After a record-breaking surfski turnout in 2014, the venerable Lighthouse to Lighthouse race was given a fallow year to regenerate. Under the indefatigable stewardship of Gary Williams, however, the field was seeded for a fresh harvest this year. And once again, the L2L would be hosting the East Coast Surfski Championship. With 66 skis participating in the 7 and 14 miles races, this would easily be the largest surfski race east of the Rockies since the last L2L (sorry, Shark Bite – that was some rotten luck).
There’s been a lot of speculation about why the 2015 race was cancelled. One source told me that there was a permitting issue with the venue while another claimed that an important sponsor pulled their support. Rather than just asking Gary, I started circulating my own baseless conjecture involving a beach quarantine after the loss of a nuclear sub off the Connecticut coast. Regardless of the reason, the L2L was about to experience a glorious rebirth, emerging phoenix-like from the watery depths to raze Tokyo. Wait… that can’t be right. Emerging Phoenix-like from its own ashes to become a popular retirement destination for aged paddlers? Still not quite right, but close enough.
It’s possible that I could have paid a little more attention at the captains’ meeting.
From the start line off Shady Beach, we’d skirt outside of Sprite Island, the Peck Ledge Light, Goose Island, Copps Island, and Sheffield Island before rounding Greens Ledge Light and – all of that effort for naught – retracing our path to the finish. Although billed as a 14 mile race, those who registered with the special coupon code (GARYRULZ) received a 5% mileage discount. The forecast was for sun with light winds of 5 to 10 mph from the south. With a lightly incoming tide and calm conditions, it could be a record fast day.
Our ancestors tell of a great paddler from the western frontier who would ply our New England waters every July, returning to his distant wilderness home only after besting our forefathers in ritual competition. Seeing the mythic name of Erik Borgnes on the registration list for L2L, I looked in vain for a Junior or III qualifier. Blowing the dust off the old Blackburn Challenge records (I really gotta clean my monitor more often), I was shocked to see that Erik had won that race as recently as 2008. Hell, I think Wisconsin might even have been a state by then.
Ironically, once he finally got in his boat, Bruce just sat there smiling.
Erik was returning to New England, and this time he was bringing back-up. Sweeping through the upper Midwest on his way to Connecticut, he picked up Rob Hartman and Denny Paull – two of Michigan’s finest paddlers. With fellow Great Lakes paddlers Joe White, Ulli Sherer, John Hair, Todd Furstoss, and Paul Tomblin also making the trek east, I figured we had a pretty good shot at getting Gordon Lightfoot to write a song about the race should tragedy strike. Other competitors from outside the immediate area included defending L2L champions Austin Kieffer (2016) and Reid Hyle (2015).
I’d never raced against Erik or Rob, but on paper it didn’t look like I had much of a chance of beating them. I had, on the other hand, raced against Austin, Reid, and Jesse Lishchuk. On paper or on water – no hope there either. With Eric Costanzo and Craig Impens opting to paddle together in a double, Mike Dostal competing in the ICF Marathon Worlds, and Ben Piggot resting up for the Josh Billings triathlon on Sunday (it worked – his team destroyed the field), I was able to focus 100% of my stink-eye efforts on Jan Lupinski. Denny worried me as well, but I didn’t want to make him feel unwelcome.
Overwhelmed by stress and sleep deprivation, a disoriented Gary leads us in a rousing rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”.
Once Gary had sucked all of the fun out of the race yammering on about safety and sportsmanship (apparently not a Lightfoot fan), the anxious long-race field of 57 skis (including 3 doubles) paddled out into the Sound. On Tim Dwyer’s advice, I took a position on the far side of the starting line. Although he’s not yet fully grizzled, Tim is about as well-seasoned a surfski vet as we have hereabouts. That’s why when he says “you’re not extending on the catch” or “put a dash of nutmeg in your water” or “I forgot to put on underwear this morning”, you pay heed.
As promised, starting from the outside kept me away from the confused fray and gave a better downwind line. That perhaps mitigated the damage I did myself during the first couple of minutes, but it couldn’t stanch the hemorrhaging. I hadn’t paid too dearly for starting slow yet this season, but this was a field I couldn’t afford to let slip away. And chumming the water with an inviting blood trail was only going to encourage those few sharks I had gotten ahead of.
