NYC Mayors Cup 2009 - Race Summaries
Articles By Erik Borgnes, Mark Ceconi, Wesley Echols & Tim Dwyer

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NYC Mayors Cup 2009
by Erik Borgnes

The pre-race evening started innocently enough; I had the pleasure of staying with the exhaustingly-inquisitive Joe Glickman (the Glicker), old man Greg Barton, drop-waist jeaned and jovial Sean Rice, and the surly-appearing, crossword puzzle manic Bevan Manson.  Our dinner conversation began with the predictable immature banter about our waitress's finer qualities and how good were the surly one's chances of getting her phone number, and ended with the question of "what if you were a conjoined twin with Oscar [Chalupsky]."  "YOU USELESS F----ING BASTARD!"  24 / 7 . . . forever.  While funny at first, the gravity of that predicament brought us all back down to thoughts of the cold, the rain, and the next day's race.

Race morning.  It's cold, windy, raining, and we're downtown NYC.  No beaches.  Just concrete and buildings and boat traffic.  The forecast nor'easter had timed itself perfectly and was to peak while we were supposed to be on the water.  The temperature was 45 F (7 C), winds were sustained at 25 mph (40 kph), gusting to 40 mph (64 kph).  The upbeat news was that the Hudson river was registering a 61 degrees F (16 C), the water on the latter part of the course was 55 F (12 C), and the wind was so strong that the rain drops were literally vaporizing before they hit the ground.  Such was how the day was breaking.  In contrast, two years ago, I remember facing NW at dawn, soaking in the warmth of the sun's reflection on the glass facade of a skyscraper while enjoying my free coffee and bagel with cream cheese.

So, long story short, race director Ray Fusco had been conversing with several of us during the previous day and a set of alternative race plans had been drawn up in the event of varying degrees of rough weather.  The decision on race morning was to go with the most extreme of the plans, i.e. only "red vested" elite level paddlers would be racing today.  I think for some, it was disappointing, while for others, it was a relief.  The Glicker couldn't lend out his ski fast enough to another racer who happened to be ski-less.  Only about 30 paddlers would be allowed to start.  Of those, about 10 either turned back early, mid-course, or didn't even bother to change into their race gear.

The water at the put-in in North Cove Marina was empty of paddlers until the last possible moment as no one was anxious to get out from under the shelters.  The water there was deceptively calm.  Finally, and on time, the first wave started, composed of double kayaks and double skis.  I believe that half of them eventually turned back for the shelter of North Cove.  The elite surfski start had about 20 boats, all of whom had been selected as being capable through known experience, or through internet searches, done the day beforehand, of their international race results.  Unfortunately for one of them, his boat was a modified ICF K1, a Nelo Sea Vanquish, ('sea sandwich?' came to mind given the days conditions).  That gentleman was kindly tapped on the shoulder and escorted back off the dock.  Safety personnel on the launch dock made sure that every racer had either a waterproof cell phone or a vhf radio - and they were serious about that.  Five minutes before the start, I watched a safety officer fasten a vhf radio to the pfd of a Dutch paddler while he was sitting in his ski.  In broken English, he replied, "Thank you!. . . how do I use this? . . . do I just push one of these buttons and say mayday, mayday?"   If you had any chinks in your self-confidence given the day's conditions, they would have been hard to contain.

The start wasn't classically frantic for obvious reasons.  We all had to round a buoy located about 40 m offshore and upstream and then we headed straight north up the Hudson, with the incoming tide pushing us north and the tempest beating us back south.  I didn't have my gps with me, but my guess is that for that first 20 km up the Hudson, I was traveling at 6 mph, with about 3 mph of that my boatspeed relative to the water, and the other 3 mph the speed of the current.  And it was brutal.  Wind waves  were on average 3 -4 ft (1+ m) but easily 6 ft (2 m) quite frequently.  The fastest route was way out in the middle as would be predicted due to the laminar flow.  But, in the middle, the water was entirely whitecaps.  Whitecapped whitecaps.  Even the troughs were flattened and whitecapped out.  Clear vision was a continual problem because of the pounding from all the spray and wind.  When you'd take a long blink to clear your eyeballs, you'd open them seeing an entirely different set of waves before you.

