Essex River Race: Winner to Swimmer

I hold the Essex River Race responsible for getting me in a surfski.  When I first wondered “what is that?” while racing in a sea kayak in the early aughts, who knew that I’d end up spending my final years obsessing over loggerhead shrikes and red-winged scrub jays!  I’m assuming that I’ll eventually move on to a new hobby.  For now, however, the ERR holds a place of honor in my heart.  And owes me about $25K in accumulated ski reimbursements.   Wesley, you can probably expect to be named as a co-defendant in the forthcoming lawsuit.

The race is a 5.75 mile out-and-back lollipop course with Cross Island as the delicious candy treat  (not lime, obviously, which would make it neither delicious nor a treat) and the Essex River as the unusually sinuous stick.  This year, there would be 25 skis sharing the winding river with 100 other self-powered watercraft of varying descriptions (with “ponderous” and “unsteerable” being two of the more worrisome).  You gotta be able to bob and weave your way out of trouble, but you better also have a good corner-man ready to clean you up after taking an unseen oar to the noodle.  With perennial thorn-in-my-side Jan Lupinski making his New England season debut and Mike Florio reprising his role as a somber reminder of lost youth (not mine specifically, as he highlighted by paddling shirtless, but someone’s), the non-lethal competition was also intimidating.  And there’s now also this other guy…

A couple of years ago, I received an email out of the blue from a young kayaker who had seen some of my race reports and was looking for some advice about getting into a surfski.  Obviously he hadn’t read my blog too carefully, or he’d have known that my true expertise lies in getting off of a surfski.  Nevertheless, I responded to “Janda Ricci-Munn” (the humorous pseudonym he had chosen for himself ) with a few tips and a liability waiver.  If only I had read the signs and instead answered with a rude dismissal!  Instead, I unknowingly invited into our midst the fiend who may one day destroy us all.

Janda was a national-caliber 70.3 (Half-Iron) triathlete with a PR of 3:57:53.  For context, that’s slightly less time than it takes me to get out of bed most mornings.  After retiring from triathlons a few years back, however, Janda let his fitness level slide from inhuman to merely superhuman.  Searching for an outlet that would combine fitness, the outdoors, and friendly competition, his unwavering gaze eventually settled on surfskis.  Think Sauron, but more personable and with an actual body.  He’s committed, hyper-fit, knows everything there is to know about training, and won’t rest until the Fellowship is broken.

Of course, once I realized my mistake in opening the portal to our doom, I did everything I could to mitigate the damage.  To myself, I mean.  In exchange for periodic demonstrations of paddling mistakes to avoid, Janda has guided me through the physiological underpinnings of effective training techniques.  Despite his hurtful jokes about my “VO2 Min”, he’s been the best lactate consultant I could ask for.  And, in return, I expect he lays much of the credit for his success in last year’s Blackburn (3:00:20 – in a V7, for the love of Pete) on not doing those things that I painstakingly showed him.  He’d be churning through the field on a V10 Sport for his first race of the season.

At low tide on the estuary, wind speed would be immaterial to stability – waves can only get so big over a fetch of 40 feet.  And most boats would be firmly grounded anyway as they searched fruitlessly for the even narrower channel.  At high tide, however, the river converts into a featureless expanse with enough fetch to make for choppy conditions.  Not exactly rough water, but syncopated enough to throw my carefully calibrated V14 stroke into arrhythmia.  With a forecast for winds out of the northwest at 12 mph with gusts in the 20s, I agonized over which boat to bring, then finally threw my V10 on the car and headed to the start.  At the last moment, I remembered that Mary Beth would probably want a ride too.

I’d spend the next couple of hours second-guessing that boat choice as the forecast mellowed, trying to decide if I should make the 5 minute drive home to swap boats.  Finally, with Bruce Deltorchio assuring me that the estuary would be “smooth as gravy” (weird, but whatever), I dashed back to the house and grabbed the 14.  After launching and warming up, I ran into Bruce on the water.  He was shocked that I had switched boats given that it would probably be “loose and wavy” out there.  Nobody believes me when I tell them how devious Bruce is, but surely this embellished example must finally convince them.  I only had time for four more trips home before ultimately settling back on the V14.

Unbeknownst to me, the minute immediately preceding the start had been shortened to 30 seconds – some type of leap-half-minute clock correction, probably.  As a result, I found myself a few boat lengths behind the line as the starter announced 5 seconds left.  Unsure of the protocol regarding running starts, I took a series of nothing-to-see-here half strokes during the subsequent countdown in an attempt to casually close my pre-start deficit.  I shouldn’t have bothered, given that my post-start acceleration was so anemic that I actually experienced a few seconds of zero-g weightlessness.  With an immediate bend in the river compacting the group in front of me, I found myself squeezed between Mike and Janda.  My execution was appalling, but you have to admire the dedication – during the middle of a race providing another instructive example of lousy paddling.  I slipped up a bit though by eventually doing the right thing – easing back and ceding the right-of-way.

