Blackburn Challenge: Sprinbok’ed

As a surfski race, many people find the Blackburn Challenge aggravating.  There’s seldom any significant downwind, but there’s always confused chop.  It’s nearly 20 miles long.  At various points you’ll have to contend with suck water, weeds, aggressive tidal currents, heavy traffic, fishing lines, lobstermen hauling traps, and a heart-breaking final turn that clearly reveals the finish… still nearly 2 miles away.  Despite all this, it’s the most popular race in New England.  Partly because we’re hidebound traditionalists who’d still probably be riding buggies if all the whip manufacturers hadn’t been driven out of business by unscrupulous horseless carriage companies, but mainly because no other race can offer its combination of variety, scope, and beauty.

For the past couple of years, the Gorge Downwind Championship has conflicted with the Blackburn.  Although they weren’t technically held on the same day, you’d essentially have to charter a private jet to Logan Airport immediately after competing on the Columbia, where your race-ravaged body could then be medevac-ed to Gloucester just in time for a 20 mile coup de grâce.  This year, however, the stars aligned to offset the dates of the two races.  Oceanographer and all-around spoilsport Chris Sherwood insists that it was actually the sun-earth-moon alignment that shifted the favorable Blackburn tides a week earlier.  Given that Chris summarily rejects all portents, omens, and auguries out of some misguided allegiance to “scientific principles”, however, I think we can agree that he’ll soon be struck dead by Zeus.  At least, that’s what his horoscope says.  If you also happen to be a Pisces, might want to avoid going outside for a few weeks.

As always, the Blackburn field was intimidating.  It’s been close to 20 years since the Blackburn trophy has been hoisted by a New Englander, and not just because years of inbreeding has made us too feeble for hoisting.  Nor because there isn’t literally a trophy.  Although we dodged some of the traditional villains this year – no Craig Impens, Erik Borgnes, or Eric Mims – there’s apparently an endless stream of alien dastards waiting to swoop in and steal our thunder.  This year, world-class South African paddler Ian Black seemed a lock to whisk the title clean off the continent.  I infiltrated his paddling clinic the Thursday before the race in order to probe for weaknesses, but after only five minutes he insisted that I stop poking him randomly with my paddle.  Although I was unable to identify his Achilles heel, I can confirm that it’s not literally his heel – nor left elbow, neck, or stomach.  To make matters worse, South African expat Bruce Poacher (who himself would be paddling a double with Eric Costanzo) had his brother Ross bubble-wrapped, crated up, and shipped from Durban to Gloucester.

Sensing US paddlers were in a weak position, Canada and Mexico decided to jointly execute a pincer move to finish us off.  The invasion was on.  I wasn’t personally familiar with Toronto native Vadim Lawrence, but I knew that he had hung tough with Borgnes at a race in Montreal last year.  Vadim would be joined by perennial Canadian threats Jack Van Dorp and Brian Heath, the latter still clinging to his old West Side Boat racing kayak like an ailing medieval peasant to his leeches (and vice versa).  From the south, young Mexican flatwater paddler Ronald Zavala would be making his Blackburn debut.

And of course, not all threats were international.  The protective bio-electric barrier that usually keeps the indigenous New Jersey population contained (“for their own good”) apparently malfunctioned long enough for Robert Jehn to slip through.  Even closer to home, Matt Drayer has been nipping at my heels this entire season – a particularly impressive feat since more than once he’s had to twist around backwards in his cockpit to do so.  And hailing from a mere 8,342 feet from the starting line, rabid newcomer Janda Ricci-Munn was the local’s local everyone had their eye on.  A few weeks earlier I had delusions that this might be my year to win the Blackburn.  Clearly my pipe dream needed recalibration.  Cracking the top 5 seemed vaguely doable, but only after a vigorous round of self-affirmation exercises.

After a brisk captain’s meeting at Gloucester High School, the racers found their way onto the water.  With a mild incoming tide, we’d be fighting the current in the Annisquam River before getting some temporary relief in the open ocean.  By the time we finished, however, an outgoing tide would be pushing against us.  The forecast was for light northerly winds, but not enough to provide much downwind action on the long stretch along the east coast of Cape Ann.  After nearly a dozen heats of other craft had been launched on their journey, the surfskis finally nosed up to the starting line.

Nobody really knows how these things get started, but before I had a chance to gird my loins for the upcoming engagement (terrible chafing issues, you know), I found myself amidst the mayhem.  And then, within the first few seconds, increasingly abaft the mayhem.  While this might have been a safer vantage point to watch the unrolling skirmish at the front, I needed to join the melee.  Rather than diving in head-first with paddle flying (often a literal analogy, in my case) I took a cue from Jack Van Dorp, who was creeping ninja-like along the shore, out of the tidal current.  My rear-facing GoPro later showed that locals Matt and Janda quickly followed suit.

