When the first large barge came through, we were concentrating on staying upright; nothing was predictable, and all that lovely forward momentum we had so enjoyed up until that point had packed its bags and decided to take leave. The Coast Guard safety boat came over the bullhorn, and sounded almost exactly like Charlie Brown’s teacher: “Wa, wa,wa. Wa,wa,wa. Wa,wa,waaaa…BARGE!” We looked quickly over our left shoulders to see a vessel roughly the size of my local supermarket bearing down. That kind of sight will plant the fear of God in even a dyed in the wool agnostic. “How far away?!” I shouted to Sean, over the blare of the ship’s horn. “About three hundred yards!!” he yelled back, “And closing fast! Take us hard right towards the sea wall!”

Saturday, August 14th, the fifth annual running of the Mayor’s Cup Race. Setting: Manhattan, The City That Never Sleeps, The Big Apple. After the previous two years where Mother Nature was obviously having very bad days, the forecast couldn’t have been more perfect. Balmy temps in the eighties, dazzling sunshine, and breeze tousled treetops were the order of the day at its new location at the North Cove Marina at the 79th Street Boat Basin. Racer after racer unloaded boats at the circle aided by helpful volunteers, for the short carry down the driveway to the marina, adding their craft under the trees to the others offloaded the night before. Ray Fusco, Promoter and Race Director Extraordinaire, was bustling about, clipboard in hand and surrounded by a bevy of officials and others associated with race details, making sure to dot all ‘i’s and cross every ‘t’. After kicking cancer and putting together one of the premier races in the good ole’ U.S. of A., today would be payback for his efforts and tireless hours devoted to growing this race five short years ago, grown from the seed of an idea planted with three of his buds over drinks at a restaurant in North Salem, NY. This year saw the return of reigning victor from last year’s atrocious conditions, South African Sean Rice, as well as three time Olympian and four time medalist Greg Barton, and Joe ‘Glicker’ Glickman, among others. Joining this cast of champions were other world-renowned young guns such as Dawid Mocke, Caine Eckstein, Jeremy Cotter…and the list goes on…. This year also marked the first year of the OC-6 teams. Sea kayaks, OC-1s and OC-2s rounded out the field of approximately 150 racers, many returning year after year to circle the island.

Sean Milano and I met our buddies Steve Delgaudio and Jim Hoffman at Jim’s place that morning and convoyed in. We’d all be paddling tandem surfskis. Three to four hours on the water is a whole lot more enjoyable with someone to share the burden with, and the stability of the big boats is an asset on the backside of the course, when water conditions can get, uh…interesting. Just last weekend, Sean completed the Pan Mass Challenge, rode 162 miles in 2 days and raised $11,335 for the Dana Farber Cancer Institute, and was up to the task of the Mayors Cup again. Three years ago, the second year of the race, Sean and I had partnered in a tandem sea kayak to go around. The year after that, I’d team up with Sgt. Mike Blair from Team Achilles, and we’d make it to the halfway point before the race was cancelled and we were pulled. After piloting our tropical hued tomato orange/lime green Fenn Mako XT double around Cape Ann up in Gloucester, MA, for The Blackburn, Sean and I affectionately began referring to her as ‘The Watermelon’. Taking the ball and running with it, I spent some time cutting out woodgrain ‘seeds’ from contact paper and affixing them to the deck. Wielding a dark green, water-soluble marker, I hurriedly scribble scrabbled the hull converting it into the ‘rind.’ Voila! A 25’ long giant slice of watermelon would make its way around the Big Apple. People stared as it was toted down, amidst delighted cries of ‘Watermelon!!! Watermelon!!!

Mark and Sean prepping ‘The Watermelon’

Our class had a wonderfully realistic start time of 11:45 AM, courtesy of a sleep friendly tide schedule, so there was ample time to set up and visit with old paddling friends and acquaintances, as well as meet folks whose names were familiar from the results boards. Ray ran a relaxed and comprehensive captain’s meeting, launched by a beautiful rendition of ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’ Racers were primed and prepared. We figured to have a push up the Hudson, some ebb/slack tide down the Harlem, and another slight push down the East River. The last 7 miles back up the Hudson would be hard, against current and dealing with increased pleasure boat traffic, as the city stretched its arms wide and came alive this gorgeous day. Touring sea kayaks were the first wave to launch, followed by the Team Achilles disabled veterans and sea kayak tandems, then sea kayak fast touring and OC-1s. Tandem skis and OC-2s started together next, followed by OC-6 teams, and finally single surfskis and K-1s.

At the horn we were off, borne by a strong current up the mighty Hudson, immediately looping left into the shipping channel down river center to take advantage of the push. Derek and Brent, and Jim and Steve, in matching Fenn Elite doubles, immediately gapped the field, smoothly stroking side by side as Sean and I attempted to find our rhythm. The GPS numbers were reading a steady state 10-10.5 mph, and life was good. The span of the George Washington Bridge, albeit far closer than previous years, hung teasingly just beyond reach on the horizon. In a race of this length, one has to have faith that eventually you’ll get there (despite the intentions of what the East River had up its sleeve to see that this didn’t happen).