By the time we reached the first lighthouse, a gap of perhaps 15 boat lengths separated me from the nearest paddler ahead. I was sitting in 8th place. Austin, Rob, Reid, and Jesse were up front, followed by Kurt Smithgall and Erik, with Jan in pursuit. By letting all of these guys get away from me, I had dug my own grave and lain down in it. Seemed a shame not to just settle in for a peaceful eternity, but maybe my race wasn’t yet run. Perhaps I could rouse myself and catch at least one of those guys. I just needed to figure out how to claw my way back to the surface
Over next four grueling miles, not much changed. Austin gradually receded out of sight, while Rob, Reid, and Jesse converted into indistinct flickering blurs. Erik and Kurt seemed to be working together for a while, but eventually Erik began to move ahead. Jan had pulled even with Kurt, but was staying on his own on an outside line. I was slowly gaining on those two, but Erik remained ahead by that magic 15 boat length margin.
Opposite Sheffield Island, something odd was going on with Jesse. Over the last mile or so, Erik had been steadily closing the gap between the two. Suddenly, Jesse turned hard to port and started heading perpendicular to the course. I thought at first he might have seen a reef or mass of floating weeds ahead, but I eventually deduced that he was making a beeline to Jan. Soon they were paddling alongside one another. My pulse quickened as I anticipated being waved over to reunite team TripL Threat in a collaborative quest for glory, but the invitation never came. There would be no Lishchuk-Lupinski-Lesher podium.
Remarkably, as I processed this disappointing snub, I finally managed to run down Kurt. After chasing him for more than 5 miles, when I finally caught up, I found myself at a loss for words. Just as well since I didn’t really have the breath to voice them. Finally feeling like I had dialed in my stroke, rather than lingering with Kurt I pushed on towards Erik, catching some adorable little runners in the process. Glancing back, I was pleased to see that Kurt had let me by without an extended struggle.
Jan and Jesse had dropped back a bit on their outside line. As I found out after the race, Jesse had asked Jan to clear some stubborn weeds from his (humorously large) rudder. I continued my endless pursuit of Erik, who at this point was roughly 15 lengths ahead. Shortly after clearing the end of Sheffield Island, Jesse caught up to me and, after cavorting dolphin-like in my wake for a few moments, pulled ahead on his own Borgnesquest.
Approaching Greens Ledge Light, I saw Reid timidly poke his nose around the far side on the start of his return voyage. By the time I had rounded the Light, he was plotting a course on an extreme outside line (or perhaps an extreme inside line, given that Long Island appeared to be his actual goal). Erik was veering out to give mid-Sound chase, while Jesse was angling back towards Sheffield Island. On one hand, I had no clue which was the better route. On the other, I doubted these outlanders did either. Having spent the better part of my life ruled by indecision (the few decisive moments inevitably resulting in fierce regret and/or hospitalization), I felt uniquely qualified to remain in the limbo area halfway between Erik and Jesse.
While the reassuring warmth of uncertainty was still washing over me, I heard an odd noise from behind. My mind raced to place the sound as it grew louder, but the best that feeble instrument could come up with was… “Some kind of firework?” The mystery was revealed soon enough, as a low-flying drone zoomed just over my head, paused for a moment ahead, then retreated to its mother-ship. This would have been fine, except that I possess the violent startle reflex of a slumbering cat. This reflex is inevitably followed by a three second flash of blinding rage that I’ll generously attribute to the “fight” part of the fight-or-flight response. When a college roommate jumped out unexpectedly from behind a door to frighten me (or, in his telling, “to get the mail”), the only thing that saved me from the big house was the fact that I didn’t happen to be carrying a pair of scissors at the time. That guy later became my business partner, so eviscerating him also would have really hurt me professionally. The drone elicited the classic response as it suddenly whizzed by my ear – exaggerated flinch, missed heartbeats, involuntary screech, incontinence, blood lust… Unfortunately, by the time the convulsions had stopped, I had missed the opportunity to unleash an incandescent fury of paddle blows on the drone (and my chance to become a viral celebrity).