Ian Black was leading a furious charge up the middle of the channel, with Rob, Vadim, Ross, and a few others in tow.  A half-mile into the race, the course veers to the right while a long dead-end arm of the estuary stretches alluringly in front of you.  Having myself been enticed down the wrong path back in my larval sea kayak days (oh, such fond memories of pupation!), I knew how easy it was to lead yourself astray.  Watching the leaders veer from the optimal path I was treading the fine line between “exploiting local knowledge” and “being a weasel”.  With Jack by my side near the riverbank, however, I felt that between us we could likely shoulder the shameful burden of remaining silent.  I’m on the fence about misery, but trickery definitely loves company.

Unfortunately, Ian noticed the error of his way before heading too far afield and corrected his course to intercept ours.  Of course, as the star paddler of the race, he brought his entire entourage with him.  When Jack and I merged with the main group a quarter mile later we were just a skosh shy of the leaders.  At this point Ross was pulling, with Ian on a port draft and Rob flared out further to the left.  Everyone else had fallen at least a length behind.  I pulled onto Ross’ starboard draft, any lingering compunction about our clandestine corner-cutting quickly washed away by the salty spray from his paddle.

As Ross’ right hand man, I felt obligated to whisper sage advice into his ear.  He probably welcomed my suggestions concerning course adjustments given his unfamiliarity with the area, but I’m not convinced he appreciated the spiritual guidance (nobody seems to honor Baal these days) or random grooming tips (why not try pure lye to remove that pesky epidermis?).  Having had enough of my counsel after a few minutes, Ross dropped back for some peace and quiet while I took the pull for our inseparable gang of peers.

I’m not sure for exactly how long I spent basking in glory while leading the Blackburn, but it was precisely from 8:01.41 to 15:04.25 into the race – perhaps someone handy with a slide-rule and calipers can figure out the elapsed time for me.  At first, the euphoria related to pulling Ian Black muddled my thoughts (conveniently discarding the logical conclusion that he was just using me as a pathfinder through uncharted territory), but over time, suffering and fatigue gradually took over responsibility for scrambling my brainwaves.  I was intent on staying out front for as long as possible, but through the haze of growing anguish I remembered the sing-song adage concerning exertion: “When your heart rate hits four digits, you’ll soon be dead, cold and rigid.”  Although curious to see what would happen to my Garmin display after rolling past 999 bpm, I decided it might be wiser to let someone else take a pull.

While that move may have kept me alive for another 24 years, 7 months, and 10 days (give or take), it came at a bitter cost.  Ian tried to take point, but I denied him this opportunity by sliding clean off  his wake – just barely catching onto Ross’ rear draft on my way back.  With the mouth of the Annisquam now clearly in sight and our well-formed triangle in tatters, Ian decided to go it alone, leaving Ross and his plus one to fend for ourselves.  Fortunately, we had dropped Rob and the pursuit pack by this point, buying some time to formulate a new attack plan.

If I’m on a draft and I’m operating at any level less than a white-knuckled terror of falling off, I become inexplicably convinced that the puller is dogging it up front.  After a few minutes of such lollygagging from Ross, I couldn’t take it any more.  At any moment the guys behind would certainly catch us!  I moved smoothly ahead of Ross with a few powerful strokes (let’s call it 150), then relaxed into a new pace just a notch or two below his former clip.  Sure, we were technically going slower than before, but based on the labored breathing and intermittent groans I heard from the new puller, I was satisfied that nobody was slacking off.

I paddled out of the Annisquam with Ross in tow, while Ian steadily increased his lead ahead.  I’ve been referring to Ross by name for clarity in this report, but as these events unfolded, I actually thought I was sparring with Vadim.  I had met both men briefly during registration, but somehow got them mixed up once we were on the water.  I knew Vadim came from a flatwater background, so I figured that once we were in proper open water conditions, I’d have an opportunity to show off my superior rough water skills.  Rather than quibble about this wildly overstated characterization of my ocean paddling abilities, let’s just accept the questionable premise so that we can then agree that subsequently taking a 30 minute pull wasn’t a bone-headed blunder, but a brilliant piece of strategy.  Even though it wasn’t particularly rough, surely Vadim would stumble at some point and fall off my draft.

Approaching Halibut Point 3.5 miles later, I finally conceded that I wasn’t going to drop Vadim, and eased back to let him take a turn pulling.  As he passed by, I had a horrible epiphany regarding his identity.  I’d have loved to see the look on my face when I realized that Vadim was actually Ross, but I just can’t bring myself to check out that segment of my video.  Given the South African waters he habitually paddles in, Ross must have regarded our mild seas with a sneer of contempt.  I should note here that the real Vadim would finish only a minute behind me, despite conditions that would eventually get notably lumpier.  Clearly my assumptions about his ocean skills were off base.