Courtesy of Ray Fusco

Passing under the GWB and its little red lighthouse perched on one of the piers, we had a few moments of welcome shade-the sun was strong. We reached the rotary railroad bridge marking the entrance to Spuyten Duyvil Creek and the Harlem River a mile and half further, under the watchful eye of the Cloisters up on the hill, debating whether to risk ducking under the trusses, or shooting through the opening. The trusses won out, and we proceeded into the placid waters of the creek and its cliffs jutting from the river, emblazoned with the colorful crest of Columbia University. The tide was slacking, and speed dropped considerably from the train ride that was the Hudson.

Here we started catching some OC-1s and Achilles Team tandems, then sea kayaks. Moving through paddlers on the Harlem River from classes started before, our speed was high and again, life was good. Sean was happily chatting away, as we called out encouragement to folks we knew as we tandem motored by, fueled by the power of two. At one point I ran over a human head bobbing in the water. It was either that or a coconut with the husk still on. Given our northern location, my spot identification of ‘human head’ was more likely, since coconuts are tropical and do not migrate, unless carried by unladen swallows. In any event, it made a dull ‘Ponk.’ as it passed under the boat and was wonked by the rudder. “What WAS that?” queried Sean over my shoulder. “Human head,” I matter of factly replied. I think he said, “Oh,” and continued conversing away. New York gets a wholly undeserved bad rap from those that prejudge without actually experiencing the magic of the city. I’m sure it was a coconut. Now, if we were in New Jersey… (KIDDING!). Wink.

Sean and Mark hammering away in ‘The Watermelon’

At Hell Gate, things began to percolate a bit. The water’s texture was reminiscent of liquid coming to a boil, just before things start roiling. This, I would later recognize, was a textbook example of literary foreshadowing. Things were about to get ramped up a notch or two. At one of the bridges (Which was it? Williamsburg? Manhattan?), the water changed character, as if suddenly awakened from a peaceful slumber. The combination of changing current, narrowing waterway lined by a gauntlet of concrete seawalls, and increased boat traffic, punctuated by three (Count ‘em, three…) barges, made for a confused maelstrom of wake and refractory waves bouncing off the piers.

When the first large barge came through, we were concentrating on staying upright; nothing was predictable, and all that lovely forward momentum we had so enjoyed up until that point had packed its bags and decided to take leave. The Coast Guard safety boat came over the bullhorn, and sounded almost exactly like Charlie Brown’s teacher: “Wa, wa,wa. Wa,wa,wa. Wa,wa,waaaa…BARGE!” We looked quickly over our left shoulders to see a vessel roughly the size of my local supermarket bearing down. That kind of sight will plant the fear of God in even a dyed in the wool agnostic. “How far away?!” I shouted to Sean, over the blare of the ship’s horn. “About three hundred yards!!” he yelled back, “Closing fast! Take us hard right toward the sea wall!”

Hard right we went. When the first of the swells hit, we were instantly swamped, burying the bow, seatwells flooding like twin Jacuzzis. Increasing in wave frequency, the swells beelined to the seawall and ricocheted back in the opposite direction. We bobbed helplessly, trying to maintain some semblance of forward motion, like…well, like a slice of watermelon at sea. The water retained this frenetic attitude alllllll the way down, past the U.N., towards the South Street Seaport, egged on by passing after passing of barges and large pleasure craft. We inched past Roger Gocking, a man with nerves of steel, who appeared decidedly intent in this washing machine cycle set on ‘agitate.’

Suddenly, Sean called out: “Surfski right!” Sean Rice, in his distinctive yellow and gray Think Uno, streaked by, literally putting the hurt on the water. Thrust forward in the cockpit, he was a picture perfect technical demonstration of the forward stroke catch, milking every pull for all it was worth as he ripped his ski through the water past the buried blade. It was incredible, to witness his poise, focus, and sheer power in the midst of all that. He shot along, literally feet off the seawall, picking up every rebounded swell he could find to hurtle him to the next. Not too long after that, came Dawid Mocke, this time on our left. He was utterly unruffled through this mess as well, lacking the brute power of Rice, but knifing through the chop like a hot knife through butter. Next came Caine Eckstein, clipping along with a faster cadence than the other two. He slipped past before we even knew it. Greg Barton was next on this train. Every now and again, he’d throw a mini brace or flick of the hips as a particularly intent bit of clapotis offered to neatly coinflip his V12. At age 50, to be keeping pace with the best young guns in the world was unbelievable; the man is a champion through and through. Passing under the Brooklyn Bridge, I would have liked to sightsee, but my eyes were glued to the water just beyond the bow. We pointed directly towards the raised red brick structure of the South Street Seaport. The gentle winds had picked up in intensity, funneled upriver and skimming the tops off the wave crests.