Subsequent analysis of my GoPro footage of the incident reveals that hackers tampered with the video to make it appear that the drone was always a safe distance above and to the side.
A drunken Eric tries to find his car among a sea of Goodboy racks.
Erik continued about a dozen lengths ahead and outside, dangerously close to drifting into New York territorial waters. Jesse, however, was pulling steadily away on the inside. I attributed this to his ability rather than to his line and therefore held true to my gutless middle course compromise. The members of a blue ribbon committee dedicated to the topic, however, reached the post-race consensus that sticking close to the islands was the superior approach. So Jesse is apparently slightly less phenomenal than I gave him credit for.
About halfway back, Erik cut back to a more moderate line, allowing me to get a better gauge on his lead. Yep. About 15 lengths. Some long-period swells were moving in our direction. I made some quarter-hearted efforts to catch a few, but they were too small to get worked up about. In the shallows off Copps Island, however, they started to kick up and – with surf goggles now firmly in place – were looking darned attractive. If I could land just a couple, I might be able to cut into Erik’s immutable lead. Unfortunately, the previous 10 miles had taken their toll on my game. My tired pick-up attempts were repeatedly rebuffed, leaving me wallowing in the troughs of despair.
Rounding Goose Island and heading back to Peck Ledge, I conceded that there was no way I was going to catch Erik. All I could do was cobble together enough self-respect to manage an honorable sprint over the final half-mile (which doubtless resembled one of those inspirational Ironman finishes in which the racer crawls down the final stretch, in control of about 40% of his motor functions). Austin had finished 9 minutes earlier in a course record time of 1:39:37. With some squinting and constructive rounding, I can convince myself that the next five paddlers finished in a tight pack – Rob, Jesse, Reid, Erik, and myself. Erik finished 34.79 seconds ahead of me, which, at a pace of 7.4 miles per hour and a 21 foot boat length, translates to 18 boat lengths. So much for my sprint. Denny, Jan, Steven O’Boyle, and Matt Drayer filled out the remaining spots in the top 10.
Austin put a good face on it, but deep down, I’m pretty sure he would have preferred a check.
In the women’s race, Mary Beth grabbed the lead from Jenifer Kreamer just after Sprite Island and, trading pulls with Chris Sherwood, remained out front for the remainder of the race. First-time surfski paddler Julieta Gismondi grabbed second while Leslie Chappell took bronze. Bill Kuklinski, who is Benjamin Buttoning the hell out of this season, was the first SS20+ finisher. Eric and Craig’s bid for the overall best time fell just short, but they easily took the double’s crown. In the 7 mile race, Mark McKenzie was the winner. Austin took the men’s hotspot and Mary Beth the women’s (which should really help keep our energy costs down this winter).
They can never take Mary Beth’s 2016 East Coast Surfski Championship title away from her. Although, for the sake of household harmony, I wish they’d at least try.
There’s a vigorous debate over which paddling event has the best post-race raw bar (although we can probably agree that Ride the Bull isn’t really in the running – Wesley and Tim’s DIY approach of pointing us at West Cove and saying “Have at it!” doesn’t count), but the L2L has my vote. The rest of the spread was somewhat less decadent (Domestic caviar? Please.), but still hit the spot. The awards started about 2 and are scheduled to end next Tuesday – the peril of having a multi-craft, multi-course, multi-gender, multi-age group race. Mary Beth, of course, has fashioned her two oversized checks into a sandwich board which, due to losing a regrettable wager on our relative race performances, I must wear around the house between the hours of 5 and 8.
The logistical challenges of throwing an event like the L2L are staggering, and yet everything hummed along smoothly on race day (at least from the perspective of a competitor – I suspect at HQ it never feels that way). I can’t say enough about Gary and his crack team of volunteers, so I’ll leave it at that. Thanks also to the numerous race sponsors, with special appreciation for the ECSC cash prize donors – Stellar Kayaks, WomenCan International, Think Kayaks, and Nelo. I expect you’ll be sending someone around soon to exchange the big checks for cashable ones, right?
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