Like many New England paddlers, I awoke this past Saturday with an inexorable compulsion. A mysterious beckoning against which there could be no resistance. In a trance-like state of compliance, Mary Beth and I loaded a couple of skis on the car and started our migration south. Navigating by the invisible lines of the Earth’s magnetic field, with the occasional assist (seems there’s a anomalous vortex just outside of Providence) from Google Maps and an indignant gas station attendant (“Does this look like 2004 to you, sir?”), we finally emerged from our stupor to find ourselves at Fort Wetherill Park for the 6th episode of Ride the Bull.
John and Wesley marvel at the future magnificence of this picture. (Photo courtesy of Max Yasochka)
In addition to the regular cast of susceptible locals, the call of Rhode Island was strong enough to summon Guy Gilliland clear from Hawaii. Last seen wandering around Essex in 2016 looking fruitlessly for a true ocean race, Guy was anxious to immerse himself in the healing waters of the Atlantic. Figuratively, one assumes – the thermal shock might well kill him.
Guy wasn’t the only notable exotic paddler. John Hair was bitten by the RTB bug back in 2016. He pulled through, but has since had to make the yearly drive from Rochester (NY) for his booster shot. The last time we met, John and I had duked it out for silver in the fog of Nahant Bay, so I knew I’d have to keep a close eye on him. New recruit Kurt Hatem joined us for his first surfski race, liberating himself from the FSK class to impress in a V10. We may need to send him back in undercover to extract Roger Gocking.
As has become his pre-race tradition, Ed breaks a paddle over his head to psyche himself up. Needless to say, this practice has taken its toll. (Photo courtesy of Max Yasochka)
I had concerns about Andrius Zinkevichus, racing for the first time this season. Based on recent Facebook posts from his Brača-sponsored tour of Europe, he was obviously getting in some quality flatwater training. However, it was the outlandish green Team Lithuania unitard that he wore to the race that really had me worried. You don’t risk merciless Kermit-on-steroid taunts unless you’re pretty confident you can hop on your boat and paddle your opponents into submission. The bulging muscles – they probably also help limit the ridicule (at least until some anonymous coward gets back to the safety of his or her computer). I just hoped that rough water would keep the Grinch from stealing the win.
The nine mile course would essentially be the same as last year’s, with some minor simplifications to accommodate the fact that, collectively, we’re not all that bright. From the start in West Cove, we’d proceed to Mackerel Cove, rounding a mooring buoy just beyond the rock we usually turn on (tough luck, rookies). After heading out of the cove to the next turn at buoy G7, we’d skim downwind (ish) past the House on the Rock to buoy G11 before returning to the mouth of West Cove. This we would then repeat. As a final kicker leg, we’d head from West Cove directly to G7, returning to finish in our launch bay. If Tim and Wesley can just manage to hold a steady course for a couple dozen more years, we may just get it memorized.
Given the virtual certainty of uncomfortable conditions somewhere along the route – they don’t call it Lounge on the Sofa (although I would absolutely attend that race) – I opted for the V10 Sport instead of the V10. I made this decision back at home, but John had to make a game-time call between the same choices, having brought a brace of Epics. He went with the V10. Fortune favors the bold. From personal experience, I’d say it’s also a favorite of Calamity, Comedy, and Comeuppance.
“Safety first, guys! Then hygiene. Let’s run a clean race. [chuckles] And finally, if you have time, spiritual enlightenment.” (Photo courtesy of Max Yasochka)
I often have hubristic visions of greatness early in the race. By the time we reached the first turn in Mackerel Cove, I figured that most of the field would have dropped out and headed back to their cars – too demoralized by my dominance to carry on. Rounding the turn, I scanned the cove anxiously to confirm my suspicions. Not sure if I overestimated my ability or underestimated everyone else’s demoralization threshold, but it turns out that being back a half-dozen boat lengths doesn’t really send anyone home crying. In addition to John (still only a few seconds back), Andrius, Chris, Wesley, Tim, Guy, and Kurt were hot on the chase. The wily fellows had turned the tables on me, as I now fought off my own wave of disheartenment. This was going to hurt.
Heading out past Kettle Bottom Rock on the way to the turn on G7, conditions got a little beamy. For the first time, I was happy to be in my Sport. And John wasn’t happy to not be in his Sport. Or, perhaps, he wasn’t not sad to be in his non-Sport. In any event, he first thoughtfully dropped back several lengths so I wouldn’t be alarmed by his wailing, then dropped himself into the drink. Chris, probably thinking this was some kind of drill, followed suit. Having only a second-generation V12 to choose from, however, he had to content himself with not being non-unhappy, period. Both guys were quickly back on board and in pursuit, but I had a little more cushion to work with.