For the first hour, I was rotating in a loose group with Ed Joy, Wes Hammer, Rami Zur and a Dutch paddler.  We obviously weren't riding wake.  We were simply within 911-whistle distance of one another.  Each of us knew that the sanctuary was just past the George Washington (GW) bridge, where we would be turning into the Harlem river.  The problem was that the bridge just never seemed to get any closer.  In last year's cancelled race, I think that I reached the GW bridge, 10 miles from the start, in about 1 hr 15 min or so.  In '09 it would take about 1 hr 45 min.  As we progressed up the Hudson, I made the decision to paddle a river-right course where the average wave size was smaller, knowing that the current speed would be lesser, too.  My meandering line was along the line of floating debris - logs, sticks, garbage - that separated the faster from the slower flow.  In there it was less hectic on average, but the shear between the faster and slower flow made for some interesting standing waves.  Two times, I threw my legs out and braced with the paddle in a hail Mary maneuver as I encountered extra steep six foot (2 m) waves that had foaming white tops.  I rarely ever throw my legs out but these two spots looked really ugly and my Uno looked really small underneath me.  After a few big brace moments, I continued even more towards the right bank, and at one point, I paddled directly over a one-meter-diameter steel yacht mooring buoy that was being forced about 8 inches (20 cm) underwater by the strong inflowing current.  While I stayed right, I watched the others in the center channel move steadily ahead.  The GW bridge finally came and went and it just didn't get any easier.

Two and one half more miles (4 km) into the storm until the turnoff into the Harlem.  I watched the three paddlers ahead of me head river-right immediately after the GW bridge.  Ed Joy, who was one of them later told me that he was getting a bit frazzled by being out in the middle for so long.   I had earlier watched EMS and police vehicles with lights a-blazing driving up along the shore to my right, stopping at the foot of the GW bridge, and I had also heard one of the Coast Guard or Police boat's sirens sounding to my left, out in the middle of the river.  I really couldn't look around to see what was going on, and even if I could have, I wouldn't have been able to see any swimmers or bobbing white skis, or been of any help to anyone anyhow.

The turn into the Harlem was a relief, to say the least, even though we had to contend with beam waves during the turn-in.  Now, after 2 hours of paddling, I could finally grab my drinking tube.  Unfortunately, I mis-mixed it and it tasted pretty much like the mouthful of brackish Hudson river that I had rammed down my throat by a breaking wave an hour earlier.  (Mental note to self - put more effort into mixing the drink next time.)  Straight away, I saw two Dutch paddlers who had slowed for a bit.  Apparently, one of them was trying to coax the other into continuing on as he was a bit scared by the conditions in the Hudson.   Rounding a corner in the distance I could see one more paddler.  I was cursing myself for not having a gps with me now because the Harlem current was subtle and it was difficult to sense whether it was going with me or against me.  The Dutch guys were out in the middle, I was on the right bank, and I was reeling them in really quickly, so therefore, we were going into about 1 mph (1.6 kph) current.  After a mile or so, with the gusty tailwind, waves started to form and surfing these runners in the middle of the river turned out to be quite fast and fun.  Probably due to the particular combination of current, wind, the runners were going at about 8-10 mph judging by how quickly the bank was passing by.  The route through the Harlem was about 7.5 miles (12 km), and I had great surfing for about half of it.  At some points, the river current rotates or switches unpredictably, so this whole stretch was quite a puzzle to figure out.  The other problem was that, going into some turns, it was difficult to predict if the river ahead was going to go right or left, and more than once, my line was outside to outside as opposed to the faster inside to inside turn line.

The Harlem dumps into Hell Gate.  This is where I had a trick up my sleeve.  For the month beforehand, the Glicker and I had been debating over the best path through the Gate.  Specifically, do we go left or right of Mill Rock which is located smack in the center of the channel.  The default line is to go right.  By the time I got to this point, I was so far back, and feeling more than a bit wobbly, that if the east route was slower it didn't really much matter.  My head was still clear and my energy level was fine.  Left (east) of Mill Rock turned out to be the faster line, I think.  Only, I kind of messed it up.  I went left of Mill rock but hugged in too close into the rock.  This meant that the current coming in from Long Island Sound was pushing me in towards the rock and then back west after I had passed the rock.  Had I gone more east initially, I could have gotten out into much better flow.  Reid Hyle, the top US marathon K1 paddler, took that better east line and confirmed that he made up hundreds of meters on the guy ahead of him who went right of Mill Rock.  So, there I was, now past Mill Rock, being pushed west into the "joining" of the two current flows, and it was, as you might imagine, not so inviting.  I couldn't really find an escape path, so I more or less went into "keep the ski upright" mode, and hoped for the best.   Then I swam.  I got hit by a conveyor belt of water from the left, maybe when I was paddling on the right, and over I went.  The water was cold, about 55 F (12 C).  I had on a leg leash, and my ski and I were still traveling towards the East river at about 5 mph (8 km) in the current waves.  My side saddle remount was successful and accompanied by thoughts of "don't screw this one up"

