You might think that a race held in a gated community situated on a semi-private island within the genteel city of Newport would attract only the finest breed of paddlers – athletes with refined tastes, ivy league degrees, and the highest standards of personal hygiene.  But maybe by chance you’d overhear at a polo tournament or yacht christening that Tim Dwyer was hosting the event in question.  And then, of course, you’d rush home to safeguard your valuables before the hoi polloi invaded.  For the second year, Tim would be running the Battle of the Bay from his home on Goat Island in the mouth of Newport Harbor.  Although the race is usually held in July, the postponement of the Essex River Race left a hole in the surfski season too big for an opportunistic race director to ignore.

Wary of the cold ocean temperatures and unpredictable May weather, Tim had originally planned a conservative course that would keep us mostly within Newport Harbor.  With nearly no wind and temperatures approaching 70, however, he made the race-day decision to revert to the triangular course from 2020.  We’d start at the southern end of Goat Island, head out to buoy R12, return to the northern end of Goat Island, and follow the harbor-side coast of the island back to the start.  Two laps would total just shy of 6 miles.

As befitted the boutique nature of a Newport race, the field was small but eclectic.  In addition to a smattering of locals and regulars, Rob Jehn and Megan Pfeiffer made the long trek from New Jersey, flatwater specialist Mark Wendolowski decided to see what all the salt water fuss was about, Gary Shaw joined us from South Africa (not just for the race – he also was dabbling as an engineer on a sailing yacht while in the area), and fellow swan-attack victim Jeff Tucker (with chipped gel coat to prove it).  My principal concern was Rob, who had beaten me a few weeks before on the Quaboag River.  He’d be in a V12 rather than his customary V10, but it didn’t look like the conditions would make him regret that decision.  Based on his country of origin, I had concerns about Gary as well, but he assured me that he was out of shape.  Which is exactly what the lion tells the gullible springbok at the watering hole.

Even on the water, we’re slaves to our screens. (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

After a captain’s meeting that focused primarily on the rich naval history of Newport (“So, in summary, watch out for unexploded torpedoes!”), we launched a modest fleet to prepare for our brand of maritime skirmish.  Making a rare concession to tactical thinking (or, if you want to quibble, common sense), I positioned myself near Rob for the start.  Taking the next logical step, I was quietly lashing my boat to his when Tim’s countdown rudely interrupted my efforts.  Rob’s start was solid, but I was able to stay close enough to get the benefit of his draft.  Just to our right, Gary also got off the line well.  The remainder of the lead group consisted of Tim D, Mark, Wesley, and Tim Hackett.

Within the first 30 seconds, my tenuous link to Rob started to fray.  To legally preserve my privileged position in the general vicinity of his stern draft, I loudly called out “Dibs!”  Apparently this sacrosanct protocol doesn’t carry quite the same weight in South Africa as it does here, because Gary scarcely hesitated before sliding into my rightful drafting slot.  The nerve!  [My live-in editor, who wasn’t at the race and has never even met Gary, somehow intuited that this might be a case of unwarranted indignation.  Under enhanced interrogation, I cracked and revealed that I had fallen back an honest boat length before Gary’s move.  Still… Dibs!]

I debated between Gary’s port and stern drafts, ultimately letting my flagging speed settle the argument in favor of the latter.  In retrospect, this mistake cost me the race.  That’s what I like so much about retrospect – it need not align with reality to any significant degree.  I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if there were elves, unicorns, and affordable healthcare in retrospect.  Here’s how my particular alternative history would have played out.  On Gary’s side draft (with a better view of the situation), I immediately detect when he starts to fall off of Rob.  A short half boat length surge is sufficient to secure a spot just behind Rob.  I implausibly stick with him in this position for the next 5.5 miles.  You might think in my manufactured vision that I’d then sprint by Rob at the finish, but it turns out that’s not within even my fictional abilities.  No, I’d only win after aggressively ramming his stern and forcing him into a piling.  So, perhaps better that things played out as they did.  

I like to poke fun at Tim, but the truth is that he’s the kind of guy that you want around when things get rough. That is, the kind of guy that really puts a premium on visibility. (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)
I’m just out of the frame. (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Although Gary stayed with Rob for a couple of minutes, he eventually was unable to maintain the leader’s pace.  I pulled around him and made what at that time felt like an all-out effort to catch Rob.  Given that I’ve lived to write the tale, however, in retrospect it seems I could have put a little more heart into it.  That particular timeline has me suffering a stroke at mile 4 and being air-lifted to the only available in-network provider, just outside Dayton.  Interestingly, though, the pilot was an elf.

Despite my best (?) efforts, Rob remained out of reach.  At this point he could have put the nail in my coffin by pulling further ahead into uncatchable territory.  Instead, the sadist elected to prolong my death throes (coincidentally, the exact term a dumbfounded Sean Rice once used to describe my stroke) through a fiendish combination of offsetting ploys.  First, he dialed his velocity to approximately 2% greater than mine.  Then to counteract nearly all the gains this should have garnered, Rob charted the kind of erratic lines seldom seen outside of a Jackson Pollock painting.  Given that this was a point-to-point course with highly visible landmarks and no consequential current or wind effects, you’d be amazed at how many times I had to restrain myself from shouting out course adjustments to the leader.  Fortunately, my innate sense of underhandedness made it relatively easy to keep my trap shut in the face of Rob’s questionable route decisions.  Against my better judgement, however, after the race I gave him a crash course in Euclidean geometry.  You know… how the shortest path between two points is a semi-circle – not the milder arcs he had been experimenting with.

So Rob would steadily pull away on each of the triangular legs, only to sacrifice much of that effort when we converged at the next vertex.  My hopes of catching him would wane and wax accordingly.  The net effect, however, was that Rob’s lead grew incrementally.  Any hopes that V12 instability would trip him up were dashed by a dearth of boat traffic, as well as by his deft handling of those wakes we did encounter.  My spirits waxed gibbous one final time at the second turn at R12, but quickly descended again into shadow as Rob’s unconventional line back towards Goat Island actually reaped dividends.  On that course he was better able to leverage the long swell from a massive cargo ship that had entered Narragansett Bay some minutes earlier.  With a little over a mile remaining, I reluctantly transitioned from the pursuit phase of the race to the face-saving “minimize the damage” phase.

Rob finished 42 seconds ahead of me – safely within the not-at-all-arbitrary 45 second threshold that  I decided would allow me to look him in the eyes afterwards.  I’m disregarding the 30 or so seconds he probably could have added to that gap with better navigation, of course.  Gary pulled in a few moments later to claim the final podium spot.  Megan took the women’s crown in her inaugural New England race.  Will Bomar was the SUP champion.  Afterwards, we all enjoyed the fine day, with marvelous panoramic views of the growing activity in the bay.  Thanks to Tim for having us over.

The bonhomie is what keeps me coming back. Goes great on a cracker with a dash of paprika. (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)
Safety first. Despite the fact that the field was accounted for and on dry land, Dave remained suited up in case one of us needed rescue. (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Next up is the Sakonnet Surfski Race on June 5.  After years of legal wrangling and ugly court battles, Wesley finally accepted a plea bargain, conceding that the former name (“Sakonnet River Race”) comprised “grossly misleading nomenclature” that “willfully distorted the true nature of the venue”.  To wit… it ain’t a river.  Sadly, my broader case against the cartographers of the world remains unresolved.  Register at PaddleGuru.