Winner Sean Rice – Courtesy of Ray Fusco

At this point we were exhausted, both physically and mentally. Suddenly, the hammer fell, and life was not so good. At this point, Sean would later comment, we went from racing, to merely finishing the race. We later learned that quite a few people went for some unscheduled dips through here; a number abandoned. Bob Capellini later reported he went for a little swim under the Brooklyn Bridge (“It was dark under there.”), and it was here that good samaritan paddlers stopped to assist fellow racers in need, until the safety boats were right on top of things. We received a little boost coming past the South Street Seaport Restaurant. Patrons enjoying the waterside tables by the railing cheered us on, cocktails raised high, and the majestic sight of Lady Liberty, torch raised in salute as well, inspired us to surge more strongly toward the tip of the Battery and the right turn up the Hudson again.

Suddenly we heard the Coast Guard bullhorn again. Looking ahead, the prop wash of the Staten Island Ferry in its berth was churning the water to froth, as it readied to back out. We were being warned to stop immediately, and waited out the three to four minutes it took the large craft to back up, pull a U turn and head out on a run, chased by several Charter Waterways ferries. The copters from the pierside heliport were deafening, their rotors’ wash slicing and dicing up a fine spray that whipped the air with a cool spritz. Bright yellow water taxis zipped in and out of moorings like bees from a hive. The hulking, stationary black barge that marked the swing around the point was a welcome sight in all this confusion.

If we were fatigued before, we were exhausted now; the East River had kicked us squarely in the privates; all wind was out of our sails. At this point, I would have given just about anything for sails. Seven miles of minor headwind with the current against us for the return trip back was not something to look forward to. Sybil-like, the water’s personality again had changed, rolling in glassy lumps beamside against the cement retaining wall. The combination of these factors Sean would later comment, caused the Hudson to feel like it had ‘doubled in density.’ Pulling the ski past the paddle was painfully slow; the boat felt mired in molasses. To add insult to injury, we wistfully pined at the entrance to the marina that was the former start and finish of the previous Mayors Cup Races. “Do you think we can turn in there, and just claim we didn’t know?!!’ Sean suggested, his voice an octave higher in desperation and hope. Several other surfskis slid by us here, Phillippe Boccara, Dorian Wolter, Barend Spies, among others. For every one that came by, we slowly reeled in two to three boats from preceding waves starting earlier. Over to our left was Mike Blair and Phil Warner, in the beautiful Nick Schade designed mahogany Fast Double. “Goooo!!!” they encouraged, as we shouted back to spur them on as well.

Following the water trails of other boats before us, we hugged the piers, trying to stay as far out of the current and boat channel as we could. The restaurant at Pier 66 was one huge party, music carrying out over the water. In one marina’s cove, a flock of brightly colored plastic kayaks obviously part of a guided tour were milling about, venturing out into the open Hudson, laughter emanating from their paddlers as they rose up and down on the swells. It’s a funny thing when you hit the wall and begin to bonk. The most innocuous riffle in the water can be an open invitation for a swim; no R.S.V.P. required. The same swells that they were enjoying imbalanced us, each triggering a cumulative case of the wobblies, as the miles ticked by agonizingly slowly. Robotically, we speared blade upon blade into the water, each repetition carrying us closer to our North Cove destination.

Somehow we managed what I’d like to claim was a final sprint to the yellow flag at the finish line, amidst the cheers of the timekeepers and volunteers. At least we managed the sound effects part; I doubt our actual paddle cadence remotely increased by any scientifically measurable amount. 29.3 miles registered on the clock. I now know the welcome relief the first explorers must have felt upon arriving on dry land after months at sea. If I could have mustered up the energy to pucker, I would have kissed the coarse boards of the dock, splinters be damned. Stiffly, we rolled out of our watermelon onto the slimy planks, like mackerels on ice, creaking unsteadily to our feet. Both legs cramping, and a dull ache emanating from shoulders and traps, stick a fork in me and turn me over; I was done. Two surfski paddlers lay prone on the dock gasping, one with his forearm flopped over his forehead, the other with arms stretched out stiffly at his sides like a cadaver. Racer after racer wobbled in unsteadily. Boats were haphazardly cast about on the grass, tools for the job that had served their purpose.

For a bunch of grubby racer types, we clean up pretty well. The after party at the boat basin restaurant The Ginger Man was hopping. The beer was flowing freely, burgers and dogs charbroiling on the grill. The bluegrass band ‘M Shanghai String Band’ was rocking the house. Paddlers shared war stories of their own personal trials and tribulations. It was a fine time.

A rightfully emotional Ray took the stage after the band’s first set. Prior to announcing placings and times, handing out prizes and schwag, a different set of awards were presented by the man who five years ago, took a ‘What if?’ dream and replaced its foundation of clouds with solid brick and mortar, making it not only a reality, but improving and adding on, despite consecutive setbacks that threatened to bury it. These were awards of the heart, dedicated to those that had faith in him, stood by him in his personal life, and assisted him in this dream over the years. The actual prizes were awarded afterwards, and bags of schwag flowed as freely as the beer, but it was these awards of the heart, simple plaques that spoke a wealth of gratitude, that prompted the standing ovation he received by all attendees. Some time ago, in a writeup of a previous Mayors Cup Race, I quoted from the Kevin Costner movie ‘Field of Dreams’: ‘If you build it, they will come.’ Ray, you built it and as promised, we came. We will continue to come again and again as long as you have the strength and desire to build.

~ Mark