In a repeat of last year’s race, irate weather gods with a cruel sense of humor dropped from the sky extremely challenging weather, once again forcing the cancellation of all kayak classes save the Elite surfski class, some tandem classes, and several OC-2s. With winds blowing from the north at a steady 26-30 kts., gusting to 40, and wave heights on the Hudson in the 4’-5’ range, punctuated by an occasional rogue 7-8 footer, this would be challenging enough. Throw in temps in the forties, and cold, driving rain, and you have conditions to test the mettle of even the most seasoned hardcore racers.

The night before, we were graced by Wesley and Betsy Echols, and my old high school wrestling buddy and former tandem partner for the ’07 Mayor’s Cup Race, Sean Milano, who had come to have dinner at Casa de Ceconi and stay for the race. Sean and I intended to paddle the Tango tandem again, and Wesley opted for his Huki S1-R, given the bleak forecast. All weather forecasts read the same: Continued ugly, ugly, ugly, with periods of occasional miserableness. Knowing the blood, sweat, and tears Ray Fusco, friend and organizer, puts into this race, we were mortified by the luck of the draw, but vowed to go and see what the cards would hold. The alarm went off way too early, and we hit the road the next morning.

We arrived at 6:30 AM, stoic volunteers unloading our boats at the crack of dark in the rain, and huddled under the coffee tents for some protection from the elements, darting to the boats laid out on protective mats only to arrange a drinking system, or attempt to duct tape numbers and gel packs onto a wet hull while the whipping wind attempted to wind the duct tape around your forearm.

Thanks to open communications, and extremely amenable Coast Guard officials, the decision was announced by an emotion-choked Ray to allow the elite class racers to continue, along with a number of others, mostly tandem teams, who felt they had the experience and fortitude to ‘make it ‘round’ the island. Issued red bibs, for visibility and to signal their voluntary participation, two staggered classes set off starting at approximately 8:45 AM into the eye of the gale. As a competitor the last two and a half times this race was held, my tandem partner and I decided to stay on land this year. Last year’s race, with similar conditions minus the frigid temperatures and rain, was difficult enough. This year proved to be all that and more. Racers assessed their intentions on this decision like a scene from the old Life Cereal commercial: “Are you going to try it? Why don’t you try it? I’m not going to try it, you try it! Heyyyy, let’s get (insert name of highly ‘motivated’ (a.k.a. ‘reckless’) individual here) to try it!! He’ll/She’ll try anything!!)

Racers donned bibs, preprogrammed emergency numbers into cell phones, switched on VHFs, and lined up in the placid water of the marina’s slips, literally the calm before the storm. The countdown to ‘Go time’ began…The surfskis shot out of the gate, bucking and rolling like mechanical bulls at Gilley’s. Shortly after the start, three surfski racers turned back after reaching the buoy in the center channel, two gauging conditions to be too much for such a distance. One, a Dutch team member, abandoned after struggling with a poorly fitting loaner boat. His custom V12, along with two others, was damaged in transit en route to the race.

Faced with the unsavory prospect of hanging around all day at the marina in the driving rain, a group of five of us dove into a friend’s truck to track the remaining racers’ progress around the island. En route, racing along the highway, we spotted one tandem team struggling to turn back in the beam swells. The first stop along the West Side Highway was the 79th Street Boat Basin, where we leaped out of the truck into a relentless wind, and rain that stung like bullets, to cheer the competitors on. By this point, the field had strung way out, the bows of skis rising and slapping down amidst the swells, their whitecaps blown off like dandelion heads by the gale funneled down the banks of the Hudson. Even dressed in multiple layers, we were shivering. It was clear that some competitors were not expecting weather conditions such as these; many lacked gloves, or wore minimal clothing. Thankfully, with the current assist, they were making steady progress into the wind’s teeth. It was easy to spot the Dutch and U.S.A. Teams’ custom V12’s, their distinctive decalwork in the countries’ requisite national colors standing out amidst the ‘white horses’ of waves galloping across the river.

Back into the truck we went, with Jim Hoffman negotiating the labyrinth of city streets, and with a few creative parking maneuvers that would make a meter maid raise both eyebrows, arrived at Spuyten Duyvil Creek, the railroad bridge guarded tributary that marked the approximate halfway point and a brief respite from the wind’s fury. Here we spotted a Dutch Team racer who appeared dazed, clearly not bent on continuing. Our group offered assistance; warm clothing, a heated truck to sit in, but he declined. The problem was not the cold, he explained, despite his lack of gloves, but the conditions. “I am scared,” he said. “I do not want to paddle the second part.” Later, we came to find out that this was his first time in a surfski. That he could make it this far in something as high octane as a V12 was testament enough to his skill and prowess. We directed him across the pond to the Columbia University Boathouse, where we’d meet him with the truck, to allow him to wait in a warm vehicle for his ride back. En route, Sean picked him up a cup of coffee, only to discover upon arriving, that his teammate had come along behind him, convincing him to continue. He was gone, like Hans Brinker on his Silver Skates.