I entered the East River with virtually no boat balance muscle strength left.  Turns out the East river was pretty flat with maybe 1 foot (30 cm) waves throughout.  Some larger 2 foot (60 cm) waves were stacking up underneath the 59th street bridge where there was literally a rapids set up by the differential between the Long Island Sound to the north, and the New York Harbor to the south.  That was where the faster water was.  I, on the other hand, was looking for the flatter water and ultimately for the finish line or any way off of the water.  Had there been an accessible dock between there and the finish, I might have headed for it, but the walls of the East river are all concrete and flush.    It was about that time that I noticed a paddler a few hundred meters ahead and the flashing blue light police boat escorting him.  For some reason I looked around and found that I ,too, had a police boat with me.  There is no greater boost in confidence that seeing that.

The flat East river water was really difficult for me in the condition that I was in as the swirls were continually tripping my bow to the left or to the right.  For the next few miles, I limped along with wide and low half strokes, now fighting between staying in the flatter slower water and stealing some current when I could, in hopes of catching the paddler ahead of me.   As I got down past the Brooklyn Bridge and towards the Battery, I looked out on the statue of Liberty in the distance, and got a fleeting moment of pride and a boost in self-confidence for having nearly completed this course on this day.  However, I couldn't help noticing that the water between me and Lady Liberty, where the East River joins the Hudson, looked absolutely gnarly.  I pulled off into a respite of flat water in the lee of a big ferry dock, and threw my legs out to mentally prepare for the final 2 miles - and to verify that there was no accessible dock in the area.  Fifty meters ahead of me, a 3 story tall Staten Island Ferry was preparing to leave its berth, so I waited for a few minutes.  At that point, I had not one, not two, but three escort motor boats with me.  Either I was the last man standing and on my way to win the '09 Mayor's Cup, or . . . disappointingly the last paddler in, ouch.  In reality, I think it was just a precautionary measure because of the busy ferry terminals.  Either way, though, it became obvious that the easiest way off the water and out of the race was to swim and climb up onto one of those motorboats because there was no easy looking exit on the shore.  I hollered over to the driver of one of the escort boats and asked what it was like around the Battery to the finish.  He motored over and replied "ahhh, it's a bit bumpy around the corner but not too bad.  You'll be fine.  I'll follow ya."  That made me smile really big as now I realized that I very likely wouldn't die and that there were guys ready to pull my sorry arse out of the water in the event that I went over.

So around I went.  Around the fishing lines and around the corner into the now outgoing current just pouring down the Hudson.  I saw Wes Hammer from Canada out about 20 m off the wall and going nowhere fast - he might have even been going backwards.  I stayed about 2 m off the wall in meaty and wild 2-3 ft (1 m) rebound slop getting battered left and right.  Pedestrians on top of the eight foot high Battery wall were walking faster than I was able to paddle.  Although I could see the finishing marina entrance about 700 m further, it was almost humorous to be thinking that here I am, there it is, and I'm not sure if I am going to make it there.  I'll bet that it took 15 minutes to do that last km.

Finally, I made it to the marina, to the dock, and not less than six people helped me out of the ski and onto the dock.  I remember being asked "how was it?"  "It was horrible", was my reply.  "Just horrible".  Someone chuckled and said that is what everyone before me had said, too.  Horrible, hideous, horrendous times 2.

Now, 24 hours later, my eyes are pink and my eyelids are swollen half shut from the beating they took heading up the Hudson.  It was one of those races where it just sucked being out there, but it would have sucked worse to have quit or to have not started at all.  And, as we all know, we racers are kind of thick headed and our memory is short lived for try-ing events.  So, now I'm already starting to think about the 2010 Mayor's Cup - staying out in the faster water in the Hudson, remembering my gps, and of not screwing up the path around Mill Rock .   ~ Erik

Mayor's Cup 2009: The Gods Must be Crazy
by Mark Ceconi

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 

Wesley’s Take

Two days after the Mayor’s Cup it is a beautiful day here in Rhode Island, brilliant sunshine, 6 knots of wind.  Today it was easy for me to decide which ski to take off the rack: the UNO.  The forecast of small craft/gale for Sunday’s race caused me to bring my most stable ski in the fleet, the Huki S1R.  While having a “red vest” for the race, I elected not to paddle due to the overwhelming conditions and limited take out areas if I did get into trouble.  Wise choice on my part!   For the elite paddlers most of them were in Epic V12’s provided by the event’s main sponsor, Epic, as part of the face off with the Dutch Team along with some V10’s, and Uno’s and Mako’s. The winner Sean Rice was paddling a Uno as was Erik Borgnes.

