Just moments after we pulled into our driveway after returning from the Sakonnet River Race, it was time to turn around and head back to the state affectionately known as “Massachusetts’s Dewlap” for Wesley and Tim’s Ride the Bull race. After underbidding all other syndicates, we had been awarded the lucrative contract to transport Ryan Bardsley (with “associated racing paraphernalia transportee deems necessary”) to Jamestown. This necessitated installing an additional rack on our car. Through a series of miscalculations and engineering blunders, this process involved stripping our Subaru down to a bare chassis before reassembling it to a rough approximation of its original state. But with a third V rack. As long as Mary Beth kept her seat belt on and I wasn’t too aggressive on left-hand turns, I figured there’d be at least an 80% chance of her remaining in the passenger seat the whole trip.

With race-time winds of 15+ knots from the SSE, the normal Ride the Bull course was likely to be a mix of significant beam waves and frothing clapotis (second in severity only to dysentery among incontinence-related afflictions). Although the race was expressly designed to test our resilience against scrapes, fractures, and contusions while being pounded against the picturesque rocky shore, Wesley and Tim decided that the lamentations of the guilt-ridden survivors might draw unwanted attention from the authorities. Tim claims to have some powerful local connections, but even James Taylor would have trouble making multiple manslaughter charges go away.

Despite strict warnings against conviviality, pockets of amicable conversation kept flaring up. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
We forgot to tell our car-pool passenger about the carbon monoxide leak in the back seat, but Ryan eventually recovered enough of his cognitive abilities to solve this conundrum. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Putting their heads together (in a Laurel and Hardy fashion, while simultaneously leaning forward to study a chart of Narragansett Bay – at least in my imagination), a slightly concussed Wesley and Tim devised an alternative loop course in the bay to the east of Jamestown. We’d first slog upwind 1.5 miles past the House on the Rock to round Bull Point Rock, then head on a glorious 4.5 mile downwind to the north end of Gould Island, then claw our way the 3 miles back to the start, realizing that we had flagrantly misused the term “slog” on that initial leg. The new course would virtually eliminate any chance of being dashed against rocks, while ensuring that we’d instead be run down by the hundreds of predatory sailing vessels on the bay. Of course, this shifts the liability for any “accidents” from the race coordinators to the offending boat captains. Don’t feel too bad for the yachtsmen, however – they doubtless can afford lawyers good enough to get any charges reduced to “depraved indifference” with a slap-on-the-wrist $50,000 fine.

A good portion of the usual gang showed up – Timmy, Jacko, Rotgut, Li’l Slipper, The Fez… hold on, that can’t be right. Probably shouldn’t be half-watching the Jimmy Cagney marathon on TNT while I’m writing this. Sixteen paddlers would be racing. We would have had one more, but Chris Chappell showed up, took one look at the swarms of sailboats on the bay, and rushed over to Newport to get in on the betting for who’d rack up the highest tally. Since the 2nd through 4th finishers from the Sakonnet River Race couldn’t suit up for this race, three equally robust threats were subbed in as replacements – Jan Lupinski, Chris Quinn, and Chris Laughlin. Given the conditions, I was particularly worried about the renowned skills of these gentlemen in rough-water handling, downwind paddling, and collision-avoidance.

Melissa and Jim wisely chose the “toe-to-head” carry to prevent any cross-brand funny stuff. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Split up by obstacles in the mooring field, Jan led one small group to the left while Chris L spear-headed the main push closer to land. Pushing through the chop, I soon found my way abreast the latter, casting wary glances to my port to assess the relative progress of Jan. As our lines inevitably merged, Lupinski assumed a half length lead while Laughlin dropped slightly back. To maintain the proper Chris equilibrium, Quinn moved in to take his place.

We milled about for a 1 p.m. start, paddling slowly upwind amidst the moored boats while awaiting the start signal. On another day, I might have joined Kirk Olsen in his playful pre-race antics – leaning forward to fiddle with your foot-strap until you topple off your ski is right up my alley – but figured I should save my energy for less frivolous remounts. Soon after Kirk regained his bucket, Wesley counted us down to the gun.

Five minutes into the race we encountered our first significant hurdle, our path taking us right through the gyrating core of a fleet of 35′ sailboats jockeying for position prior to their own regatta. Like the puffer fish inflates itself to fool its predators into thinking it’s larger and fiercer than it actually is, I huddled close to Jan in an attempt to deceive the fast-moving craft. I fear this may have back-fired, as several boats veered our way to attempt a two-fer kill. Fortunately, our pack made it through unscathed. Physically, at least. As for the rest of our field, I just hoped our crazed dash through the gauntlet had distracted the sailors long enough to allow their safe passage.

