Beaver Times Two by Mark Ceconi

Beaver Times Two: What’s a Little Weather Amongst Friends?
Jamestown, RI, August 2, 2014

The Double Beaver Race… Despite a name that none of us can repeat in public without, at the very least, a downward cast of the eyes and slight blush, the mention of this out and back surfski event in Jamestown, Rhode Island, initiates a spike in one’s heart rate. Be it suggestive association, or the fact that the course and conditions have traditionally always offered more than a bit of challenge, the Beaver times two has rarely failed to disappoint. Running from the Conanicut Yacht Club (most Rhode Island street and business names end in ‘icut,’ ie* ‘Misquamicut, Ogunquicut, Igotsicut, etc.’) on the harbor under the shadow of the Newport Bridge, past the green buoy can off historic Beavertail Lighthouse and State Park, it’s not one to miss. The wonderful Dwyer family: Tim, Alyce, Finn, Gaelyn, and mascot, Selkie, host the event. A HUGE thank you goes out to them. The wonderful Alyce, following registration, stood in the steady downpour timing, also accompanying son, Finn, on the chase boat, to assure everyone’s safe return.

I’m well aware that this is Wesley and Tim’s home turf. They know the names of each of the points as they progress along the course: Bull Point, Fort Cove, West Cove, Mackerel Cove, Concord Gulf Cove, Southwest Point, Short Point, Hull Cove, Lion Head, and Beavertail Point and Lighthouse. They’ve affectionately named every major rock and outcropping clear out to the intended turnaround, the massive Whale Rock, or ‘Moby Dick.’ They’ve even awarded the smaller rocks more intimate names, like ‘Tweenie, Miley, and ‘The Biebs.’ Their course progression has them checking all the boxes of the points above in rapid succession.

For me, the race course unfolds like this: Yacht Club and two person bathroom, slippery boat ramp with barnacle encrusted dock posts that will gouge the crap out of your pretty surfski, obstacle course of moored boats in harbor, funky house on the rocks (‘Clingstone? Cling-on?’…), big, open ocean intent on launching you out of your bucket, Beavertail Lighthouse waves crashing on rocks bent on destroying aforementioned pretty ski, ginormous, green turn buoy that clangs really loud… Then lather, rinse, and repeat. Honestly, I took in nothing in the way of scenery, save the reassuring appearance now and again of another competitor.

Chris Sherwood and I jinxed the weather for this race at the Blackburn. I put the majority of the blame squarely on Chris. He joked something along the lines of: “Can you believe we’ve had nothing but beautiful weather for almost every race this year?” Granted, I raised my red plastic cup of Ipswich Ale and laughed along in confirmation, effectively sealing the kabosh. This morning began with temps in the sixties, slate gray skies, and intermittent schvitzing rain. Loading the trailer of boats with my Ocean Paddlesports East buddies, we deliberated on which selection of models to bring, because hey, who wouldn’t want to enjoy demo paddles in a downpour after 10 hard miles of cool temps and incessant precipitation?

Unfortunately, we were missing Tommy Kahuna, who was defending his action figure status as team leader at his Crossfit gym. Road tripping up with peeps, Steve and Jim, though, despite the palpable absence of Tom’s gravitas, is always a hoot. Naturally, we experienced another trailer-related incident en route. While Steve was duct taping in a downpour on the roadside median, Jim laughingly suggested we clamber in the truck and pull away. Steve, as you might well imagine, thought nothing could be more hysterical. The skies opened the whole way up I-95. We refused to let a little moisture dampen our spirits, playing the license plate game, and singing several rounds a capella of the rousing state song: ‘Rhode Island, It’s For Me.’

Arriving at the yacht club, there was a decent turnout, despite the less than favorable conditions. Noting that apart from the superduo, Borys and Beata, our buddy, Big Jim Hoffman, and Eric McNett, everyone had wisely chosen to throttle back a notch, bringing their more stable skis. Eric even made a concession to the weather and donned a shirt, albeit short sleeves. I’d selected my new V10 Sport Ultra, and in a moment of ‘Safety first!’ fitted the mondo surf rudder. I enacted this in a generous gesture toward my fellow compadres, assuring them by my actions I’d clear a swath of weed for their return trip. Slightly put off, I received no offerings of gratitude back at the ranch. The lawn at the start line resembled an Epic dealer’s convention. There were more V8s present than in the juice aisle at the local supermarket.

