Too late, we realized our blunder; we had cut inside of the island we were supposed to go ‘round, having fallen prey to the dreaded ‘lighthouse fixation,’ a nautical term used to describe an obsessive infatuation with beacon-bearing towers.  As one lanky, bearded hakham (Yiddish for ‘wise man’) observed after the race: “It’s funny how something can look entirely different on the return route from the way out.” “We need to go back and go around!” I shouted over my shoulder to Sean. “Go back! Go back!” he began shouting back. “Back! Back! I’ll go back!” I called back. And so we went back. Back through the sawgrass poking out of the shallows, back skirting the little stone hut squatting on Goose Island, where, it is reputed, a small but industrious gaggle of oily, baby geese once gathered on this very spot, erecting the stone structure that exists to this day.

6:00 AM was dark and cold. I could hear the steady hiss of rain outside my bedroom window, as I stumbled from bed to prepare for this day’s running of the Lighthouse to Lighthouse Race, or ‘L2L,’ as it’s affectionately known.  Sean was already in the kitchen banging around, and Roger was rising from the folding couch. They had arrived the night before, and this morning of September 15, 2012, we would once again join scores of other paddlers to race the 14 mile course that feels like a mini Blackburn, amongst the Norwalk Islands past three lighthouses-lighthouse to lighthouse. By the time we had caffeinated, and grabbed a quick bite, the rain had stopped; it was forecast to be an absolutely beautiful day, save a bit of wind.

Our three car convoy pulled into the parking lot of Shady Beach at Calf Pasture in Norwalk at 7:30, and it was blowing. A northwest wind estimated at 10-15 with gusts at 20, felt more like a small gale. Wayne ‘Long Live Open Water!’ Lysobey, and Gary ‘Team Achilles’ Williams, Race Directors, were hustling about with scores of volunteers, setting up and weighing down registration items that were intent on migrating into the Sound. The venue’s locale had changed for this year, from the previous spot off Compo Beach in Westport. The new location promised ample parking, real bathrooms with flush toilets and running water, a sheltered spot with trees, and clean, sandy beach for the post race festivities. It did not disappoint. The Outdoor Sports Center from Wilton, CT, along with Mark Bodian, had set up a large tent for on-the-water demos of TideRace and Stellar Kayaks’ products, everything from sea kayaks, to surf skis, and paddleboards.

Mark, Chris, Wesley

 Familiar surfski compadres were completing their pilgrimage. My SurfskiRacing.com pals, Wesley Echols and Chris Chappell rolled in, along with another bud from Rhode Island, Tim Dwyer.  Fast friends (literally and figuratively) Jim Hoffman, Steve Delgaudio, and eventually, Tom Kerr, were there. The Massachusetts boys: Mike Tracy, Francisco Urena, and Joe Shaw, were present, along with Eric McNett from Maine. New Jersey was represented by Craig Impens,  Flavio Costa, ‘Jersey’ Joe Ervin, and Rich Demers.  New York called in its chips via powerhouse paddlers: Borys Markin, Joe ‘The Bearded One’ Glickman, Bob Cappellini, Kam Truhn, Beata Cseke and assorted other fit, fast racers from the Rockaway Canoe and Kayak club.  With strong accents, bodies and skills, these folks are the real deal, K-1 paddlers transitioning (and extremely well, I might add) to surfski. Team Achilles was in full force: Dick and Joe Traum, Robin Francis, and their ensemble of athletes that give true meaning to the terms ‘fortitude’ and ‘determination.’ Blake and Katie Conant, the OC-1s, 6’s, and sea kayak racers, rowers, and SUPs were swarming in.  Even Eric Stiller (Keep Australia on Your Left) arrived to race his unskegged 14’ SUP. Folks were rooting around in car trunks for anything warm-sweatshirts, windshells and the like. It was c-c-cold; headlights were on, despite the fact that it was light outside.

Eric Stiller(middle) photo Kam Truhn

 

Shady Beach, Photo Kam Truhn

The course had changed slightly, due to the new location. Prior to this day, Wayne and Gary sent out Google maps, depicting the old and new course routes, delineating the change at the start and finish. Racers would launch in four flights, with ten minute intervals between, heading out from two orange buoys, swinging right around a third. Past Sprite Island (a.k.a. ‘Furry Island’ courtesy of Glicker), and right again around the Peck’s Ledge lighthouse, competitors would head out to sea. Here, the course remained the same, keeping the islands on your right, past the Shea Island stone lighthouse to swing clockwise around the Green’s Ledge lighthouse, and back. The ‘back’ part would prove to be the undoing of many, as from the water, the islands seemingly blend into the land; it was a bit tricky what the good line was back to the first lighthouse and home base.  