While I did not paddle, I had a great time taking pictures, seeing my Connecticut and New York friends; Mark, Steve, Jim, Tom, Robin, Bob, Sean and I got to formally meet Greg Barton and finally met Bruce Gipson after talking to him a few times over the phone the past few years.  I was also able to meet some of the elite paddlers and realized how young most of them really are. Some of them are my son’s age; young, strong, skilled and incredibly fit as you might imagine!  Quite a different story from the 40-60 year olds I hang with. Not to say we are not fit.  I digress some, but all the more reason to consider classes in the Blackburn Challenge as the surfski field continues to grow.

One of those near 50 year olds is my seven year paddling partner Tim Dywer, who paddled a kayak double with his Memory Challenge (around Long Island) partner Maury Eldridge.  Tim won the Blackburn Challenge Kayak Class in 2001 with a time of 2:46:26 and came in 3rd overall when you combine the Kayak Class and the Surfski Class behind Joe Glickman’s time of 2:44:50, and Ed Joy’s time of 2:39.44.  Tim has had many memorable races over the years but one of them that immediately comes to mind, is his 2007 course record for the Essex River Race.  Maury is no stranger to the winner’s circle either, winning the touring class in the Blackburn many times.  As my training partner, I have benefited over the years trying to keep pace with Tim, so the adage of training with someone faster makes you faster holds true regardless of the sport.  Tim and Maury did an awesome job and can now say they have DONE NY having paddled around Long Island and Manhattan. See Tim’s write up below.

So after watching the start of the race, I spent about 2 hours in Big Jim Hoffman’s hotel room with Bob and Linda Capellini and my wife Betsy, staying warm until the estimated time of arrival of the first paddlers.  I got a phone call from Steve DelGaudio who along with Jim, Mark, and Tom Kerr were following the racers along the shores of Manhattan, informed me that the first paddlers should be in in 15 minutes. I quickly gathered my stuff from the room and raced a few blocks to the start.  I got there as Sean Rice was crossing the finish line and was able to help him out of his ski and walked with him to the registration area.  That sprint of two blocks was all the cardio I got in for the day, my strength training for the day was hauling Tim and Maury’s water logged 100 pound kayak double to the staging area after they finished.

Shortly afterwards the rest of the paddlers were starting to approach the finish line looking weather beaten and tired. Reid Hyle the top U.S. K1 paddler, having most recently competed in the World Championships in Portugal with Jason Quagliata, commented he had hoped to put in a better time but lost valuable minutes to a capsize.  He also said “racing was supposed to be fun; this was not a fun race.” Greg Barton had a great race despite his giving up many years to the other paddlers and after a change of clothes, looked remarkably fresh as I helped him change out his footplate on his V12.  Erik Borgnes commented it was the hardest race he had ever done.

While this officially ends the New England Surfski racing season, I am looking forward to the next season which I hope will end with the rest of us mortal paddlers finally getting a chance to race next year’s Mayors Cup!  While the off season training begins, I will have more time to complete the reviews of paddles, pfd’s, the Uno, Synergy, Mohican, and more, in the months to come, so stay tuned to SURFSKIRACING.COM!!! ~ Wesley

Mayor's Cup 2009 - A Race to Survive
by TIm Dwyer

What, no Surfski?!
I abandoned my surfski for this race. Yet I was itching to go all the way around Manhattan this year as conditions last year were tough enough to be cancelled mid-race. As ungainly and awkward as they might be for racing, a tandem sea kayak is a good way to go as insurance in case lightning struck twice in the form of nasty conditions.

Who would paddle with me?
I could have teamed up with any one of a number of New England paddlers, with Wesley Echols, my main paddling partner as a logical choice. But Wes remained loyal to his craft and wanted to round Manhattan in a ski. Then I recalled my paddling partner of the Memory Paddle Challenge 2003, Maury “The Fearless” Eldredge. Going 300 miles around Long Island in 7 days and surviving the 46 mile Montauk Point paddle on a day when our escort boat turned around led to a high degree of trust and confidence. He’s also the Blackburn record holder for sea kayaks, less than a minute shy of breaking the magical 3 hour mark. The only problem is whether he’d want to do it with me.

Lightning Does Strike Twice
Forward to race day. This race will surely be cancelled we all thought. Yet organizer Ray Fusco had a plan. The Coast Guard would allow only a limited number of those considered “Elite” to go out into the maelstrom. The truly Elite paddlers, Barton, Rice, Borgnes and the like were shoo ins to be allowed to race but us mere mortals had to plead our cases individually. Not a man with self-doubt, Maury was literally first in line absolutely confident that we could handle it. Looking out at the furious rollers and leaning into the fierce winds I thought we could do it but do I want to. I’m no elite paddler and there was no way I’d do it in a ski.