In direct contrast to an Echol’s Captain’s Meeting, where it’s apparent Wesley’s been mainlining Adventurous Joe products for years, Tim’s ‘Hakuna Matata’ style took us through the now abbreviated course. Truth be told, I love both those knuckleheads. I’d noogie them soundly if they were here. As they say, ‘opposites attract,’ probably why they’ve remained fast friends, literally and figuratively, over the years, practicing the common religion of surfski. The great white whale rock would not be witnessed on this day; we’d spin on the green can off Beavertail and make for home.

Thankfully, the rain abated somewhat, the skies now intermittently spitting water like a gap-toothed kid in a swimming pool. We ‘warmed up’ in the unsettled chop of the harbor, eventually lining up between the dock and some lobster boat (They all looked the same.). Alyce initiated the countdown, and take-off commenced.

From this point on, things were a little blurry, ostensibly the raindrops obscured my vision. The leaders were off-I have no idea who they were, although, were I a betting man, I might offer a wager. I’d discover later that both a hard-charging Chris Chappell, and resident fast guy, Greg Lesher, would wisely listen to their bodies, and call it a day. The front pack was a dogfight: Borys, Eric , Andrius, Beata…the list went on. I held pace with Mike Herrera in his bright yellow Huki, and Tim Hudyncia, who regaled me several times with my seventh grade nickname at the top of his lungs: “CE-CO-NI BA-LO-NEY!” The advent of the Internet is an insidious thing. Nothing is sacred. I thought I’d buried this, only to have Tim ‘Hyacinth’ Hudyncia dredge it up from its watery grave.

We stitched our random paths through moored boats toward the opening at the house on the rocks. Emerging into less protected waters, things began to rock and roll a bit. Quartering seas struck hard left on the beam, mostly wind-driven, with little swell. Tim and Mike gapped me, selecting a course that hugged the coastline. Up ahead, I made out the red tails of more V-8s, maybe a Cooper or Kuklinski, spinning wing blades in unison. The seas became more confused-you had to be on your game. Focusing ahead of me, I quickly glanced down to note my Garmin rotated upwards on the footstrap, useful evidently only to my guardian angel, hovering directly above my boat. Now, the wind-driven fetch was rolling, becoming more inconsistent. The rain began again, the waves sprayed with the buckshot of raindrops, peppered by polka-dots; it was mesmerizing. Really, quite a beautiful thing.

Somewhere around ‘The Biebs,’ Mike Herrera and I came back together on our preordained, chosen paths. I resisted ‘Bieber Fever,’ defined as: ‘the sheer happiness on this course of having someone nearby you.’ Mike dropped in behind me, riding wash, every so often tapping my stern to let me know he was there, then apologizing for the perceived faux pas. “Mike!” I shouted back into the wind, “No worries! I’m relieved you’re there!” “If I fall in, and go under your boat,” he returned, “I was trying to figure out how to get your attention!” “How fast are we going?!” he added. “Don’t know!” I called back, “I’m afraid to look down!” A flash of black and yellow passed the opposite direction, another rare Borys sighting.

At this juncture, headed toward the green turn buoy, we approached the lighthouse at Beavertail State Park. Denoted mainly by sound, sightseeing was definitely not an option. Having mainly frequented the shore communities, I had to Google search to research if, in fact, actual beaver populations existed in The Ocean State, or ‘Little Rhody,’ as it’s affectionately called. According to Wikipedia, undisputed in Internet reliability, other names were originally suggested for the state park, attempting to capture the elusive combination of physical appearance and indigenous state animal. Unfortunately, the suggestions of ‘Little Stubby Squirreltail, ’ and ‘ Rhode Island Red Rump,’ were immediately shot down by the constituency, leaving ‘Beavertail’ as the also ran. Turns out that beavers are native, although I now am intrigued by the notion of saltwater beavers. Might they be along the lines of saltwater crocs, albeit far, far less intimidating? Recalling the recent news article relating how a beaver dragged a kayaker from his vessel in upstate New York, repeatedly biting him severely, I was taking no chances; I’d be keeping my eyes open for the glimmer of orange buckteeth amidst the whitecaps.