Hoping that Ross was as much of a stand-up guy as brother Bruce (I’m not above using retroactive ass-kissing to influence results), I jumped on his wash and nestled in for my turn on the dole.  Perhaps we could work together over the next 90 minutes to lock down second and third places.  Keeping the good name of Poacher alive, Ross made no attempt to drop me.  You can imagine my surprise, then, when a few minutes later I blinked and suddenly found myself four length back.  I figured alien technology was advanced, but never imagined they’d mastered teleportation.  It took me the better part of fifteen minutes to get back on the draft, but then, poof, he’s four lengths ahead again.  After a couple of additional yo-yo iterations, I finally discovered that Ross’ so-called “teleportation” was nothing more than a parlor trick.  A sleight-of-paddle.  The charlatan was just exploiting minuscule runners to scoot briskly ahead of me.

Once I was onto Ross’ game, I figured it would be a simple matter of copying his every move.  Turns out, not that simple.  Apparently there’s some skill involved.  I started slipping further back from the downwind magician.  When I noticed a lobster boat angling across our path, dragging behind it undulating mounds of water, I knew the end was nigh.  Ross deftly hopped on the diagonal wake as I struggled in vain to match his proficiency, sliding sloppily back through successive peaks in the wave train.  Within a matter of seconds, what had been a half-dozen length deficit expanded to ten, fifteen, twenty lengths.  All I could do now was resolve to throwing increasingly paranoid glances over my shoulder for the next 8 miles in the hopes of maintaining third place.  It was with great satisfaction that the following week I watched Ross finish an impressive 27th at The Gorge against a world-class field.  A sound beating from such a paddler still hurts, but at least I can show the scars proudly to my kids.  Well… to someone’s kids.  Just before I’m taken away in cuffs.

With nearly half the race left to go and the tide increasingly turning against us, there was no shortage of drudgery remaining.  As we approached Eastern Point, the character of the water changed.  What had previously been good-natured ribbing gradually escalated, progressing through name-calling, wedgies, and lunch-money shakedowns.  Certainly not the kind of crimes-against-humanity we’ve been subjected to in Blackburns past, but unacceptable bullying behavior nevertheless.  I kept searching for the runners that would free me from this abusive relationship, but in the end I just had to weather the harassment until I reached the relative safety of Gloucester Harbor.  Based on the fact that Ross added another minute to his lead during this same span, he’d doubtless characterize the environment as more “nurturing” than “hostile”.  When you live in a country where each year more than half the population is eaten by either lions or great whites, you see things with a different perspective.

The final two-mile stretch to the greasy pole is a crapshoot as far as boat traffic is concerned.  You might throw a 7 or 11 and escape scot-free, or you might have to endure a constant stream of dice bouncing painfully off your melon.  I managed to break even on the trip, scoring a few lucky rides and only having to slow down once to avoid being rolled over by a working boat.  During my paddle across the harbor I searched anxiously (or, perhaps, eagerly) for the splintered remnants of Ross’ ski, but he rode his winning streak all the way to the finish, beating me by nearly two minutes.  Ian had completed his race 9 minutes before Ross, clocking in at 2:31:29 – the sixth fastest ski time ever recorded, in not particularly favorable conditions.

Scarcely a minute after I finished, Rob and Vadim sprinted in within seconds of one another, with Jake and Matt restaging this last-minute dogfight a minute later.  Melissa Meyer added another gold medal to her season’s heap in the women’s race.  The SS20+ class win came down to a photo finish between John Costello and John Redos, with the former taking the crown.  In doubles, Eric and Bruce won handily, slotting themselves between Ian and Ross in the overall standings so that South Africans could claim the three fastest ski times of the day.

I was feeling proud of my Blackburn performance.  I was outgunned by two phenomenal paddlers, but had held off the rest of a talented field to secure a podium finish (he says, conveniently omitting the fact that several of the usual suspects were absent).  Hooray for me!  Hubris has a distinct odor, but somehow through the post-race bouquet of sunscreen and beer, I never noticed it.  So when the Fates wheeled me into the OR for ego reduction surgery only five days later at the Gorge, it came as quite a shock.  As wave after wave of skis passed me, my groggy protestations that “I am a good paddler, I am.” seemed more and more ludicrous.  Nothing like a 114th place finish to remind you that there’s still a bit of work to be done.

Because I was so slow to get this report ready, we’re now lazily adrift in the race doldrums of August.  For those desperate enough to motor inland in search of competition, the USCA Marathon Nationals in Warren, PA will offer a respite from August 8 to 11.  MB and I will be there.  For the ocean purists, start rationing your provisions – you’ll need them to last until Mike McDonough’s Nahant Bay Cup, tentatively scheduled for August 31.  Watch SurfskiRacing and Facebook for details.

Check out many more spectacular race photos from Mike Sachs, Leslie Chappell, and Olga Sydorenko.  Also, there are great race reports from Ian Black, Melissa Meyer, and Wesley Echols.