The inexorable march of time has once again made fools of us all, drawing another New England paddling season to a close despite our frequent mid-race assertions that “This duck-slapping debacle is never going to end!” Fortunately, Wesley had negotiated a one-week extension by dusting off an unused standby course in Narragansett Bay, re-christening it the Plum Beach Lighthouse Race, and tacking it onto the end of our schedule. Some might argue that we don’t need a sixth competition in the Ocean State, but those people obviously aren’t planning on running for state senate or taking advantage of Rhode Island’s liberal paddler-in-residence grant program.

I figured Tim was lost in a moment of quiet reflection… until he started snoring.

Any hopes that the top regional contenders would skip a race so late in the season were ill-founded. Chris Quinn would be defending his recent Narragansett Bay win at the Jamestown Double Beaver. Recovered from an early season back injury, Mike Florio was back from his half-year hiatus, as fit and competition-hungry as ever. With Chris and Mike sporting the latest fashion in obscene muscle tone, the rest of us scrambled to change into loose fitting clothes. For the comfort and range-of-motion, of course. Well, everyone except Kurt Hatem’s race-day alter ego, who wore only those ripped purple jeans he’s so fond of (supplemented by some green body-paint). I’d put those three guys up against Thanos any day of the week. Particularly if it meant they’d be off fighting him rather than racing me.

The cast prepares for its ground-breaking presentation of Our Town.

As Wesley pointed out during the captain’s meeting (with a little too much glee, I thought), my days atop the SurfskiRacing point series are numbered. He graciously omitted the fact that said number is already negative. Chris has beaten me the last three times we’ve raced. And it doesn’t take much extrapolation of first-year paddler Kurt’s season trajectory to see that he’s going to be a serious contender for next year’s crown. If Mike stays healthy, I expect he’ll be crashing the podium regularly too. I welcomed change for the first few years of my surfski career, but with the wisdom of age has come the realization that we should probably stick with rerunning the 2016 season in an endless loop. Just in case my recommendation isn’t approved by the committee, however, I sat the youngsters down and explained the changes that they’d be experiencing as they matured. It was about as awkward as you’d imagine, but better they hear it from a creepy old-timer than learn about it on the sea.

“He just never stops talking about paddling! Well, paddling and 15th century French composer Johannes Cesaris. I can’t take it anymore!”

In addition to seasoned paddlers and bothersome upstarts, our 18 boat field included two open-water race virgins – Sam Duffield and Forrest Horton. With these youngsters joining us and (geez, Bill, I honestly feel terrible about this) Kuklinski a race-day scratch, I’m pretty confident our average age set a record low for New England surfski racing. Don’t get me wrong – we still collectively qualified for an AARP discount at the restaurant afterward, but at least this time we had enough sharp eyes to read the menus for us.

Wesley explained the course to us. Starting just off the beach, we’d skirt marker G1 in the mouth of Wickford Harbor, pass outside of Fox Island, round the titular lighthouse (which, fortunately, is free-standing in the bay), and then retrace our steps back to the beach. For a race-weary field, the relatively modest 8 mile length may have been the primary reason for attending. Attired in such a varied array of shoulder-season outfits (ranging from shorts to drysuits, with outliers at either end) that our hypothetical spectators must have wondered if we were planning to scatter to the ends of the earth, we strode/waddled/clanged down the beach for our water start.

Wesley informed us that, regrettably, rather than racing he’d be starting on his unsupported trek to the North Pole.

We were off. Although there were several people still technically ahead of me, after adjusting for low start expectations, I had a substantial lead a hundred meters into the race. A half-kilometer later, the handicapped and “real world” orders were brought into agreement as I passed Wesley, Tim Dwyer, and Chris Chappell to move into the actual lead. There was some confusion as a paddler behind me shouted something about a rock pile up ahead. I immediately started evasive maneuvers to avoid crashing into the pile, cranking the tiller (a custom innovation I’ve been dabbling with) hard-a-starboard. Additional instructions from my unseen personal navigation system, conveyed now with the flagging patience usually applied to a dim-witted toddler, eventually made it clear that the rocks weren’t an obstacle, but rather the base of our first turn – marker G1.