At the slippery boathouse dock, several others made their way into the protection of the Harlem River, a double edged sword. The tide was turning and they would be forced to slog against the current, in a most exhausted state after their battle up the Hudson. Marine Sgt. Mike Blair, Team Achilles (and my partner from last year), and Marcus ‘Pah, I paddled Solo Around Iceland’ Demuth came by in their tandem, making strong progress, soldiered on (pun intended) by our cheers. They were trailed not too far behind by the reunited tandem team of Tim Dwyer and Maury Eldridge, no strangers to adverse conditions themselves, veterans (and AARP members?) of numerous Blackburn Challenges, open water crossings, and island circumcisions. “We’re doing 2.3 miles per hour!” Tim yelled in answer from the river, “Tide’s against us!”

After bidding the friendly security guard adieu, into the truck we went again, Jim piloting at the helm like a New York taxi driver with a severe caffeine problem, (and fueled ourselves by Steve’s foray into the coffeeshop) over to the east side to witness their trip through Hell’s Gate and down the East River. Traffic was building and it was difficult to find access spots to pull over to watch.

The decision was made to hit the South St. Seaport, and watch from the observation deck of the pierside restaurant. We immediately lucked out with a parking space, and even more so courtesy of Sean with a pitcher of Sam Adams Oktoberfest. The river was flatter here, but apparent that it was nowhere near the millpond it was two years before. Evil looking currents and eddies swirled below us, and we wondered what Hell’s Gate was like further up. The top four had already come by and were finishing at the marina.

One by one, the Dutch and USA Team boats ripped by, aided by the current and the wind at their backs. All along the East River we were kicking ourselves for not attempting…until we saw Erik Borgnes struggling along, off the back of his usual spot up with the front runners. Tom turned to me and said: “If Erik’s having a hard time, imagine how we’d be feeling.” (Jim had commented earlier after witnessing the relative calm at Columbia University: “If we didn’t die, we could definitely have done this!”) Clearly, the conditions had taken their toll on all the racers, with perhaps the most grueling section yet to come, rounding the corner to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty in the distance. The last surge against the wind and a now opposing tide, up the Hudson again and into the marina, would surely put the ‘batter’ into Battery.

Pelican-ing down hot pretzels with mustard (Thanks Jim!), into the pickup we piled to view the finish. Again, we lucked out with parking, and sprinted over to the marina to cheer in the finishing racers. It was an unbelievable slog the last mile to the marina-the waves were now coming at three quarter beam angle, rebounding off the concrete sea wall, and the wind had actually intensified. The shrubs lining the waterside esplanade were bent double by the gusts-it was pure hell. Racer after racer inched along, at times making little, if any progress into the wall of weather, broaching sideways at times, spurred on by the claps and cheers of spectators. Linda Cappellini was wielding her cowbell at the railing, clanging them on. (“I need more cowbell!! More cowbell!!!”) Two years ago, my tandem had snapped its rudder just prior to the Battery, and I well remember how well nigh impossible it was even then to keep the beast off the sea wall, from grinding itself into fiberglass splinters, tossed about like a popcorn kernel in a hot air popper.

Spectators were running on the pathway alongside the racers, tracking with them, moving faster than they. “Sixty more strokes!” “You can do it!” “You’re in the final stretch!” Squirting through the gap from the Hudson into the marina was like being pulled from a raging river onto the banks. Literally, of course, as volunteers at the dock immediately swarmed over them like (as my Brit friend terms it) ‘a dog at broth.’ Welcoming arms lifted the completely spent racers from their boats, wrapped them in Mylar warming blankets so they resembled burritos from the convenience store, and whisked their boats away. As the final boats arrived, the racers were glassy eyed, having spent some time on the potential hypothermic side of the schoolyard. Folks moved themselves two doors down to where a reception was set up at restaurant down the way, out of the cold and into the warmth. A buffet of wraps, salads, and chili was spread out and drinks were flowing in the adjacent bar. At one point, the last racers to finish, a tandem team, were spotted rounding the Battery and the entire entourage emptied onto the esplanade to welcome them in.

Ray and company announced awards in the warmth of the plastic sheathed restaurant porch, the wind tearing at the plexiglass panels (“Auntie Em! Auntie Em!”). Racers were applauded, with a warm round of cheers for our guests from Team Holland, and others coming from South Africa, France, and the like. Despite adverse conditions, The Mayor’s Cup went on for some, while others vowed to try their luck again next year. (One person offered, while Ray was at the podium announcing the difficult decision earlier on: “As long as you keep holding it, we’ll keep coming back!”) As for this competitor, as long as you keep holding it, Ray, I’ll keep coming back, in hopes to go ‘round the island’ again. ~ Mark