We rounded the green can, Mike cutting a sharp, inside turn with his Huki. Immediately, the insistency of the wind was apparent, facing into the teeth of it. Despite building seas, it seemed easier. Now there were rides to be had. Focusing on everything ‘The Big O’ himself, Oscar Chalupsky, taught us in a past tutorial on this very stretch of water, the goal became to concentrate on staying on top of the wave, cutting down at an angle, always reading the ocean for the next one. There was a consistent inconsistency of pattern. By this, I mean that the swell had its own rhythm, its own energy; the wind waves another. Tap into one, and it would carry you up and over, to meld with the other.

Despite my best efforts, Mike began to gap me, tapping into his wildwater experience. He’d catch a ride just that much farther, shortening his stroke, increasing his cadence. When focused primarily on reading wave sets, I pulled closer. When my mission became catching Mike, the distance remained the same, or widened.

In between the rougher bits, flatter sections graciously appeared, offering the opportunity to lengthen one’s stroke, adopt a higher hand position, and perhaps, make up a bit of lost time. In the midst of one of the more sedate sections, one of the many V8s appeared ahead. It was Bob Wright, headphones on, chillin’, and paddlin’ away. I don’t know what playlist Bob had, but I want it. He seemed supremely unfazed by the sea rolling beneath him. Coming past him, I called out to him: “Hey, Bob Wright! You appear supremely unfazed by the chaos that reigns about you!” but he was firmly in the zone. I doubt he knew I was even there. Mary Beth passed the opposite direction, eye of the tiger, bent on the turn buoy prize. “Go, Mary Beth!!” I yelled. She answered something unintelligible lost to the wind, with a quick, nervous, furtive glance upwards; I knew the feeling well. It was New York Subway protocol: Don’t make eye contact.

Somewhere, off to the right, Steve appeared on parallel course, replete in his orange unitard, and complementary Mocke vest. In the running for ‘Mr. Visibility 2014,’ Steve had not yet smelled the barn, as is his usual modus operandi. It would be catch him now or never. Despite my opting for the ‘now’ option, it would be never, actually, significantly later, in the truck on the way home. He caught a whiff of the stable, and you’d have thought someone tied a can to his ass, doused it all in gasoline, and lit the whole shebang on fire. Keeping Mike in my crosshairs was something approaching work. He must have sniffed the exact same barn Steve did, as based on the steady rain now spritzing down from the heavens, there was little chance his arse was alight.

The final approach to the finish line and nondescript lobster boat lay approximately 1.5 miles across the harbor, in marked similarity to the finish of the Blackburn in Gloucester, the marked similarity being, that the finish line of neither seems to grow any closer. Jamestown Harbor, however, has the monopoly on moored boats, inviting a playful game of ‘Marco! Polo!’ right to the checkered flag. Actually, assessing the whereabouts of Steve and Mike was more akin to a game of ‘Where’s Waldo?’ Both would disappear amongst the multitude of masts, only to reappear moments later: “THERE he is!” Kind of fun, except for the fact that trainspotting those little striped shirt pointdexters had my heart rate in the red zone.

The jobblies of the harbor trip out had all but disappeared. Evidently, the inclement weather had kept the pleasure boaters at bay-the trip back to the finish line was, for all intents and purposes, as smooth as a baby’s…ear. Staying out in the current was too little, too late-both Steve and Mike had kicked in their afterburners, streaking across the line about a minute before me. Jim had a superb race, finishing fifth in an extremely rapid crowd.

Crossing the Finish Line – Photo by Betsy Echols

The rain continued, intensified, as the boys of OPSE cinched their rides back aboard the trailer crossbars. I missed my GoodBoy Kayaks ‘V’ bars-just a quick lasso of a bungee and you’re away in thirty seconds or less. We were soaked to the gills.

Alyce had set out a tall stack of nubby, dry towels awaiting the participants. We toweled dry, then retired to the warm after party in Casa de la Dwyer, replete with hearty sandwiches, beverages, cookies, good conversation, feats of strength, and raffle prizes. Thanks go out, also, to ever so delightful Betsy Echols, and back-up mascot, Daisy, for taking the photos to commemorate. I’m beyond impressed Daisy can work the shutter lacking opposable thumbs.

We chatted, hung, feasted, and watched surfski vids in high def on Tim’s huge flatscreen, which, much to my chagrin, was NOT one of the raffle prizes, despite my suggestion to the contrary. Another beaver, and a double one at that… After all, what’s a little weather amongst friends?