Is it just me, or has Timmy been about 30% more chipper than usual? (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
The run back past Fort Wetherill towards the House on the Rock was enjoyable, with some usable waves heading in the right general direction. When I got past the rock off of Bull Point, however, the conditions took an unfriendly turn. A tidal race had pitched itself in the stretch from the point to G11, converting this area into a broken seascape of standing waves, rife with unpredictable currents and swirling eddies. Superimposed on this was the added texture of wakes from a healthy stream of motorboats cutting unnecessarily close to the channel marker.
At first I tried to read the water, attempting to catch some rides, or at least to avoid the most turbulent sections. But it was an indecipherable babble. From the tone, however, I could tell it was hostile. I quickly abandoned technique and activated survival mode. You’d get a small head of steam going, only to find yourself stalled on a standing wave, abruptly turned in an unhelpful direction (with upside down being a distinct directional possibility), or translated laterally by an invisible hand. Doubtless it would be excellent practice to put in an hour or two paddling in such mayhem, but I was hoping to spend somewhat less time there during the race. Eventually I made it to the buoy, only to have to repeat the dangerous traverse going the other way. Comparing notes after the race, it seems that nobody was able to find a peaceful path through the turmoil.
Did anyone else notice a rainbow-colored splotch in the sky during the second lap? At the time, I figured that I was probably just suffering a wee bout of stroke. In Google-aided retrospect, however, it may have been cloud iridescence. Brain malfunction or atmospheric phenomenon – regardless, it was kinda cool.
I spent most of the loop back to Mackerel Cove and G7 devising a better strategy for negotiating the tidal race on my second visit. At the turns I could see that the Green Monster had separated himself from the rest of the pursuit team and was less than a minute back. Apparently the Nelo 550 was the right boat for him. All too soon I found myself once again in the bewildering waters off Bull Point.
The last 20 minutes of scheming had failed to produce an attack plan more sophisticated than “stay upright and continent”. As luck would have it, though, enough water was sloshing through my bucket that I could concentrate solely on the former. By maintaining a vice-like grip on the paddle and taking the occasional tentative stroke, I slowly dragged myself to G11. Any leg drive or hip rotation was purely the accidental result of spasmodic attempts to maintain my balance. My rounding of the buoy was so sluggish and so tight that, had I the proper tools, I could have scraped off the rust and slapped on a new coat of marine paint. The trip back to Bull Point was slightly less arduous, but for a moment it appeared that my weaving cross-current path was destined to intersect with Guy’s similar meanderings from the other direction.
With other concerns occupying me, I hadn’t got a good read on how close the competition was at the turn. Heading out to the final run around G7, I passed Mary Beth going the opposite direction on her second lap. She relayed some back-handed good news – “Despite your slouch and that atrocious stroke, you have a 30 length lead.” I’m a pretty unreliable narrator, so there was no need to take the criticism to heart. But that also meant I had to question MB’s estimate of my lead. I decided that it was prudent to start my final sprint immediately. That lasted a full 15 seconds, after which I transitioned smoothly from “sprint” to “wheeze”, where I remained for the last mile of the race.
Strong finishes by Chris and John. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
Shortly after I finished, Andrius coasted in, looking disquietingly jolly after such a tough race. I’m not sure I want to live in a world where this is what he can do after a few weeks of training strictly on flatwater. Yeah… probably I still do. But check back after he beats me in our next race. Chris nabbed the final podium spot, with John in talkative tight pursuit. Tim took fifth. Kurt was awarded the “Uh-oh, this guy is going to be trouble” award after finishing sixth in his first ski race. Watching him pull in, I couldn’t help but be struck by the uncanny similarities to my first race. Capsizing an S1-R fifty meters from the L2L finish to derisive gales of laughter from shore… Eerie. Mary Beth took the women’s crown.
We had ridden the bucking Bull, but once again failed to break the sucker. Fortunately, nearly all the injuries sustained were superficial – even for those four pour souls unceremoniously ejected from the course. Ever optimistic, we’ll be back next year to again make questionable boat decisions.
Andrius is just a purple Cadillac shy of being a late 70’s pimp. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
There are two races coming up on June 30. In the Casco Bay Challenge, you’ll paddle (endlessly, if you’re not careful) among the beautiful isles of Maine as you cross the 17 miles from South Portland to Merepoint. It has the potential to be the longest US downwind race outside of Hawaii, but will the weather cooperate? For those who remain quarantined in Rhode Island with an infectious case of surfski fever, why not check out the Narragansett Bay Regatta? If you’re old enough to remember the Jamestown Counter Revolution in those multiple years when it wasn’t (in Jamestown… or a revolution), you’ll be familiar with the course.
Leave A Comment
You must be logged in to post a comment.