Let the culling begin! (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

The remaining upwind trip was uneventful for me, largely because Jan acted as my coal mine canary, plotting a path through the shoals near the House on the Rock and helpfully identifying some tidal eddies by spinning out in front of me (with a little help from me pushing his stern, natch). As we transitioned to the downwind portion of the race at the back of Bull Point Rock, Chris Q and I pulled even with Jan. That arrangement lasted all of 45 seconds, at which point Jan’s superior downwind skills asserted themselves and began to pry him inexorably from our grasp. I never saw Chris L on the downwind leg, but based on the results, he couldn’t have been too far behind.

I began calculating how much of a lead I might be able to overcome going into the upwind return leg, but my math (and grammar) must be rusty because I kept coming up with the same disheartening answer: none lead. Jan had paced me (some might say pulled me, but that’s just quibbling) on the opening upwind leg, so what made me think I could beat him in similar conditions over the final few miles? Hubris, sure, but I couldn’t figure out how to shoehorn that factor into the computation. Looked like I’d just have to get out front by the end of Gould Island.

Never a team player, Jan didn’t appear down with the plan. For the next few moments he continued to pull away from Chris and I. His lead grew to about 10 lengths, but at that point the gap stabilized. We’d accordion back and forth as we caught different waves, but the net effect was a wash. This delicate equilibrium reigned for a couple of minutes, but then I started to pull Jan back. A key component of this transition was recognizing that we weren’t “surfing” so much as “paddling in the direction of the waves”. I’m clumsy and inefficient at the former, but… marginally less so at the latter. Once I stopped consciously trying to read the marginally surf-able waves and just started putting one blade in front of the other (on alternating sides, I eventually figured), that’s when I started to make progress and identify bumps to boost me along.

The waves were offset by a few degrees to the east of our straight-line direction to Gould, so the three of us swung wide into the center of the bay. Maddeningly, this is where some pasty-faced bureaucrat (who wouldn’t know a fo’c’sle from a bosun) chose to randomly place the shipping channel. Race officials must have radioed in our course, though, because commercial traffic gave us a wide berth. I lost track of Chris as I closed the gap on Jan, but felt reasonably confident that he hadn’t passed me. About a half-mile before reaching the Newport Bridge, I moved into the lead.

Taking a cue from the “invasion stripes” painted onto Allied planes for D-Day, Tim decorated his boat with a predetermined pattern to eliminate friendly fire incidents from his sailboat skipper cronies. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
I understand that every Zen boat comes with a personalized mantra to repeat while paddling. Based on what I heard from Wesley at the end of his race, he got “Uuuurgh”. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

The remaining downwind portion went by too quickly. With a mile left, I had started preparing myself mentally for the grind lurking at the north end of the island. So when the GPS gleefully started blurting out speeds 2.5 mph slower (I knew putting AI in those things was a bad idea), my bow began slapping over the waves, and my paddle fluttered in the wind, I was only 90% demoralized. I had gotten a vague glimpse of a group of 2 or 3 paddlers perhaps a minute behind at the turn, but that’d be the last chance I’d have to check on the competition – an over-the-shoulder glance might well transform into an over-the-gunwale tumble.

You don’t realize just how big the Newport Bridge really is until you watch it not get any bigger while paddling interminably towards it. Eventually, however, the bridge started to loom. I took this as a strong indication that I might actually reach it. My hopes were not unfounded. After passing under the bridge and then cursing through a long half-mile into some particularly obnoxious gusts, I finished the race. Providing empirical evidence that my calculations regarding our relative upwind performance were spot on, Jan pulled in 70 seconds later. Chris Q nipped Chris L a half-minute later to nab the final podium spot. On the women’s side, Melissa Meyer took the win. Although Mary Beth had arrived at the finish almost an hour earlier, under cross-examination she cracked and revealed that she had skipped half the course because “riding back home with Greg will be enough drudgery”. I’m going to interpret that as an implicit aspersion on our passenger, Ryan. Burned, buddy!

Paddlers anxiously await their relay partners. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Max Yasochka generously handed out alfajores – a traditional treat from his an ancestral homeland, Argentina. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Thanks, Wesley and Tim, for your work as co-directors. Most paddlers figured the downwind leg of the race was ample compensation for the bookend slogs, although I’d have felt a little better about it had the guys slipped us each a crisp $20 bill to cover pain and suffering. Something to think about for next year…

For those rattled by the boat traffic in Narragansett Bay, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. With zero verifiable strikes logged this past weekend, the yachtsmen “kill pot” carries over to the Jamestown Double Beaver on June 29. Register at PaddleGuru for your chance to lose! Like war-time medics steel-wooling the red crosses off their helmets, you might want to consider toning down those fluorescent PFDs.

For more of Olga’s great photos, see here.

https://www.sportsnut.pro/Water-Sports/Ride-The-Bull-Race-2019/