I thought of how happy I was on steady dry land and for a moment considered the benefits to health and safety of backing out. Looking out at the hideous conditions I imagined telling “no fear” Maury no thanks for just a moment then and made the only good choice. Feeling a bit sheepish I pulled on the Elite paddler bib and prepped for the abuse that was soon to come.

Into the Fray
On the line with us were 3 double skis and about 7 double sea kayaks. Not all would finish.  Single skis started soon after. Decked out in wool caps, pogies, wet and drysuits these weren’t your typical outfits for a race—it looked more like a seal hunt.

In every race there are errors made. Since they are mostly unavoidable you have to try to make sure you have as few as possible. My comedy of errors began right away.

My large brimmed hat, intended to keep the pouring rain off instead flattened like a pancake over my face the instant we got onto the howling Hudson seconds after the start. I literally saw nothing but the inside of my hat. The first violent drops over the stacked waves were unseen with paddle strokes doing a swing and a miss catching only air. Disoriented and boneheaded, I felt like the 4th Stooge and just had to laugh at the comedy. I never saw the first turn mark. Despite this we had a fast start and were ahead of all the other double sea kayaks.

The next goof was when during race prep I’d considered a tight neoprene sprayskirt but dismissed it as it diminished effective rotation. How I wished I had that skirt for the race. With each wave breaking over the bow and hitting my chest and face the water landed in my fancy zippered K-1 spray skirt and creating a pool that leaked—a lot. The gallons of water sloshed around my legs and the boat labored to keep it’s bow up for the relentless procession of waves. Because of this we had to stay out of the rougher but much faster favorable current out toward the middle of the channel. Having to stop and pump out on the way up to the Harlem River cost us. Next my deck bag holding a hat, gel, VHF etc. was hammered off by the breaking waves and was held dangling by one remaining bungee cord again forcing a stop.

Markus Demuth a strong and competent surfski racer and expedition sea kayaker paired up with Mike Blair in a double sea kayak as part of the Achilles division. Mike was injured in Iraq and has a physical disability and had teamed up with Mark Ceconi in last years Mayor’s Cup. They trained hard to do well in this race and do well they did. They were able to stay 100 yds. out in the faster current and their good sprayskirts handled the larger waves out there. Our initial lead disappeared as they slid by halfway toward the GW Bridge.

The 28 mph with gusts well beyond that lashed at us while the waves pummeled us for 3 hrs during the 13 mile grind to the Harlem River.  Of the Elite paddlers that dared to start at least 10 had turned around before then. It felt much more of an event to complete than a race.

Still, the first wave of the top ski paddlers passing us looked impressive with powerful steady strokes despite the ripping conditions.

The Promised Land
Getting to the Harlem was a triumphant moment. While the current was against us for several miles we were able to catch some small surf, bail out the boat again and have a gel without coming to a stop. Cheers came from the Columbia University’s docks from fellow paddlers who didn’t get to race came to yell out kind words of support to two whipped paddlers not even halfway done. Thanks for being there!

Approaching Hells Gate was like entering the promised land—fast favorable winds and currents at last. The steady rise in speed was a joy. Going from 5 mph to 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 and for too brief a moment 12.4 mph was a rush in the churning current. All paddlers were being swept out by nature’s royal flush that is the East River. At least two of the top ski paddlers swam in the swirling chaos of Hell’s Gate. The mother ship double was just bumped this way and that in the whirlpools that were nothing compared to the howling Hudson.

Lady Liberty
Into the home stretch before rounding N into the wind and current at Battery Park, our speed was a nice 7mph. The drop to 3.1 was immediate and we struggled to stay in the 2mph range and ultimately down several times to 0.0 over the final mile as current and wind combined with chaotic refractory waves washing over the deck from both sides. It was the slowest 1 mile I’ve ever done in a race and it took about 18 min.

Even Lady Liberty had her back to the wind and it looked like the flame on the top of her torch might be blown out. We were getting stuffed again after 5 hours in the boat. I’d called out our speed constantly throughout the race to Maury but hadn’t the heart to tell him at times we were going nowhere. Dig deep and find more.  Heart Rate 173, countless gallons sloshing around my legs, unable to stop and bail this time. As Maury would later write there was no margin for lapse in focus. Yet the finish drew ever near until we crossed into what he called “the quiet cove of jubilation”. ~ Tim