Narrow River: Sweet Release of Depth

As all locals are aware, Rhode Island is the epicenter of surfski racing in New England.  As inexorable as gravity, the wee state draws in paddlers from hundreds of miles away.  Mary Beth and I took advantage of this mysterious attractive force to grab a couple of extra hours of sleep as our car autonomously made its way to the Narrow River Race, gently guided around obstacles like Boston by the deep grooves we’d previously worn in the roads leading from home to Rhode Island.  We awoke to find ourselves among the single largest fleet of skis to ever to grace this waterway.  With 28 paddlers milling about (including 4 supplemental kayakers – just in case we needed to call in some reserves), race organizers Wesley and Tim had a difficult time providing personalized course instructions.  They eventually abbreviated their spiels to a series of brisk arm gestures.  I was called for intentional grounding and high-sticking, but others didn’t get off so lightly.

We’d be running a slightly abbreviated version of the race, heading upriver for 3 miles, reversing our course downriver a mile past the start, then finishing back where all the pointless back-and-forth began.  In the absence of any buoy to mark the upstream end of our spawning run, we’d be performing a rare outside turn on a rowing club dock.  Wesley told us that we should pass close enough to touch the dock, with our conscience serving as an unblinking witness to our honor.  I immediately revised my race plan such that I’d arrive at the turn alone.  My conscience is no narc, but the other paddlers… they’d sell out their children for an extra point in the race series.

The Narrow River is best known for being so shallow that the race itself technically qualifies as a single 8 mile portage.  This year, however, the river has achieved new depths of shallowness.  Wesley and Tim briefly considered dropping the PFD requirement in favor of mandatory helmets, given that a capsize would more likely result in concussion than immersion.  If nothing else, we’d all at least be getting some solid resistance training.

I had been hearing alarming rumors about the Drago-like training program that locals Chris Quinn and Mike Florio had been putting themselves through in order to break the degenerate outsiders.  I checked on YouTube for montages of the pair hooked up to fancy electronics and snapping paddles during sprints, but got side-tracked by some funny walrus videos.  Given that Chris was regularly beating me at the end of last season and Mike was a frequent threat in 2017, the prospect of these hyper-fit guys stepping up their game had me desperately looking for a crotchety old-timer to provide the requisite motivational speech.  Unfortunately, Bill Kuklinski wasn’t able to make the race.  Sorry for that, buddy.  Maybe next time you’ll show up to defend yourself.

The organizers had decided to continue an experiment from late last season in which self-selecting slower paddlers would start in an initial wave some minutes before the remaining field.  I suspect the original goal of this strategy was to provide a sacrificial offering to wrathful sea gods, but in more benign conditions it also serves to provide more mid-race contact between paddlers of disparate abilities (subject to community standards, of course) and consolidate the finishers.  Wesley launched the first wave of 10 racers, who at least made it around the first bend without being devoured by Neptune’s pack of sea wolves.  Truly an auspicious omen for the rest of us!

After finding individual pockets of water deep enough to float our boats, the second wave lined up for a rolling start – complete with the usual bickering and archaic race-baiting (“Why you scurrilous Irish claim-jumper!  Hie yourself back behind the line!”).  Wesley counted us down and – as unanimously agreed upon beforehand by the racing subcommittee – Chris Chappell assumed command.  My start was relatively unembarrassing, but that was probably because half the field hadn’t yet been in a boat this year.  At least, that was their story.  Chris Q and I matched one another for the first minute or so before I settled into third place on his starboard draft.

Even though Chris C proved himself a fair and capable leader, Chris Q apparently decided that the next generation deserved its turn.  Since I’ve always considered myself hep to the latest fancy of the young ‘uns, I figured I’d come along for the insurrection.  About a quarter mile into the race, our youthful crew moved into the lead.  As the slightly more experienced paddler, I felt a duty to continue to hang back on the draft in a supervisory role.  Chris didn’t require much tutelage, although from time to time I had remind him to slow down lest he inadvertently drop his mentor.

