What, no Surfski?!
I abandoned my surfski for this race. Yet I was itching to go all the way around Manhattan this year as conditions last year were tough enough to be cancelled mid-race. As ungainly and awkward as they might be for racing, a tandem sea kayak is a good way to go as insurance in case lightning struck twice in the form of nasty conditions.

Who would paddle with me?
I could have teamed up with any one of a number of New England paddlers, with Wesley Echols, my main paddling partner as a logical choice. But Wes remained loyal to his craft and wanted to round Manhattan in a ski. Then I recalled my paddling partner of the Memory Paddle Challenge 2003, Maury “The Fearless” Eldredge. Going 300 miles around Long Island in 7 days and surviving the 46 mile Montauk Point paddle on a day when our escort boat turned around led to a high degree of trust and confidence. He’s also the Blackburn record holder for sea kayaks, less than a minute shy of breaking the magical 3 hour mark. The only problem is whether he’d want to do it with me.

Lightning Does Strike Twice
Forward to race day. This race will surely be cancelled we all thought. Yet organizer Ray Fusco had a plan. The Coast Guard would allow only a limited number of those considered “Elite” to go out into the maelstrom. The truly Elite paddlers, Barton, Rice, Borgnes and the like were shoo ins to be allowed to race but us mere mortals had to plead our cases individually. Not a man with self-doubt, Maury was literally first in line absolutely confident that we could handle it. Looking out at the furious rollers and leaning into the fierce winds I thought we could do it but do I want to. I’m no elite paddler and there was no way I’d do it in a ski.

I thought of how happy I was on steady dry land and for a moment considered the benefits to health and safety of backing out. Looking out at the hideous conditions I imagined telling “no fear” Maury no thanks for just a moment then and made the only good choice. Feeling a bit sheepish I pulled on the Elite paddler bib and prepped for the abuse that was soon to come.

Into the Fray
On the line with us were 3 double skis and about 7 double sea kayaks. Not all would finish. Single skis started soon after. Decked out in wool caps, pogies, wet and drysuits these weren’t your typical outfits for a race—it looked more like a seal hunt.

In every race there are errors made. Since they are mostly unavoidable you have to try to make sure you have as few as possible. My comedy of errors began right away.

My large brimmed hat, intended to keep the pouring rain off instead flattened like a pancake over my face the instant we got onto the howling Hudson seconds after the start. I literally saw nothing but the inside of my hat. The first violent drops over the stacked waves were unseen with paddle strokes doing a swing and a miss catching only air. Disoriented and boneheaded, I felt like the 4th Stooge and just had to laugh at the comedy. I never saw the first turn mark. Despite this we had a fast start and were ahead of all the other double sea kayaks.

The next goof was when during race prep I’d considered a tight neoprene sprayskirt but dismissed it as it diminished effective rotation. How I wished I had that skirt for the race. With each wave breaking over the bow and hitting my chest and face the water landed in my fancy zippered K-1 spray skirt and creating a pool that leaked—a lot. The gallons of water sloshed around my legs and the boat labored to keep it’s bow up for the relentless procession of waves. Because of this we had to stay out of the rougher but much faster favorable current out toward the middle of the channel. Having to stop and pump out on the way up to the Harlem River cost us. Next my deck bag holding a hat, gel, VHF etc. was hammered off by the breaking waves and was held dangling by one remaining bungee cord again forcing a stop.

Markus Demuth a strong and competent surfski racer and expedition sea kayaker paired up with Mike Blair in a double sea kayak as part of the Achilles division. Mike was injured in Iraq and has a physical disability and had teamed up with Mark Ceconi in last years Mayor’s Cup. They trained hard to do well in this race and do well they did. They were able to stay 100 yds. out in the faster current and their good sprayskirts handled the larger waves out there. Our initial lead disappeared as they slid by halfway toward the GW Bridge.

The 28 mph with gusts well beyond that lashed at us while the waves pummeled us for 3 hrs during the 13 mile grind to the Harlem River. Of the Elite paddlers that dared to start at least 10 had turned around before then. It felt much more of an event to complete than a race.

Still, the first wave of the top ski paddlers passing us looked impressive with powerful steady strokes despite the ripping conditions.

The Promised Land
Getting to the Harlem was a triumphant moment. While the current was against us for several miles we were able to catch some small surf, bail out the boat again and have a gel without coming to a stop. Cheers came from the Columbia University’s docks from fellow paddlers who didn’t get to race came to yell out kind words of support to two whipped paddlers not even halfway done. Thanks for being there!

Approaching Hells Gate was like entering the promised land—fast favorable winds and currents at last. The steady rise in speed was a joy. Going from 5 mph to 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 and for too brief a moment 12.4 mph was a rush in the churning current. All paddlers were being swept out by nature’s royal flush that is the East River. At least two of the top ski paddlers swam in the swirling chaos of Hell’s Gate. The mother ship double was just bumped this way and that in the whirlpools that were nothing compared to the howling Hudson.

Lady Liberty
Into the home stretch before rounding N into the wind and current at Battery Park, our speed was a nice 7mph. The drop to 3.1 was immediate and we struggled to stay in the 2mph range and ultimately down several times to 0.0 over the final mile as current and wind combined with chaotic refractory waves washing over the deck from both sides. It was the slowest 1 mile I’ve ever done in a race and it took about 18 min.

Even Lady Liberty had her back to the wind and it looked like the flame on the top of her torch might be blown out. We were getting stuffed again after 5 hours in the boat. I’d called out our speed constantly throughout the race to Maury but hadn’t the heart to tell him at times we were going nowhere. Dig deep and find more. Heart Rate 173, countless gallons sloshing around my legs, unable to stop and bail this time. As Maury would later write there was no margin for lapse in focus. Yet the finish drew ever near until we crossed into what he called “the quiet cove of jubilation”. ~ Tim