The newly rechristened Sakonnet Surfski Race is the prescribed venue for New England paddlers to ease into the open water season.  It’s much like the fable in which a frog won’t notice he’s being boiled alive if you slowly raise the temperature.  The Sakonnet is a skinny bay that might be called a “loch” or “fjord” in another land, or a “river” in the deranged mind of some 17th century cartographer.  In any event, the shore’s never too far away.  And if the wind is from the south, like it was for the 14th running of Wesley Echol’s classic race, in a worst-case scenario you’ll eventually wash up on a sandy beach, complete with several seaside dining options.  Which is nice for the EMTs.

We’d be running a slightly modified version of the 2020 course.  From Island Park Beach, we’d chug 4.5 miles south to Sandy Point, where we’d turn 90 degrees counterclockwise around a mooring buoy, pointing us towards a red nun further away from shore.  Reaching this buoy, we’d turn another 90 degrees and head back to the start.  With a southerly breeze stiffening over the course of the race, we’d pay our dues during the first leg.  For those wise enough to set aside some reserve funds for the second half, the all-you-can-eat downwind buffet would be open.  The rest would be given a complimentary packet of oyster crackers and left to fend for themselves.

It’s taken John years of trial and error to get just the right amount of tequila in his “margarition” (TM) system.
We didn’t want Rob to feel bad, so we all told him it could happen to anyone.
When they arrived, the cops told us that someone had reported that “some creep was hanging out taking pictures”. They let me listen to the 911 call at the station. Not cool, MB.

The field was popping with talent.  Despite the Sakonnet not being a loop course, standout NJ paddler Sean Brennan might well lap the field.  People think of Sean as enigmatic and brooding, so they’re always surprised to find that he’s actually mysterious and meditative.  Plus kinda goofy.  Since fellow Garden Stater Rob Jehn developed an unfortunate taste for New England glory, we’ve been unable to keep the pest away.  It’s like if Brood X crawled out of the ground every 3 weeks.  The Three Johns (Hair, Costello, and Redos) brought their show (mostly puppetry, but also some mime work) on the road from Points West.  Local contenders included South African Gary Shaw (paradoxically), Matt Drayer, and Tim Dwyer, among others.  I expected we’d have a particularly dynamic race in which downwind specialists might zoom by less adept surfers who had made the mistake of getting to the red nun first.  With scores of Miller’s Runs under his belt, Gary would be a huge threat on the downwind leg, regardless of how much of a head start he might spot me.  From past experience, I knew that I couldn’t ignore Matt or Tim either.

Wesley walked us through the course at the captains meeting, stopping only when the water got over his head.  We’d have to figure it out ourselves past that point.  The 23 boat field soon lined up off the beach – faster paddlers stacked to the right – and was counted down to the start.  Sean roadrunnered off the line, leaving the rest of us in a cloud of mist.  I got out to one of my better starts, but was still unable to match Rob’s initial sprint.  Gary managed to grab onto Rob’s draft, but dropped off after a short while.  Unsurprisingly, John C, Chris Chappell, and Matt were also in the mix.  I was feeling strong, however, and managed to transition into 3rd position within the first couple minutes.  The field quickly began to string out as we pushed upwind.

This is why you should never talk politics at the captains meeting. For every Kirk and Jeff on your side, there’s an Andy and John left seething.
The last anyone saw of Sean.

Occasionally in a movie or TV show featuring a genius protagonist in dire straits, their problem-solving thought process will be dynamically superimposed on the screen – the complex series of glowing equations and diagrams needed to calculate, say, the trajectory of a thrice-ricocheted bullet into the forehead of Inspector Blanchard (don’t feel bad, he was a double agent).  I had that kind of deal going as I tried to figure out whether it made sense to pull shoreward to tuck into the lee of McCorrie Point.  Except that my illegible computations were done in crayon, relied almost exclusively upon astrology, and included a pretty good drawing of a doggie.  My conclusions were muddled, but at least I now knew that it was an inauspicious day to start a new business venture.  Lacking any navigational insights, I decided the safest bet would be to average the straight line and shore-hugging paths.  Only in this way could I definitively eliminate the advantages of either.

It seems that roughly half the field followed the path of compromise, while the more stalwart paddlers (including both Sean and Rob) blasted straight from the start towards Sandy Point.  The general consensus among the faint-hearted was that while we may have been shielded from some waves, low-lying McCorrie Point did little to protect us from the headwind.  Once we had passed McCorrie, however, the westward curve of the shore afforded us more shelter (particularly from waves) on the way to the turn at Sandy Point.  Maybe.

As forecast, the wind was gradually increasing its intensity.  My GPS was dutifully recording the meteorological slow front as it passed through, dropping from 7 mph at the start to 5.5 mph (let’s say) with a mile left to the turn.  I pulled up my mental whiteboard again to calculate if I’d actually be going backwards before reaching Sandy Point, but got sidetracked adding a doghouse for Mr. Flappers.  By this time, Sean was no longer visible.  Presumably he had completed his transition to pure energy.  Rob was clearly ahead of me, but the extent of his 15 boat length lead wasn’t apparent until we converged for the turn.  I glanced back as I turned away from the shore, but didn’t see anyone.  There were doubtless paddlers not too far behind me, but I didn’t have the stomach to look too closely.

