‘The Blackburn Challenge.’ The very name never fails to send a shiver of anticipation down my spine. This would be my fifth running of the Blackburn, and the forecast did not look sympathetic: ‘small craft advisory, winds out of the SE at 10-15 kts., gusting to 20, potential thunderstorms, and light rain’. ‘Small craft advisory’ by our Long Island Sound standards in Connecticut generally means ‘We may get something to surf.’ Up here it meant: ‘Toto, we’re not in Connecticut any more.’ The night before at dinner in nearby Peabody, our two tables of racers checked Blackberries and iPhones for the latest NOAA updates. Patrick Hemmens and Erik Borgnes were no doubt hoping for ‘Perfect Storm’ conditions, while Jim, Steve, Tom, Wesley, Chris and I had our fingers crossed for something less. I could only feign nonchalance and hope for the best, that I wouldn’t end up screaming for Auntie Em.

Photo by Doug Mogill

Thankfully, someone above smiled upon me and granted me ‘the best.’ The morning of, the winds had abated, the seas looked calm, and the rain had diminished then stopped altogether. The fog remained, but nothing like the conditions that forced the race’s cancellation and abbreviated course several years prior. We were on. My only concern now was the distance at race pace, having hit the wall at mile 15 each year previously, and coming into this one with far less training. Betsy and Wesley Echols ferried me over from our hotel, and we stopped for coffee at George’s, where I had one of the best egg and cheese sandwiches I have ever experienced. It was that good. At this point I must pause and add that if you’re ever in Gloucester, you must have breakfast at Patty’s ‘Two Sisters’ establishment right up the street from the Fishermans’ Memorial. Have the Patriot bread with whatever delectable platter you’re experiencing, and while you’re at it, send me a slice or two to thank me. Eggs get messy in the mail.

After chatting it up at registration with a plethora of old paddling friends, and collecting my purple ‘Competitor’ t shirt, GU packs and numbers were duct taped on with highly charged enthusiasm. If a squirrel had the poor judgment to scamper by my ski during this frenzy of activity, I would have certainly duct taped the bushy-tailed rodent to my craft. The fields amassed for each start, race officials calling out the competitors’ numbers like teachers taking attendance on a school field trip.

At approximately 8:35, we were off! Immediately, the pace leaped into the 8 mph range and the pack split, then fractured again. The big dogs were rapidly disappearing up the Annisquam. I watched Wesley ‘You Should Be Training’ Echols’ and Steve ‘I Smell the Barn’ Delgaudio’s backs fade away into the horizon. Half a mile in, the mouthpiece of my drinking tube popped off, spewing Accelerade across my lap. Knowing the bladder would empty immediately and leave me without liquids for the entire race, I coasted to push it back on. ‘A dark omen,’ I thought. This would happen easily four times during the next three hours, and I made a mental note to seek out and destroy the Camelbak product engineer responsible for this little design detail. While many others collected weeds like gardeners, I also made a mental note to thank ‘Huki’ Jude for designing his rudders so this wasn’t much of an issue for me.

Kathy Manizza and Ken Larson were right behind, urging me to bridge the gap to the next group. Between the stitch in my side, and the HR monitor registering a steady state 170 bpm, this struck me as a less than stellar idea at the time. Ken fired around as if shot from a cannon, and he and Kathy were gone. We came out of the river and into some minor chop. The fog was more present out here in open water; I could make out the hazy outlines of paddlers and rowers ahead as if viewed through a translucent shower curtain. Settling in to a comfortable pace, the lobster pot buoys paraded by; I was hoping to eventually reel in others through attrition. Worked for the tortoise; it could work for me. Conditions were benign-some slow rolling swell punctuated by periods of eerily glassy calm.

Crossing Folly Cove, just shy of Halibut Point, I rejoined Kathy. “What did you feed Ken?” I shouted, sensing a breakfast theme here. “He had my oatmeal instead of the usual Dunkin’ Donuts!” she called back. “Don’t do that ever again!” I replied. Lo and behold, who should take form in the fog, but Ken. “Right on cue!” I shouted, “Time to make the donuts!” Feeling better now, I punched the HR back up into the 170 zone, realizing that this was in fact, a race, despite my desire for a jelly stick and mocha latte. We started picking off boat after boat in the sea kayak class, with the occasional surf ski mixed in for good measure. Spectators were cheering from the cliffs at Halibut Point, ghostly apparitions on the rocks.

