Lighthouse to Lighthouse: Age Gap

And the Winner is Nate Humberston!

Helmed by force-of-nature Gary Williams, the Lighthouse to Lighthouse Race is the place to be to rack up your worst finishing position of the New England season.  With significant prize money (donated by PTX Partners and Stellar Kayaks), a location that’s easily accessible from much of the northeast, and a beautiful course with as many as two scenic lighthouses, the L2L consistently boasts a broader and more talented field of surfski paddlers than any other regional race.  Since 2014, the race has also served as the East Coast Surfski Championship.

Mary Beth and I inadvertently picked up Bill Kuklinski on the drive down to the race.  You never think it’ll happen to you, but by the third or fourth time, maybe you should.  Banned from paddling in Connecticut after last year’s unfortunate “Nutmeg this!” incident, Bill had to go to extreme measures to thwart the authorities – having his boat delivered separately across state lines by an unsuspecting chump.   Ryan Bardsley’s wide-eyed naivete made him the perfect mule, but an irrational loyalty to his mechanically-challenged Volvo threatened to jeopardize the plan.  Fortunately, he managed to limp into the Norwalk Hilton parking lot before his car gave up the spöke.  Through clever re-purposing of our downwind shuttle expertise, we were able to reunite Bill and his boat on the beach.  When last we saw Ryan, he was still on the phone with Stockholm, trying to arrange a trade-in for a Saab.

The sea was indifferent that day, my friend.

The L2L typically draws at least a couple of elite paddlers to remind the rest of us what’s possible in this sport.  This year, Ian Black (South Africa) and Nate Humberston (Florida) would be there to expand our horizons (which gives us a few more seconds to witness their speed).  Erik Borgnes (Wisconsin) provided a slightly more realistic template for paddling excellence – many of us could at least aspire to be roughly his age.  Many of the best northeast paddlers made it to Shady Beach as well, including guy you want to befriend on your first day in prison, Craig Impens, first-year ski paddler Bob-Rob Jehn (I never quite caught which name Robert preferred), perennial thorn-in-my-side Jan Lupinski, and terrifying robot dude from Westworld, no not the new one, the 70’s movie, Chris Quinn.  I expected Matt Drayer, John Hair, Joe White, Gary Wade, Kurt Hatem, Rowan Sampson, and Tim Dwyer might also be in the hunt for the top 10.  It was going to be a day of exciting duels.

A week and a half earlier, an excited text from Matt alerted me to a race-day forecast of 25 knot winds from the East.  I’m not sure what the world’s coming to when you can’t have absolute faith in a meteorological prediction 10 days out, but this Orient Express scenario got derailed well before reaching the L2L.  The morning of the race, the forecast stood at easterly winds of 2 knots.  With gusts to 3!  Looking over the glassy expanse of Long Island Sound, however, even that projection seemed tempestuous in comparison.

I’ve included so many photos of Timmy in past reports that he’s now started showing up in my blog uninvited.

As many of us unfortunates were to discover, John’s changing tent would have been a lot more effective without the peek-a-boo flap.

Starting adjacent to Shady Beach, we’d round Sprite Island, pass Peck Ledge Lighthouse, skirt the shallows of Goose Island, work our way down past Copps and Sheffield Islands, turn on Greens Ledge Light and retrace our path (give or take tide-based adjustments) back to the start.  Although billed as a 14 mile race, recent cutbacks have reduced the actual length to 13.3.  Something to do with Chinese tariffs, I’m told.  Of course, a few traditionalists stubbornly padded their mileage to hit the full distance.  Mary Beth, for example, cut inside of Goose Island on the way back, realized her mistake at the lighthouse and then backtracked around the island.

As usual, Gary really nailed the captain’s meeting – providing step-by-step instructions on performing an emergency field tracheotomy.  Who knew all you needed was a clean handkerchief, a disposable pen, and a hatchet?  Now that I think of it, I may have been watching a YouTube how-to video on my phone.  I’m sure Gary did a swell job, though (Goose Island cutters notwithstanding).  And if he didn’t… well, I’d be prepared for any eventuality.  Well, for one eventuality, at least.