Sean and I were once again piloting the big Fenn XT double. We prepped it on stands in the grassy parking lot, pretearing gel packs, duct taping the numbers, and toted our ride to the beach. Just before the start, I moved my pfd aside, where it was resting in the bucket, and found…Hoff and Del had filled our buckets with sand! We had a Fenn litterbox! Hurriedly, we dumped out what we could; the residuals would make for a nice case of bumside dermabrasion as the miles wore on. (Sean would later exact revenge by crafting a good-sized tossed salad in Steve’s Swordfish seatwell, and we had front row seats for Steve leading
Jimmy off by the ear like a schoolboy when he discovered it, thinking it was him.) We were worried that there would be no one in our class, as all our paddling peeps were flying solo. As it stood, there was no need to worry about boats in our class, only, as it turned out, our standing within it.  Rockaway Canoe Club paddlers Jan and Alex borrowed Tommy Kahuna’s Fenn Elite double, and Flavio and Vadim were in the new Epic V10 double. Disclaimers spring immediately to mind: we were in a slower boat, our combined weight was greater, as was our age, our horoscope signs were not as compatible as their’s…the fact of the matter is that both teams were flat out faster. At the drag race calm water start, they immediately pulled away, increasing their lead through the extremely messy beam chop around the first lighthouse. Eventually, they became nothing more than tiny pinwheels of paddles far off in the distance. Race our race, that’s all we could do, as we tried to find a rhythm to melt away the miles.

Mark and Sean

 

Kam Truhn

 Beam, beam, beam, all of it was beam…we searched in vain for a ride here and there, and on a few rare occasions, actually scored a little push or two, as we leapfrogged from island to island. In the lee of each, the waters calmed; at the spaces in between, the wind driven fetch once again asserted itself. Eventually, the stone lighthouse of Shea Island appeared, with our turn buoy lighthouse at Green’s Ledge just beyond. On a good day, the waters here are jouncy, a combination of open water, and a shallow shelf that stirs things up into a washing machine of currents. Today would be no different, enhanced by the added wind gusts to create rolling three quarter beam waves. Sean was analyzing the contributing elements to this section aloud. I was hellbent on concentrating, and actually threw a brace or two, as we outran the side swells, filling both cockpits like twin hot tubs.

Approaching the rocky outcroppings of Green’s Ledge light, I finally spotted our competitors on their return trip; by this point, we might as well have been in the third flight, a trifle demoralizing.  The acrid smell of bird droppings hit hard as we circled the gull and cormorants’ whitewashed rocks clockwise for our trip back. Here, I zoned out completely, ruddered right and just…kept…turning. Perhaps the bird poop had permeated my brain, perhaps I subconsciously recalled that little ice cream shop in Port Jefferson with the waffle cones across the Sound, but in any event, I was steering us to Long Island. “Mark!!  Where are you going?!” yelled Sean, jolting me back to consciousness. Toeing the pedal left, I pointed us back to our intended route.

If the beam chop was mildly cumbersome before, it was just plain annoying, now. We had grown so accustomed to it striking our starboard side, that when it switched to port, it was difficult to acclimate once again, coupled to the fact that the digits reflecting our speed on the GPS were hovering in the high 5s. I felt mired in molasses, wondering if we were dragging weed.

We sighted the third flight of surfskis coming our way. Borys was putting down stroke after perfect stroke like a machine. Tom passed by us babbling something into the wind that sounded like: “Blibbityblahblah!” I may have shouted something unintelligible in response that didn’t even make sense to me. Their lines varied widely. A safety boat stationed close by was attempting valiantly to direct traffic; at times, paddlers were headed straight towards us. As we passed the safety boat, he guided us to the left, all the while encouraging:  “You’re doing great! Doing good work! Keep at it!” It did feel like work, but his enthusiasm was appreciated.  We soldiered on.

By one of the islands, perhaps it was Grassy (Sleepy? Grumpy? Sleazy?), Borys came by. He didn’t appear to be laboring, though it was readily apparent his cadence was higher than our own, as he slid slowly past, effortlessly. In the distance we sighted the first lighthouse at Peck’s Ledge. Sean instructed me to set course for it. (Goooo to the light…) Something was nibbling away at the back of my oxygen- depleted brain; something didn’t seem quite right. As we set our compass for it, Sean began an obsession with Borys’ intended path-he was further out to sea-seeming to circle Cockenoe island from the original course, maybe dropping in on the beachgoers at Compo, or one of the many weddings ongoing at the swanky Longshore Country Club? It was true-Borys was beelining for the island. When would he realize his blunder?  Almost too late, we realized ours.