Right at the beginning of the crossing for Sandy Bay, who should I see in his usual textbook spot far out to sea, but none other than my bud, Jim Hoffman. Eventually our paths converged and we traded three minute intervals to keep the pace up. We passed Margo ’20 Miles? A Mere Warm Up!’ Pellegrino, always ready with a beaming smile and cheer of encouragement, and could hear the enthusiastic war whoops of a huge outrigger canoe coming up on our left. Can’t miss them, for sure-they’re like a rolling party on the water-such fun. By now, the seas were rolling a bit more, with the occasional boat wake offering a mini ride or two. Jim and I dropped in behind the outrigger for smoother going, but found the confused wake more taxing than beneficial, so we dropped to the side of Team Humuhumunukunukuapua’a (?) and continued on our merry way. Here we picked up some bumps, linking mini run to mini run wherever possible.

Jimmy was picking up weeds with some frequency with his Epic, while my Huki stayed fairly clear. However, between his flora collecting and my spring-loaded mouthpiece, we stopped a few times to readjust, just before the halfway checkpoint at Straitsmouth, where we shouted our numbers to the check boat. By now the fog was lifting and the sky was brightening. Over to our left, lookee there! It was ‘Dubai’ Tom’ Kerr. “Tommyyy!!” I yelled. “Ohhhhh, tell me that’s not you!” was his oh so welcoming reply. Rundown, brungdown, dejected, rejected and detested, I smiled widely and added: “And look to your left; it’s Jimmy!” ‘A fourth member of ‘Team On a Wing and a Prayer’, Steve Delgaudio, was somewhere over the rainbow, where bluebirds fly, speeding toward the finish. In protest of reclassification of his Westside EFT into the HPK class under SoundRower’s rules, evidently noone told Steve his boat should be slower than the big skis; he would comfortably crack the vaunted 3 hour mark.’

We paddled on for a bit, joined by Will Smith (Men in Black?) in his distinctive banded Fenn. At the lighthouse and seawall at Dog Bar, this group took the smarter and faster inside line along the rocks, hotly pursued by Marcus DeMuth in his V10. I stayed further out in the current (Why?), hoping for a push or two from the incoming swell funneling into Gloucester Harbor. For those that have done this race, this last bit is deceptive. Besides the fact that it can be a choppy, confused mess of fishing and pleasure boat traffic, it’s roughly two miles across the harbor to the white building on the beach and the greasy pole, but appears much closer. It’s an optical illusion, a trick of the eye, its apparent nearness a siren’s song to lure you into shooting it all too early then crying for your mommy when the building grows no closer. Since we were all converging at the same point, it would be a long, sprint finish, and I wondered just how much was left in my tank.

Coming around the corner Marcus broke left, and Jim promptly mowed a swath through yet another path of weeds, forcing another rudder clear. I came up on ‘Jersey’ Joe Ervin, and together, we uncorked a two mile ‘sprint’, hoping to overtake Will and reel in Jay Appleton, who I sighted in on dead ahead. Marcus increased his gap, smoothly putting blades to water, and Will and I were neck and neck almost all the way to the pole. In the last hundred yards to the finish, I was two boat lengths off Jay and closing far to the left. A pleasure craft went by and he neatly picked up the second wake, holding his gap all the way to the line. Will had edged me too, but we all finished strongly and kept the pedal to the metal all the way home.

Another Blackburn down. We carried our boats to the beach, rehydrated, grabbed quick sponge showers for the short term, and changed at the cars in time to rejoin the post race festivities. By now the sun had broken out loud and clear and it was HOT. The beer was flowing freely at the Ipswich tap truck, the band was rocking, and cheerful volunteers were doling out pulled chicken, pork, and fish chowder at the food tent. The line stretched for massages and stories were traded back and forth about epic and personal battles from the day. The flavor of the race, the level of competition, and the dedication and good spirits of the organizers and volunteers, make this a true ‘must do’ event on anyone’s short list of paddling competitions. Thank you once again to all. I can’t wait for breakfast in Gloucester again next year. ~Mark