goggles (and didn’t appear to have a paint gun). And the Paradox only allows paddlers older than the median age of the field. I was relieved that Eric wasn’t two-timing us, but appalled at the prospect of a continued life with keratin-tipped fingers.
Our paths merged just as we reached Egg Rock, with Eric perhaps a dozen boat lengths ahead. I had chased that New Jersey devil down at the start of the race, but that was in relatively flat water. With a decided edge in downwind conditions (which we’d see again after Egg Rock), catching Eric would be like bottling greased lightning – messy, painful, and likely to induce heart failure. Fortunately, the confused conditions behind Egg Rock didn’t sit too well with his new V14, allowing me to halve the gap before we cleared the island.
Rounding Egg Rock in the reflective chop can be quite disorienting. It’s the surfski equivalent of that old college game where you blindfold someone and spin them around a few times before shaving their head and leaving them naked in the woods. Now that I think of it, I never did hear back from the brothers at Alpha Sigma Sigma. Emerging on the north side of the island, I carefully assessed my navigational options. Failing to reach a consensus as to where to aim on the extended shoreline ahead, I decided to just follow Eric. If I caught him, perhaps we could pool our ignorance to make some shared bad course decisions.
Eric was charting a path that was roughly 30 degrees to the right of the prevailing wind for me, but seemingly dead downwind for him. I can’t say I understand this conundrum, but the evidence was overwhelming. I was zigzagging madly at 100% effort trying to catch Eric, while he rode a razor straight line, lazily dipping a paddle blade in the water from time to time. It didn’t seem fair, but the scales of cosmic justice are notoriously biased in favor of the skilled. Despite working from such a disadvantage, I was slowly closing the gap between us.
When I finally caught Eric, he immediately expressed concerns that we had turned on different buoys at the halfway point. This made some sense, given that we hadn’t seen each other until we got back to Egg Rock. Perhaps we were in different races after all. If so, he was the clear leader of the very exclusive Costanzo Invitational. I was pretty confident that I had rounded the McDonough-sanctioned buoy cluster, and had witnessed many of the other paddlers headed the same way. I suggested that we wait to sort it out after the finish, but could tell that his heart was no longer in the competition.
Only Eric and I found the bonus turn buoy…
Finding the finish was proving to be a challenge. For a while we pursued a course towards a rocky point that I argued would lead us around into Fisherman’s Beach – a route that was actually angling us closer to the turn buoys than it was to the actual finish. Eric expressed concerns that we were heading too far port. I insisted we were fine. Eric pointed out that the extensive field of moored boats we had picked our way through at the start was absent from the shoreline ahead. Perhaps the entire Swampscott fleet had been commandeered for an impromptu attack against arch-nemesis Marblehead, I replied. It was only when Eric called attention to the array of boats moored off to our right that I relented. Evidently their raid had been successful.
Having identified the finish, we both picked up our pace. I made the decision to pass to the right of a large moored sailboat, while Eric headed behind it. Even with a strong incoming tide backed by the wind, I was surprised by the strength of the current. Despite turning increasingly into the flow, I was in real danger of being side-swept into the sailboat. My heart rate was already within a few beats of its theoretical maximum, but a fear-based shot of adrenaline now sent my pulse to eyeball-bulging levels. As catastrophe loomed, I made one final push to avoid bisection. After slipping just in front of the vessel, I finally realized I had made a serious frame of reference error. I wasn’t being swept sideways by the current – the sailboat was actually underway. And doubtless wondering why an idiot kayaker seemed intent on impaling himself on their bow. Oops.
When Mike told us the race would have a dance finish, I knew those Charleston lessons had finally paid off. (Photo courtesy of Chun Yang)
With the ink of my new lease on life still wet, the remainder of the race was a joyful celebration of continued existence. I pulled into the beach finish several seconds before Eric to take the celebrated (but wholly metaphorical) Nahant Bay Cup. There was an actual traveling cup awarded at one point, but the Department of Public Health shut that down. Given how demoralized Eric was at the prospect of having cut the course, I figured there was a pretty good chance he was just going through the motions of finishing hard so that I didn’t feel bad. I’m OK with that. Out-sprinting someone is satisfying even when they’re not racing. But not quite as satisfying as the subsequent trash-talking.
Unfortunately, Eric was correct about turning on the wrong church-adjacent buoy, resulting in disqualification and – in an unusual cross-promotional arrangement – excommunication. Second place therefore went to the winner of an exciting sprint between Andrius and Tim Dwyer. Although Tim had managed to catch and pass Andrius at Egg Rock, the latter took a cleaner line to the finish to claim silver by two seconds. Kirk Olsen pulled in alone before Wesley and Tim Hudyncia reenacted the Zinkevichus-Dwyer sprint finish, with Wesley taking fifth by half an Echols. Mary Beth selfishly claimed victory for the women.
If it wasn’t for Andrius’ quick thinking, an improperly ballasted Francisco would have floated away completely. (Photo courtesy of Chun Yang)
After a wonderful lunch prepared by Carol McDonough, Mike got down to the business of giving out awards. The coveted “Bad Ass” title was given to mild-mannered Kirk Olsen (I assume ironically), while Bill Kuklinski was bestowed the “Baby Bad Ass” honorific (and accompanying ceremonial head gear) for wiping the ocean with competitors half his age. Many thanks to the McDonoughs and the Staffords for a marvelous day in Swampscott.
You may be wondering why I failed to mention Swampscott local Matt Drayer. Unwilling to risk the humiliation of defeat on his home surf, Matt cowardly opted for a leisurely day paddle from Cape Cod to Cape Ann. Some have described this first-ever 43 mile jaunt as “historic” and “ground-breaking”. However, I’m pretty sure this circus stunt will quickly be forgotten, while the winner of the 2016 Nahant Bay Cup will remain engraved in our collective memories forever (because, remember, there is no actual cup). If you must, read about Matt’s trip here.
Worried about the recent increase in US shark attacks, Bill figured he’d play it safe at the after-party. (Photo courtesy of Chun Yang)
We all look forward to the day when robots will relieve us of the burden of slogging through these reports and making our own toast. But for now, we’ve earned a break. At least on the blog front. Assuming Elon Musk doesn’t make any immediate breakthroughs, we’ll meet back here in three weeks, after the Great Peconic Race (register at PaddleGuru) and the Great Stone Dam Classic (no preregistration required). Those will be excellent warm-ups for the biggest east coast surfski event of the season – the Lighthouse to Lighthouse (register at PaddleGuru – the price goes up September 10).
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