In the ensuing straightaway, I managed to swing wide of the pack and start working my way up toward the leaders.  Chris Chappell had vaulted to an early lead, with Jan and Mike in pursuit.  As I eased past Ryan Bardsley, 18 inches to his starboard, we showed off some of the exquisite paddle synchronization that saw us through the first three rounds of America’s Got Talent.  I’d had limited rehearsal time with Tim Dwyer, Mike McDonough, Wesley Echols, and Timmy Shields, however, so I gave them a much wider berth.  A half-mile into the race, I was clear of the main pack and in pursuit of the lead trio.  I cued up some motivational music in my head, but the ripples from the boats ahead caused the track to repeatedly skip back to the beginning.  Gotta update that technology so that I can finally find out who’s peekin’ out from under a stairway and calling a name that’s lighter than air.

Just joking.  Everyone knows it’s Windy.  On an unrelated note, my advertisers have asked me to target a reader demographic that hasn’t yet been involuntarily committed to assisted living facilities.  If anyone has ideas along this front, please shoot me a telegram.  Or whatever it is the younglings are using to communicate these days.  A Grindr poke, maybe?

A couple of minutes later, I passed Mike and latched onto Chris for a breather.  These being my home waters, I had a pretty good idea of the course I wanted to navigate through the river bends.  Apparently, so did Chris.  I base this assumption on his uncanny ability to block me from my preferred heading without ever even looking back to see where I was.  If I wanted to go left, I somehow found myself on his starboard side.  If I wanted to head right, he’d magically appear on that side to corral me like a stray dogie.  And if I wanted to pass him on a straight-away, Chris stubbornly insisted on going faster than me.

Eventually I thought about going one direction and then juked the opposite way.  This mind-feint threw off his ESP long enough for me to pull even with Chris before he could steer me back into the fold.  He appeared surprised when I triumphantly taunted him with “Where’s your prescience now?” which just underscores the extent to which his supernatural abilities had been compromised.

We’ve barely heard a peep about Jan thus far.  This uncharacteristic reserve from one of the biggest personalities on our stage is starting to make me nervous, so let’s catch up with his shenanigans.  While I was trying to out-maneuver Chris, Jan was soldiering along to our left, paying absolutely no heed to the thrilling game of cat-and-mouse that I imagined was going on.  The lack of drama coming from his direction was deafening.  After a few moments of this eerie impassivity, I couldn’t take it any more.  Swerving to avoid some weedy shallows (Chris’ oaths from behind revealing that he’d utterly lost his gift), I threw in an interval to separate myself from Jan and the others.

The tide-enriched river opened into a marshy lake devoid of navigational landmarks.  Fortunately, the reconnaissance heats we had sent out in advance had heroically sacrificed their times sussing out the shortest navigable path.  By following the string of paddlers ahead, I was able to skirt the shallows.  Despite their critical service spotting obstacles from high altitude (up to 6 feet, in some cases), I couldn’t help muttering curses at the SUP corps as they zig-zagged randomly into my path.  I know that they also serve who only stand and wade, but couldn’t they do it somewhere else?

Once I had cleared the tide-induced chop near Conomo Point, the remainder of the course was relatively smooth sailing (although, in my defense, I also threw in a few strokes from time to time).  The primary challenge was maneuvering around all the slower craft once I was back in the river proper.  I’m referring, of course, to the motorboats returning to Essex.  Constrained in speed by no-wake rules (with varying degrees of compliance) and in course by the channel, I’m sure they were muttering their own curses as I zig-zagged across their paths.  It all comes full circle.

I made it back to the finish without being shot by an irritated yachtsman with a flare gun, taking my first win of the season.  A few moments later, Jan and Janda arrived just four lengths apart to claim the other podium spots, with Mike only 15 seconds back despite having stability issues behind Cross Island (not a euphemism).  In the women’s race, Leslie Chappell pulled ahead at Conomo Point and never looked back.  If she had, she’d have seen Mary Beth shaking her fist in fury and vowing revenge in the next race.  MB then continued paddling to take second prize, with Jean Kostelich in third.  Gary Williams and Robin Francis seized the double’s crown, and refuse to give it back until their demands are met.

Back in 2016, I managed to tumble from the bucket of my V14 just seconds before the start of the Essex.  I’m proud to announce that I’ve now book-ended that feat by capsizing just minutes after the finish.  While the boat was stable enough for the race, it’s apparently not quite a secure enough platform to turn my head to answer a question while stationary.  Assuming there will now be a betting pool on when I’ll take a swim during the race itself, put me down for $100 on 2020.

With an assist from the finest weather of the spring, the Cape Ann Rowing Club threw another crackerjack race.  Thanks to all the volunteers for their devotion to providing the rest of us with a memorable day.  And pizza.

If you’re going to do just one race on a “river” this year, why not make it at the Sakonnet River Race on June 1?  Wesley has assured me that by the time of the race, the Sakonnet will be piranha free!  He actually said 95% free, but what’s a toe or two?  You must preregister at PaddleGuru.  If you live within reach of Beverly, MA, you should also consider joining us on Tuesday nights for the 14th season of the Salem League races.  As the old adage goes… there’s no better training for ocean racing than listening to Bill Kuklinski grumble about ocean racing.