Lulled into complacency, Borys’ path at this juncture was the true one; we had cut inside of the island we were supposed to go ‘round, having fallen prey to the dreaded ‘lighthouse fixation,’ a nautical term used to describe an obsessive infatuation with beacon-bearing towers.  As one lanky, bearded hakham (Yiddish for ‘wise man’) observed after the race: “It’s funny how something can look entirely different on the return route from the way out.” “We need to go back and go around!” I shouted over my shoulder to Sean. “GO BACK! GO BACK!” he shrilled back. “Back! Back! I’ll go back!” I called back. And so we went…back. Back through the sawgrass slicing out of the shallows, back skirting the little rock hut squatting on Goose Island, where, it is reputed, a small, but industrious, gaggle of oily baby geese once gathered on this very spot, miraculously erecting the stone structure that exists to this day. 

Pecks Ledge Lighthouse from Shady Beach, Photo:Kam Truhn

On course once again, we lost perhaps three to four minutes in our little foible. Now on the outside, however, it became clear that Borys WAS on the wrong path. He was Cockenoe bound! Again we queried: Would he realize? When would he realize? As we approached our lighthouse turn buoy, over our shoulders hearkened; “Aaargh! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!” Knowing that pirates once plied their trade in these very waters of the Sound, my heart skipped a beat, only to discover that it was, in fact, Glicker, upon whom it had also dawned that Borys was astray. He was giving his all to level the playing field. As if on cue, Borys suddenly realized the errors of his way, swinging sharply left on a converging path. Oh the drama of it all! Shiver me timbers; this would be a race! (Not ours, of course, but who doesn’t love a good race?) “Go Joe!!! You want this!! You can DO this!!!” we yelled, somewhat maniacally, our stroke rate increasing from the sheer excitement of it all.

Glicker went pedal to the metal, but it became clear that the flatwater specialist was in his element as the waters calmed once again on the final push to the finish; Borys was pulling away.  Spurred on by their effort, my stoker and I also kicked it up several notches. “Finish strong!” (Or something motivational…) bellowed Sean, and he counted off the strokes (I think it was ‘One Mississippi, two Mississippi…’) in our final thrust to the finish. I hope to God this was a photo op, because damnn, we looked gooooood, all smooth and all, and stroking it past the line… (Note: The other two teams in our class had already showered, changed, and were playing Kadima on the beach.) We punched past the orange buoys calling out, “510!” (Our number, or perhaps my heartrate.)

 We floated like flotsam and jetsam for a bit, cheering our buds in. There was, evidently, a bit of a controversy in the last stages of the course, as a number of racers (like us) cut the course a bit, without realizing the error (unlike us) of their wanton ways.  This last part was a bit tricky-everything looks the same from the sea, and clearly delineated course markers at the start blend into the horizon line from this vantage point, upon the return.  (At this mention, my brain is launching a chorus in brogue of: ‘Youuuu take the high road, and I’llll take the low road, and I’llll get to Scotland aforrrre ye…’) Perhaps for next year, a giant inflatable finger a la football games, moored at sea, pointing the right direction, would be an asset?  Or perhaps, we’ll just read the Google maps sent to us by the race directors…

Racer after racer came across the line. Now, the real fun began. The L2L is known for its ‘AWWWESOME!’ beach party, replete with burgers, dogs, Wayne’s secret family recipe seafood chowder , chili, and ohhhhhhhh, yes,  ‘Fast’ Eddie at the shucking table, serving up littlenecks and oysters for an ever-so-appreciative crowd.  Kegs of Harpoon, live music… I wait for this, year after year. The new locale is actually better-the ladies at the massage table under the trees worked out our kinks and made us laugh, and we shared stories with friends and new acquaintances alike.  At the awards, I was moved by Vadim, stoker in Flavio’s boat, motioning to Sean and me to take a group shot of the doubles racers-such the gentleman.  Wesley announced the surfskiracing.com race series winners, courtesy of Stellar Kayaks, and we all look forward to the remaining races of the NESurfskiracing Series to come as well. Thanks to Wayne, Gary, and the many volunteers that make this, THE race on my calendar.  Until 2013… Cheers, mates!