Rounding the clanging, green buoy can off Beavertail Point under the watchful rotating beacon of its lighthouse perched on the cliffs marking the ‘single’ half of the ‘Double’ Beaver, I was so looking forward to a slight break from the jouncy conditions behind. Maybe a sweet run or two on the swells from out at sea into the relative calm of the lee. As in years past, I anticipated well-behaved waters to the turnaround buoy a mile or so down the rocky shoreline in Austin’s Hollow. My reverie was shattered however. Taking some fun out of some marvelous swells rolling in, pleasure boat traffic served up a steady helping of large wakes beamside, and the wind was blowing in my face like a kid over birthday cake candles. ‘The return trip back’s going to be lots of fun,’ I mused. ‘No rest for the weary.’

This was the third running of Tim Dwyer’s ‘Double Beaver Race,’ so named (and rather innocently, I gather) by Mike ‘Give Me Chop and Slop and I’m Happy’ Tracy, for the out and back trip past the Beavertail Lighthouse in Jamestown, RI. Saturday, July 31st was the date, start time 10:15 A.M. from the Conanicut Yacht Club. On this slightly overcast and cool day, we’d thread our way through the moored boats of the harbor, between Clingstone, the infamous ‘house on the rocks,’ and out into open ocean. Passing Fort Wetherill, and crossing the channel of Mackerel Cove. past Short Point and Hull Cove, we’d race along the rocky cliffs whitewashed with froth and spray past the lighthouse built in 1856 and turnaround a ways further, then back again, approximately fourteen miles. For an inlander, and weekend ‘Long Island Sounder’, used to smallish wind driven fetch for the most part, this was real water-the big, wide, deep blue sea, replete with big waves and huge boats, throwing up even bigger wakes.  Step it up another level to the likes of what paddlers regularly experience out in San Fran, and then again to the massive surf of Hawaii, Australia, and South Africa, and it’s difficult to fathom (pun intended) how one can stay aboard such narrow craft in such conditions. You need the courage of Attila the Hun and the balance skills of Phillippe Petit. Compared to the Blackburn, this feels less protected-the crossing of Mackerel Cove, albeit relatively short at a little over a mile, is usually a sloppy mess of confused wobbly, jobbly stuff designed to test your mettle.

My first running of the race two years back was a wake up call; I vividly recollect crying for my mommy several times. Tim recognizes that these waters can be challenging, and stressed that those running the race should have experience in conditions similar, such as the Blackburn, and possess a bombproof remount, as there would be no safety boat. A swim to shore could mean your shiny surfski is instantly transformed into a shiny collection of carbon fiber toothpicks, as you perform your best impression of a gemstone in a rock tumbler against those scenic cliffs.

At race start, there were lucky thirteen of us.  Some of the regulars had committed to paddling single blade in the Liberty Challenge. Of the group, there were at least two who had never raced the course before: Michael Hunt of Maine, who paddles with Eric McNett, credentials enough, and Simon Ross, a transplanted Saffer from Durban living in CT. Simon’s list of accomplishments reads like a ‘world’s toughest race list’ resume, including 6 times participating in the Duzi Canoe Marathon, the PE – EL 244km Classic, the 56 km. Cape Point Challenge (with monster “one eyes” (Sharks) sharing the ride!), a Scottbrugh Brighton 46km Grind, and the Dolphin Coast Challenge, 74km. of guaranteed wind, waves and broken boats (and bodies). He would be the dark horse to watch…and he did not disappoint.

At race start, a lead group comprising Simon, Wesley Echols, Tim, Kirk Olsen, Mike Tracy, Alex McLain, and Big Jim Hoffman blasted off the front, followed closely by Bill Leconte and Dave Grainger. The rest of us tried to keep the leaders in sight, as we wove a course like drunken sailors through the moored boats toward the house on the rocks. According to Tim, the man whose backyard this was, a northwest wind ‘tends to flatten things out around Beavertail,’ to which he added under his breath, ‘although you never know…’ This was running through my head as we were lifted up and down, up and down on the swells threading the needle through the channel between the cormorant poop stained rocks leading to the crossing by Mackerel Cove. It was already not ‘flat’, and I once again thanked goodness for my trusty flame painted Huki S1-R, ‘Ring of Fire.’ I had zero issues with stability, and was able to keep the power on, and Bill in his gray and yellow Think Legend in sight, as he disappeared and reappeared in the troughs. About two thirds of the way across Mackerel Cove, I caught Dave in his Fenn Mako 6. I was mesmerized by Dave’s hat, a floppy, resplendent yellow Tilley affair with an elaborate hand-crafted drinking tube system. Dave is a boat modifier extraordinaire, thinking nothing of ripping out the cockpit of his ski and reglassing a new one in to eliminate the hump for better leg drive. There were some fun rides to be had here, a couple of quick strokes and you were on. I concentrated on keeping my HR in a sane zone and linking the small runs, using the technique the ‘Big O’ had showed us at a clinic, stalling the boat slightly sideways on a swell when you started to outrun them, to allow them back under you again. Lo and behold, it worked, and I made up ground on the elusive Bill, renowned for his predilection for big conditions and ability to remount in anything shy of a category five hurricane.