I had expected Mike to be vying for the lead (and also in need of unsolicited kibitzing), but he remained conspicuously absent.  A quick backward glance, however, revealed that he had also passed Chris C and was now only a half-dozen lengths behind.  Apparently he had some trouble getting clear of other boats off the line, but was now intent on rectifying that stumble.  As Chris led us through the twists of the river, I tracked Mike’s progress as he methodically closed that gap.  By the time we had entered the lake-like portion of the course, he had halved his deficit.

Perhaps due to concern that I’d be mistaken for a free-loader (as opposed to a nurturing starboard presence), shortly after the river broadened I took a turn at point with Chris on a port draft.  We continued in this formation as the upstream turn-around approached.  In my mind, I had plotted out a graceful clockwise arc that would have me tangent-ing neatly alongside the dock before curving back the way we came.  It quickly became apparent, however, that I shouldn’t have left my compass and protractor in the car.  I started the turn too late.  And then corrected too late.  To my credit, however, I panicked at just about the right time.  My tangent threatening to become an intersection, I leaned on the rudder and narrowly avoided ramming the dock.  Chris, who had been drafting on what became the outside of my turn, had wisely began dropping back as my collision-course trajectory became increasingly apparent, but still hit the corner of the dock bow-first.  I was not, as Mary Beth accused after the race, attempting to “rub out the competition”.  However, after due consideration of maritime law and sporting regulations, I’m prepared to accept 23% of the blame for the incident due to gross navigational incompetence.

After visually verifying that Chris’ boat remained sea-worthy (it suffered a divot above the waterline), we continued our way back towards the start.  It seemed that Mike had dropped back a few lengths over the past 15 minutes, but he was still close enough to qualify as “lurking”.  Surprisingly, a significant tidal current was now helping us along.  As we passed the first wave paddlers, Chris continued to hang doggedly on my draft.  Based on past experience, I doubted that I’d be able to drop him with random intervals, so figured my best hope would be to grind him down with a punishing sustained pace.  Lacking the ability to manage “punishing”, I settled for “mildly taxing” – paddling as hard as I could manage for the next 3 miles.  Chris refused to succumb, although I like to imagine that his heart blipped a couple of beats above resting rate.

For most of the race I had been warily watching the riverbed to make sure that it stayed safely below the water surface.  Approaching the first bridge past the start, this relative positioning threatened to reverse itself.  I was thrown temporarily off-balance as my paddle blade struck the bottom.  I flattened my stroke to avoid dredging a channel that Chris might benefit from, but he had already made his move off to my left.  We took separate lines under the bridge and over the ensuing sheen before rejoining just prior to the downstream turn-around.  Chris was now in the lead.

I stayed on the draft as we worked back upstream through the shallowest sections, daintily dabbing at the water to keep our strokes wholly liquid.  Once we hit slightly deeper water after the bridge, I knew it’d be a half-mile sprint to the finish.  I didn’t like my odds starting that dash from a length behind, but I couldn’t work up enough gumption to pull even in the shallows.  Sure enough, as soon as we had cleared the sandbar guarding the bridge, Chris surged ahead to increase his lead by a length.  Although I managed to stop the bleeding, I was incapable of closing the gap.  Chris finished 5 seconds ahead of me.  Mike came in a scant 20 seconds behind to complete the V14 podium sweep.  Chris C and Kurt Hatem rounded out the top 5.  On the women’s side, Mary Beth looked strong, outpacing Leslie Chappell and Jean Kostelich for the win.

Having now been beaten by Chris in four consecutive head-to-head matches, I’m realizing that my only hope is playing to my strength.  He’s bested me in flatwater and rough seas, and showed superiority in both upwind and downwind conditions.  My only real hope is an endurance situation.  I just have to find a race that’s so long that his commitment to his young family prevents him from actually competing.

Thanks to Wesley and Tim for throwing yet another in a long string of entertaining races.  And for convincing our post-race party venue (the Oak Hill Tavern) to drop the more serious charges.  We’re back on flatwater for the Run of the Charles on Sunday, April 28.  I’m trying to convince Chris that they’re trying out a new “24 hour paddle” format, but I’m not sure he’s buying it.