Progressing south after the turn, we gradually emerged from the wind shadow of the mainland. Although technically on a downwind leg, the short-fetch waves were more annoying than helpful. Occasional glances backwards revealed that Chris was hanging on my stern, with Mike several lengths behind him. We had been warned by Wesley not to skim too close to Fox Island lest we shear off our rudders. Although I was a good 50 meters off shore, native Narragansett paddler Chris had me second guessing whether I had provided enough clearance. He had veered off my stern and was now shadowing me half again further from the island. I kept waiting for the sudden grounding that would provide me with an unimpeachable excuse for losing this head-to-head, but I remained regrettably afloat [shakes fist at abstract concept of buoyancy].

Most of the way to the lighthouse, Chris remained back a couple of lengths on an outside line. As we neared the turn, he pulled closer and threatened to pass. Desperately wanting to be able to claim that at least I had led at the half-way point, I made sure (by signing certain dark covenants in blood) that I was the first to turn back upwind. Shortly thereafter, however, Chris pulled alongside and nosed ahead. Totally worth it, though. Did you hear? At the half-way point I was leading!

Rounding the lighthouse, we had a modest lead over Mike and Kurt. Definitely not enough to feel safe about. I’ll be generous – both to Chris and to myself – and assume that Chris wasn’t just toying with me as we paddled side-by-side back to Fox Island. Heading into a surprisingly stiff breeze, neither of us got more than a foot or two ahead before the other would counter and pull even again. This constant sparring certainly made the upwind slog more bearable, and probably helped to separate us from our pursuers. At Fox Island, however, Chris landed a few unparried blows and threatened to leave me behind. Woozy from all the blood loss (those contracts were in triplicate), I was tempted to throw in the towel, but managed instead to lunge onto his stern draft and cling there while the ref tried to separate us.

It seemed highly likely that if we stayed in this configuration until a final sprint that Chris would take the win. I was perfectly willing to take that chance and maintain the status quo for the next couple of miles. Why rock the boat? Chris apparently didn’t subscribe to this philosophy. He seemed intent on shaking free of my clutch immediately. Over the next mile, he threw in random bursts of speed, which I was just barely able to counter, thanks to his significant drafting (water and wind) disadvantage. With a half-mile to go to the G1 marker turn, Chris finally appeared to resign himself to my original plan – beating me in the sprint after the turn. As we slowed to a brisk canter, I felt the satisfaction of a cowboy who has just broken a wild stallion. Until I realized that I’d soon have to dismount and race the damn horse on foot.

No surprise – as we completed our turn, Chris charged pell-mell towards the finish. Before I could hit my own stride he had already pulled 3 boat lengths ahead. I had held out some hope that the calm waters in the lee of Poplar Point would provide me with a slight edge. In retrospect, I’m not quite sure why I would have entertained that notion. For a brief moment, I thought I might be closing the gap, but it soon became clear that there was a new status quo. I finished about 10 seconds behind Chris, yet it somehow still felt like a definitive thrashing. Kurt pulled in a few moments later to take the final podium spot, with Mike and Tim claiming 4th and 5th positions. Mary Beth was the top woman. As she always is, of course, in my book (I’ve found that if you butter up the editor a little, she’ll ease up a bit on the pun-shaming).

PaddleGuru’s Clipboard App offers state-of-the-art race timing. Probably should’ve sprung for the water-resistance upgrade, though.

In a fitting piece of symmetry, we jaded vets celebrated the season-ending race at the Oak Hill Tavern – the same venue that hosted our pack of wide-eyed innocents after the season-opening Narrow River Race. Book-ending the library of New England races in this delightful manner felt so much like the inception of a time-honored tradition that I’ve already started pestering management to add a “Surfski Special” menu item. They’re willing to consider it if Wesley and Tim get “Oak Hill” neck tattoos and the rest of us commit to 20 years of patronage. Done!

Feels like I might have one more good race in me this season. Since I’ll be paddling in it anyway, sure hope it’s the Chattajack 31.