As we made our way along the cliffs below Beavertail Light, the waves smashing against the rocks were audible, but I was afraid to look. Surprisingly, this was the flattest section of the course, and it was here, just before the bell buoy clanging away, signaling the right turn into the channel leading to Austin’s Hollow, that I caught Bill. Making the turn facing, you guessed it, northwest, the full force of the wind hit us dead on, and the aforementioned beam chop from passing pleasure craft made it tough to stay on the rides that had carried from out at sea. As noted earlier, in previous years, this was dead calm. Not today, Sparky. My active imagination conjured up the worst for the return trip home, and I very briefly contemplated finding a nice, sandy beach to pack it in, maybe have a little gelpack picnic…  Shortly before the white dome of the turn buoy, Simon was on his return trip back at full chat, looking supremely at ease and devil-may-care nonchalant in his baby blue terrycloth crusher hat (?). Tim came by next, shouting my name. “Goooo Timo!!’ I called back, with a quick shout of encouragement to each successive racer in turn. Cutting to the outside of the halfway buoy, I slowed for a second to fobble my neatly pretorn gelpack from its duct-taped location on the center divider, sending a spooge of the entire contents of strawberry banana gel across my right thigh, which resembled, well… “Geez!” I muttered in exasperation, just as Bill caught me. Paddling back together towards the green can, the waves yoyo-ing us once again up and down, up and down, I passed by Steve who shouted, maybe half jokingly: “IF I SEE A NICE, SANDY BEACH ANYWHERE AROUND HERE, THAT’S IT; I’M STOPPING!” Great minds think alike.

I must report the return trip back was not as bad as expected. It was a confused mess out there, but after a while, you settled into the chaotic patterns of the waves, and here and again, a little runner could be found. This was actually advantageous, as once up at speed, it was easier to knife across the messy bits. Bill had opened up a gap through this, the stern of his Legend lifting up and shooting him ahead. Twice, he stopped to clear weeds from his rudder, and I’d almost close the gap. Alas, it was to no avail. As soon as he resumed paddling, off he’d shoot again. Waaay off in the distance I could make out what I knew to be Jimmy’s fluorescent orange Mocke vest, an orange dot to follow so as not to turn in too early to Mackerel Cove (Hey, it’s happened…).

Looking forward to the channel between Clingstone and the cormorant port-a-potty, I mentally concocted a grand plan to use every iota of forward stroke knowledge gleaned over the years to close the gap to Bill once and for all as the waters flattened in the harbor. Yes! As the waters flatten…what the?! Coming between the rocks, I discovered the harbor to be anything but calm, it served up a sloppy mess of jibbly jobbly every whichaways. A veritable plethora of pleasure boat pandemonium was underway, no doubt thanks to the now appearing sunshine, blue skies, and related boat traffic for the Newport Folk Festival firing up across the harbor. Bill, now in his element, slowly widened his gap, as we battled through the beamside clapotis toward the yacht club under the wide span of the Newport Bridge.

This was by far, the worst of it, not by sheer size, but in unpredictability. Hips loose as a pole dancer, there was no recourse but to snap react, shortening your stroke to keep some blade in the water for mini active brace strokes. It was mentally exhausting for the last mile and a half to the dock finish, getting tossed hither and thither like a corn kernel in a hot air popper. As I came across the line high handed (Why is it our technique always improves when faced with a photo op?), my family was cheering; “Gooooo Mike!!! Looking great, Mike!!!” in reference to my misquoted name in a recent article’s photo caption, the same mistake repeated whilst accepting our medal in the Blackburn.  Several remaining paddlers punched their finishing tickets after me, while Big Jim hopped in a local youth’s powerboat to ride sweep, checking on the status of those not yet accounted for. Eventually, everyone made it in safely, and the sumptuous lunch spread of wraps, chips, and the amazing Dwyer Family Magic Bars was spread across the picnic table under the overhang for hungry racers and families to fall upon, courtesy of the lovely Alyse Dwyer, and aided by their children, Finn and Gaelyn. Selkie, their black lab, acted as mascot and grass vacuum for fallen chips.

The smiling Durban native with the baby blue hat had taken it, followed by local boy Tim, with a hard charging Mike Tracy rounding out third. An always-fit Kirk Olsen piloted his Huki S1-X to a strong fourth, chased by the ever-smiling Alex McLain, then Wesley ‘Stellar Performance’ Echols, Jim ‘Twinkletoes’ Hoffman, Bill ‘ Dropped You Like a Hot Potato’ Leconte, then moi. Rounding out the pack were Dave, and Maine Mike and Steve, who mistakenly made a short detour into Mackerel Cove. It is rumored they followed the siren song of the locals, who had lured other competitors there in the past-smile.

After an awards ceremony where Tim’s hand made boat stands were presented, along with a stunning print of the Beavertail Lighthouse by the famed photographer Onne van der Wal, paddlers lolled about reenacting the events of the day, then slowly lifted skis to roof racks for their return trips home. Many thanks to the Dwyer family for hosting a marvelous event in such a spectacular setting. Once, twice, three times a Beaver…see you all next year. ~ Mark