The inaugural Cape Cod Downwind  race (the name of which has been something of a moving target, starting with “Buzzard Bay Race”, briefly passing through “Sherwood’s Fun Time Paddle Paddle Paddle Jamboree” before settling on – in my mind at least – the final moniker).  We’d be paddling from Stony Beach at Woods Hole to Megansett Beach, approximately 10 miles north in the cozy confines of Buzzards Bay.  Like the seasoned race director that he’ll be 5 years from now after being pressured into continuing the race by the one-two punch of Wesley and Eric, Chris had expertly arranged a chase boat, toilet facilities, shuttles, cash prizes (I’m assuming – guess my check’s in the mail), and a post-race shindig.  The consummate host, he’d also arranged to clear most of the tourists off the Cape, making for a much more relaxed outing.

The race coincided with perhaps the most beautiful day of the year – a lesson that perhaps Tim Dwyer should take to heart when planning next year’s Double Beaver.  It was the kind of New England day that you want to bottle up so that come January, when your friend from Southern California calls up to tell you about his day at the beach, you can take a couple of hearty swigs (careful – it packs a punch) before defensively slurring out “I live (hiccup) in the besht playsh… in the world.  The besht!” and then passing out in a snowbank.  Hopefully, you saved a little of that sweet nectar because it still has to get you through February, March, and April.

The inviting waters of Stony Beach.

The inviting waters of Stony Beach.

Like a high-end National Geographic tour package, Chris had assembled a crack team of oceanographers to provide paddlers (or “junior scientists”, as he insisted on referring to us) with running commentary about the fascinating marine environment of the Cape.  With support from Rocky Geyer (Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution) and Tim Milligan (Bedford Institute of Oceanography), we were showered with facts about the complex ecosystem of Buzzards Bay.  While I think we all appreciated the knowledge and enthusiasm of our expert guides, by the time I had filled up my second notebook (who knew that the details of ocean acidification could be so, um, voluminous) I was running out of patience.  If I had to hear one more impassioned lecture on coastal sediment transport, someone was going to find themselves head down in a swash zone.

Every once in a while you’ll hear about a high school physics class that builds a concrete boat to demonstrate Archimedes’ principle of buoyancy.  Kirk Olsen evidently read about one of these and thought “Eureka!  Free boat!”, because on Saturday he was paddling the heaviest ski known to man.  It didn’t so much displace a volume of liquid equal to its mass as it just squashed the water molecules into submission.  Kirk spent the first half of the race accelerating this behemoth, then had to back-paddle for the remainder to prevent its momentum from plowing a second canal through the cape once it hit land.

Our mighty steeds, ready for battle.

Our mighty steeds, ready for battle.

After a successful shuttle launch from the finish, twenty paddlers lined up at Stony Beach with a 10 or 12 knot wind at our backs (based on whether or not you opted for the deluxe race package).  The shallow waters at the start had a spectacular turquoise hue reminiscent of the Caribbean.  If my name were Hugh, that’s what I would insist everyone call me.  Turquoise Hugh.  Conditions would start out flat, but would improve as our progress lengthened the downwind fetch.  With some of the top paddlers opting out of this short-notice race, the field was wide open.  Using the terminology of just about every web link teaser I see these days “When you find out what happened next, you’ll run screaming around the room and then crap your pants!”  Chris described the course to us in some detail, which the dullards among us distilled down to one key instruction: when your GPS hits 8 miles, turn right.

After a brief warm-up, we set off.  In retrospect, this would have been the perfect venue for a Le Mans start.  Sandy beach oriented perpendicular to the course.  No other people and no obstacles in the water.  Fine complement of North Shore paddlers who could reap the benefit of their Salem League training at the expense of everyone else.  We’ll pencil that in for next year, yeah?

Lacking a true rabbit like Francisco (or Kirk when in a boat that he outweighs), Wesley found himself in the early lead, with Tim off his starboard quarter.  For a few delightful minutes, Bruce Deltorchio and I settled comfortably in the sweet spots behind these two.  I’ll always remember fondly those halcyon moments of letting Wesley and Tim do 90% of the work.  After a while, however, I sensed that not everyone was as thrilled as I was with this arrangement.  Head hung, I struck out on my own.

I saw something like this in the latest X-Men movie.  I just hope I can harness my powers for good.

I saw something like this in the latest X-Men movie. I just hope I can harness my powers for good.