Gary’s running commentary on the state of the lighthouse beacon got a little monotonous after the second hour. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Nobody had the heart to tell Wesley that his parachute was on backwards.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Before I even had time to practice my new-found skill, it was our turn to launch.  I positioned myself at the far right of the starting line – a strategy I used with some success the previous year.  This allowed me to bypass the barbarous fray of the main pack, but more importantly, it also artificially inflated the consequences of a poor start.  With the first turn marker only a half mile away, if I didn’t manage to get ahead of most of the other paddlers quickly, I’d be forced to merge into a stream of unforgiving rush-hour commuters to clear the buoy choke point.  Spurred on by this incentive, I popped off the line with unaccustomed vigor.  Nate and Ian separated almost immediately from the huddled masses, with Craig, Bob, and Erik in spirited pursuit.

A couple of hundred meters from the turn buoy, I angled into the thinning herd, hoping they’d accept me as one of their own.  A snide comment from Matt before the race regarding the ripeness of my gear assured me that at least they’d already be familiar with my odor.  I pulled alongside John, who in turn was paddling abreast of Gary, Chris Q, Jan, Tim, and Nick Alshayev.  This group jostled for position as the orange marker loomed closer.  A lone voice of civility among murderous savages, John sweetly reminded us that “We’re all friends here, right?”  If that were the case, you’d expect at least some of the guys would unblock me from Instagram.  Powered by a burst of righteous indignation at this imagined slight, I pulled a half-length ahead of my “buddies” and rounded the buoy with a clear conscience.  Given that the turn consisted of a 16 degree deviation from a straight line, however, arriving there in our gang’s pole position didn’t actually provide much of an advantage.

Roger and Scott surfed their extreme age gradient to victory. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

In any event, now only Joe separated me from the chase pack.  A few weeks earlier at the USCA Nationals, Joe never failed to provide cheerful encouragement as we passed each other at the turns.  In keeping with this supportive trend, he now complimented me on my start and urged me to move now to avoid having to play comeback later.  What game was the Ohioan playing at?  I suppose it’s possible that he’s just an all-around decent fellow.  Or that John’s plaintive plea for sportsmanship and camaraderie had softened his heart.  But in the cut-throat, high-stakes world of the East Coast Surfski Championship, it seems most likely that Joe figured that by egging me on in my quixotic quest to break the top 5, he could catch a ride up to the pursuit team, then watch unblinkingly as I imploded and fell off the pace.  Yep.  That sounds exactly like something the Joe persona I’ve contrived would do.  Still… seemed like good advice.

Nefarious Joe earned his newly coined nickname.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

A quarter-mile later, we caught the paddlers ahead.  Bob was pulling, with Erik on his left flank and Craig on his right.  I settled in behind Craig, figuring that after a moment of rest I could slide forward into the sweet spot of a diamond formation behind Bob.  However, I couldn’t get comfortable enough on Craig’s stern draft to relax my effort.  In retrospect, the wakes from the other members of the trio were probably harshing my mellow – I should have immediately either moved into the diamond or shifted to Craig’s starboard draft.  Instead, I grew increasingly frustrated at how much effort it was costing to keep up with the trio.  I took some solace in the fact that Joe had finally fallen off my draft, although the appearance of an Epic prow in my periphery (Chris Q?  Gary?  Kurt?) soon wrenched away that short-lived consolation.

Craig and I had been rehearsing our respective roles for years, so I was caught off guard when he decided to improvise.  In the standard production, he takes the early lead in the pairing, relinquishes it reluctantly after a couple of miles, lets me get a reasonable distance ahead, then slowly reels me back in during the back half of the race.  To keep the audience guessing, we draw straws beforehand to see if he’ll catch me or not.  But by this point, Craig had long ago missed his exit cue and was continuing to showboat shamelessly.  Try as I might to get him back on script, he refused to yield the stage.