Nahant Bay Race: Triangulation

If you’re anything like me, you’re inordinately fond of circus peanuts.  And, more to the point, you’re suffering a nasty case of race report fatigue.  In an effort to minimize our collective discomfort, I’ll  keep this concise.  Actually, let’s go with “more concise”.  Polonius claims that brevity is the soul of wit, but I’m pretty confident I can dispel that notion here.  The windbag ends up getting stabbed through a tapestry while spying, so I’m not sure you should be trusting his judgment anyway.

It lacks the portability and cost-effectiveness of PVC, but Rob’s classy stand lent gravitas to the proceedings.

With a mild southerly breeze and incoming tide, Nahant Bay race director Mike McDonough decided to run the classic triangular course so popular with the Pythagorean set.  Starting from Fisherman’s Beach in Swampscott, we’d tack across Nahant Bay, edge around East Point, turn on a channel marker a half-mile further on, make our way across the mouth of the bay outside of Egg Rock, round Off Rock, skirt Dread Ledge, and return for a beach finish.  The mild conditions meant that it was unlikely that Bill Kuklinski would be window-shaded at Off Rock again, so you could get pretty favorable odds at post time.

I’m not sure what Mike did to upset everyone in the greater Swampscott area, but local paddlers Matt Drayer, Graeme Rockett, and Bill Stafford chose to boycott the race.  Matt went so far as to run the course alone in the early morning, cheekily submitting his time as a slap-in-the-face protest.  He did well, but Mike DQ’ed him for failing to finish between the flags.  With Matt out of the picture and Jan Lupinski unable to attend due to being a scaredy-cat (who, coincidentally, may have also had legitimate commitments behind which he could hide his faint-heartedness), I was guessing that I’d be jousting primarily with Eric McNett, Eric Costanzo, Andrius Zinkevichus, and Ben Pigott.

During the captains meeting, Mike kept stopping to ask us if we could also see “Leprechaun Gary”.

Mike gathered the twenty-two paddlers (including a couple of OC-1 guys loitering around the park looking for trouble) for a quick captains meeting, the take-home message being that a Mexican feast would await us after the race.  With visions of tacos and quesadillas dancing in our heads, we made our way onto the water for a brief warm-up.  Conditions at the start favored those more comfortable on flat water, but from past experience I knew that once we hit East Point, the tables (and perhaps a few boats) could quickly turn.  Perennial Nahant Bay assistant Bill Baumann soon lined us up from the dock, counted us down to the start, and then (judging by its conspicuous absence at the post-race party) broke into Mike’s car and drank all of the tequila.

Ben, in his newly-purchased canary yellow Stellar, took the immediate lead, followed by Andrius, Eric Costanzo, and Bruce Deltorchio.  A few minutes into the race, I pulled myself up to Bruce and tried to catch a breather.  Despite his reputation as a mild-mannered gentleman and stand-up paddler (trapped in a surfski world), Bruce isn’t quite as gold-hearted as everyone thinks.  Enraged by my clumsy attempts to draft off his port quarter, he responded with a torrent of salty abuse.  If you want to get technical, it was more of a torrent of salty water, but the metaphor was clear enough.  I took the hint and swung wide to avoid his refreshing liquid chiding.

Fraternization is frowned upon at Nahant Bay.

By the time I had gotten around Bruce, the lead pack of Ben, Andrius, and Eric had opened up a gap of two or three boat lengths.  My whining pleas for them to slow down (“Hey guys, come on.  Wait for meeee!”) were met with stone-backed indifference.  Not wanting to miss out on all the fun they must be having up front, I silenced the annoying “Danger!  Danger!  Danger!” alarm emanating from my heart rate monitor and threw myself into the chase.  This effort had no discernible effect at a human timescale, but geologically speaking, I was making gains that gave continental drift a real run for its money.

I managed to catch Andrius and Eric before the next mass extinction event could end us all.  I used the psychological boost of that accomplishment to slingshot (well, maybe “inch” would be more accurate) myself past Ben and into the lead.  Now it was just a matter of holding everyone off until a meteor or super-volcano etched the mid-race standings into the record books.

The remainder of the trip across Nahant Bay was about as pleasant as it could be while suffering from severe oxygen debt.  I figured I’d eventually evolve to breathe carbon dioxide, so that helped to keep my spirits up.  As expected, at East Point the smooth seas evaporated (climate change, I suppose) to be replaced by saucy refractory waves.  I kept close to shore in rougher waters, hoping that any flat water specialists behind me would follow lemming-like to their doom.  Only my paddle prevented me from rubbing my hands together in malevolent glee thinking about the prospect.  I probably cackled, though.

After maneuvering through the fleet of spectator boats surrounding the turn buoy, I headed back across Nahant Bay.  Nearing Egg Rock, I decided to kick my bailer open for a few seconds to clear the last fifteen minutes of accumulated sweat from the cockpit.  Despite repeated attempts, I only succeeded in pulling a neoprene shoe off my heel.  The bailer lever wouldn’t budge.  I would later discover that a plastic component had broken off and lodged fast in the mechanism.  At the time, however, all I knew was that I now had an air-tight excuse if I blew the lead!  I’d just scoop some extra water into the footwell before hitting the beach, then point accusingly at my traitorous boat.

Before sloshing on, I stole a quick glance over my shoulder to see exactly to whom I’d be justifying my forthcoming defeat.  My uncorrected vision is such that I once argued over a parking spot for a half-hour with a traffic cone.  I still say I was there first.  There was a fuzzy presence back a couple hundred meters, but I could tell by his determined blurriness that whoever it was meant business.  Or was actually a buoy.  I wasn’t about to stick around to find out.

I chose this frame from my GoPro as a representative example of the kind of lithe athleticism that I only ever seem to achieve in 1/60 of a second bursts.

I spent the rest of the way to Off Rock ping-ponging back and forth between fearing that the hazy blob would catch me and worrying that I’d take a wave over the gunnel and swamp the boat.  Rounding the rock, I saw that I had a reasonably safe lead over a focused Eric.  This left me free to obsess solely over keeping water out of the cockpit, which helped keep my mind off the grind of the last mile and a half.  It was a slow year compared to past races, but I eventually stumbled up the beach for the win.  Although I’d have no qualms claiming the opposite had events turned out differently, the malfunctioning bailer didn’t have a significant impact on my race.

Eric has a well-earned reputation as a rough water and downwind specialist, but with a solid second place finish in calm-to-modest conditions I’m afraid we’re going to have to re-categorize him as an all-purpose paddler.  Andrius took the final podium position, with Bruce missing out on the top-three accolades by only 17 seconds.  The rest of the top ten: Eric McNett, Mike, Tim Hudyncia, Ben, Kirk Olsen, and Bob Capellini.  Mary Beth was the first woman in, claiming her fifth title of the season.

Tim thought he was a lock for the coveted “Mr. Sourpuss” award, but ultimately had to settle for “Number One Badass”.

I was elated to take first, but it would have been a truly hollow victory if it hadn’t been for the excellent post-race Mexican spread – the real winner of the day.  Thanks, Mike and Carol!  The Rose Island Lighthouse race is up next, where Jan will almost surely make me pay dearly for that scaredy-cat joke.