Even before a Great White took a chunk out of a kayak on the safe side of the Cape, there had been a lot of talk recently about the explosion of sharks in these parts (Shark-N-T! Sharkburst! Sharktic Blast! I’m waiting by my phone, SyFy channel…).  While the Men in the Gray Suits may be monopolizing the news, Chris Chappell’s harrowing race-day encounter reminds us of a more significant regional threat – Chaps in the Green Onesies.  I’m referring, of course, to sea turtles.

These beaked denizens of the deep don’t usually leave any witnesses, but Chris claims to have seen one surface threateningly in Mike McDonough’s wake.  His muddled description of the beast (“Saucer-like shell, razor sharp flippers, huge compound eyes like those of a honeybee, and a prehensile tail”) reflects the understandable terror he must have experienced while watching his own screaming reflection multiplied a thousand times in the great reptile’s eye facets.  The leviathan had perhaps recently supped on an unsuspecting SUP, because it let Chris pass unharmed, sliding into the depths behind them with nary a ripple.  I don’t want to say that this was unfortunate, but it sure would have helped the reputation of the New England surfskiers if one of our number could boast some turtle beak scars.

There were many fine runs to be had, particularly in the last couple of miles in the open bay.  While the wind-driven waves trended slightly more shoreward than I wanted, I was able to find other small bumps to help me veer periodically to the left.  Although it felt like I was zig-zagging crazily across the bay, my GPS track reveals a sober profile of subtle course corrections. I hardly even know who I am anymore.  As we spread out on our individual routes, it became difficult to track the other paddlers.  I could see Mike’s teal-decked Huki on an inside line off to my right, and a speck of an unidentifiable white ski way off to my left, but that was it.  It was difficult to judge, but I felt like I was slightly ahead of both.

Chris leads us in a pre-race Wampanoag chant designed to ward off Leatherbacks.  Kirk, apparently feeling sufficiently protected by his totemic shirt, demonstrates the kind of hubris that generally ends up with someone short a leg.

Chris leads us in a pre-race Wampanoag chant designed to ward off Leatherbacks. Kirk, apparently feeling sufficiently protected by his totemic shirt, demonstrates the kind of hubris that generally ends up with someone short a leg.

Even before a Great White took a chunk out of a kayak on the safe side of the Cape, there had been a lot of talk recently about the explosion of sharks in these parts (Shark-N-T! Sharkburst! Sharktic Blast! I’m waiting by my phone, SyFy channel…).  While the Men in the Gray Flannel Suits may be monopolizing the news, Chris Chappell’s harrowing race-day encounter reminds us of a more significant regional threat – Chaps in the Green Woolen Onesies.  I’m referring, of course, to sea turtles.

These beaked denizens of the deep don’t usually leave any witnesses, but Chris claims to have seen one surface threateningly in Mike McDonough’s wake.  His muddled description of the beast (“Saucer-like shell, razor sharp flippers, huge compound eyes like those of a honeybee, and a prehensile tail”) reflects the understandable terror he must have experienced while watching his own screaming reflection multiplied a thousand times in the great reptile’s eye facets.  The leviathan had perhaps recently supped on an unsuspecting SUP, because it let Chris pass unharmed, sliding into the depths behind them with nary a ripple.  I don’t want to say that this was unfortunate, but it sure would have helped the reputation of the New England surfskiers if one of our number could boast some turtle beak scars.

There were many fine runs to be had, particularly in the last couple of miles in the open bay.  While the wind-driven waves trended slightly more shoreward than I wanted, I was able to find other small bumps to help me veer periodically to the left.  Although it felt like I was zig-zagging crazily across the bay, my GPS track reveals a sober profile of subtle course corrections. I hardly even know who I am anymore.  As we spread out on our individual routes, it became difficult to track the other paddlers.  I could see Mike’s teal-decked Huki on an inside line off to my right, and a speck of an unidentifiable white ski way off to my left, but that was it.  It was difficult to judge, but I felt like I was slightly ahead of both.

Bruce and Ken Cooper rounded out the top 5, with Mary Beth and Leslie Chappell taking the top women spots.  The finish of the day came as Bob Wright outlasted Dana Gaines in a final sprint between their SS20+ boats.  The navigational error of the day came as Tim (of mystery ski lore) – apparently so far out in the bay that he could no longer see land – missed the turn into Megansett Harbor and added over half a mile to the course (but still finished in 8th place).  Mike, on the other hand, had taken a line so true that he actually shaved a tenth of a mile off the straight line distance.

We finished our splendid day by eating all of Chris’ burgers, finishing off his beer (except the stuff he was trying to get rid of), and stealing his collection of Phil Collins memorabilia (I’m wearing the Invisible Touch Gloves () at this very moment).  Many thanks to Chris, Patty, and Sarah for throwing such a great race.