No special comment. It’s just nice to see a full field of paddlers again. (photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Wesley had assured us that after we turned 90 degrees clockwise at Sandy Point, we’d be pointed directly at the red nun that marked our next turn.  “You can’t miss it” – his exact words, I believe.  You know how when a scientist is trying to convey how incredibly powerful the Hubble telescope is, they’ll say something like “If it were in San Francisco, it could read the year on a penny in Philadelphia”.  With de-orbiting costs what they are, seems like it’d be more cost-effective to just call up the guy holding the coin in Philly and ask him the year.  In any event, you see where I’m going with this.  The buoy was eminently miss-able, even if you happened to have a 2.4 meter parabolic primary mirror mounted on your boat (make sure you opt for the high volume ski – those things are heavier than you’d think).

I couldn’t know if Rob had spotted the buoy or not, but he seemed to be paddling in a direction other than 90 degrees around the turn.  I never seem to have a protractor handy when needed, so I’ll just estimate his angle more in the vicinity of 45 degrees.  Using Rob’s heading as a cue, I adjusted my search grid.  After several unsuccessful scans, I finally spotted a tiny red dot that I’d characterize as “way the hell out” in the middle of the bay.   In Wesley’s defense, he had said that the buoy was 0.3 miles from the turn, but how am I supposed to know exactly how miniscule a small navigational buoy would appear from more than a quarter mile away?  I mean other than the 15 years of ocean paddling experience.  Plus it was actually 0.4 miles.

After paddling directly upwind for the last 45 minutes, it took a few minutes to adjust to the quartering conditions we had to traverse to reach the turn buoy.  The waves looked promising for the downwind leg, however, so I didn’t begrudge being tossed around a little.  I reached the turn still 15 lengths behind Rob.  This time I was able to spot 3 or 4 pursuers a couple minutes back.  Although I couldn’t positively identify the individual paddlers, the ominous Terminator drumbeat was echoing in my head.  Gary’s eyes were likely starting to glow at the prospect of hunting me down.  Wouldn’t be surprised if Matt and Tim D weren’t also feeling the blood lust.

For the first mile or so, the downwind runs were excellent.  I figured as long as I didn’t miss a single runner and consistently linked each launching wave into at least a dozen more, I stood a fair chance (say 12%) of managing a podium finish.  Rob and I again took different lines – his ludicrously far to the left (from my perspective) and mine ludicrously far to the right (from his and my GPS track’s perspective).  We quickly diverged to the degree that it became impossible to gauge relative progress.  Not having any reliable data on our relative downwind competence, I instinctively figured my superior skills were allowing me to catch and pass Rob.  This relieved me of some of the Gary-induced anxiety, since I’d still claim bronze even if overtaken by the South African menace.

As we progressed deeper into the bay, some combination of changes related to wind, tides, seabed topology, and Venus (it’s in retrograde, after all) conspired to degrade the downwind conditions.  There were still plenty of rideable waves, but they lacked punch.  Although disappointing at the time, this probably played to my advantage.  Of course, I hadn’t actually been working the conditions any better than Rob.  But, according to eye witness accounts from Matt and John H, Gary had been putting on a downwind clinic.  After the turn at the nun, he had quickly passed them, working diagonal lines to wring every ounce of potential from the waves.  But with the smaller conditions limiting the liquid energy available, and Gary feeling a little underconditioned himself, his comeback effort fell short.

With a mile to go, I reassessed my situation vis-a-vis Rob.  In good conscience, I could no longer maintain the delusion that I was catching him.  “Limit the damage” became my new mantra.  Not the most aspirational of mantras, perhaps, but given how drained I was feeling, I think I deserve some credit for not just going with “Screw it”.  Rob finished 25 seconds ahead – damage that would have otherwise been 2 or 3 seconds less limited.  Sean had won the race, of course, but had the grace not to remind us that he was finishing while Rob and I were still in diapers.  Gary claimed the 4th position, but the highlight of the race came shortly after – Matt and John H surfing to the line on the same wave, with Matt nosing in just ahead.  A few moments later, Tim D. managed to get nearly his entire head in before John C and Tim Hacket.  Mary Beth claimed the women’s title, in part due to her almost pathological adherence to navigational guidelines.

Maybe just a little less booze next time, John. (photo courtesy of Bob Wright)
Given that Leslie wasn’t even in the race, she finished surprisingly well. (photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

The post-race debrief continued on the beach for quite some time before migrating to Flo’s Drive In, just a short walk away.  I must have had one too many stuffed quahogs, because I found myself trash-talking Rob.  Despite the fact that he’s beaten me 5 of the 6 times we’ve raced, I made the assertion that under certain conditions (flat water, him in V12, me in V14) that I’d “wipe the course with him”.  When making such an outrageous claim, it’s a good idea to ensure that it can never actually be authenticated.  Unfortunately, the exact conditions of the challenge will be satisfied when we meet in September at the Great Stone Dam Classic.  Oops.  Yet another in a long series of mollusk-induced blunders.  Doubtless, Rob will spend his summer training for this meeting.  I, on the other hand, will spend my summer crawling through the underbrush in an attempt to contract Lyme disease.

Thanks to Wesley for an extremely satisfying race.  Having tuned our ocean skills at the Sakonnet, we’re now ready to be thrown into the atonal waters of the Ride the Bull race on June 26th.  The race is free, but you must preregister at PaddleGuru.