By "we," of course, I mean my favorite skipper, known by his WaterTribe handle TwoBeers, and his trusty crew Jahn "Moresailesed" Tihansky will be sailing/rowing/paddling around Florida, while I ("BookWorm" natch) shadow them by road, towing the other boat from the air-conditioned comfort of an automobile. It's astonishing and humbling to see the crowd of dreamers on the beach each year.
The fleet will swarm the water tomorrow (Saturday, March 5) at sunrise. Some will be going to first checkpoint (they are racing what's known as the Ultra Marathon), some to Key Largo (Everglades Challenge), and a select few all the way around the state (Ultimate Florida Challenge).
There are a couple of ways to follow the progress of the three fleets. There's the WaterTribe tracking site, just be sure to select "Ultimate Florida Challenge" rather than "Everglades Challenge" if you want to see what our team Spawn is doing. Likewise the RaceOwl site will track the various gangs. On RaceOwl, Spawn is known as 3662. And finally, to pinpoint our fellas only, the SPOT locator site is unwieldy and difficult to use, but it doesn't get the volume of users and only occasionally bogs down.
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For more than a year, so much of our idle talk and planning chez Linton seems bump up against The Ultimate Florida Challenge. Equipment, conditioning, route-mapping, alternate routes, possible solutions to potential problems. So. Much. Thinking. Now the start is a mere three sleeps away. This is, let me reiterate, a 1200-mile human-powered adventure race that pits my sweet spouse and his friend Jahn Tihansky against the weather, waves, wind, winding waterways, and whatever other w-flavored challenges to be managed as they travel a literal round the state.
The short list includes cell phones (they can use them! it's not like a regular race! they won't chat, but they could!), VHF radio, flashlights and headlamps, GPS, two personal locators with strobes (clipped to their persons at all times), a SPOT personal locator (operating all the time; it's how we track their position), a tablet for additional navigation, a biggish lithium battery and a pair of portable (deck-of-cards size) power packs, plus AA and AAA batteries, plus multiple nav-light backups. And compass, watch, and paper charts just in case.
This is essentially the same gear they have carried for years; I don't know how the windsurfing guys manage to pack even a severely slimmed-down version of these essentials. But given that this year's adventure races along for another 900 or so miles, the Spawnsters will be carrying back-up back-ups, and considerably more food. From my end of the lab, provisioning seems just about as important as any of the many aspects that can make or break an adventure race. Neither TwoBeers nor Moresailesed is what dog-trainers might call "food motivated." I have witnessed Moresailesed consume more than one full meal at a setting, but both sailors can actively forget to eat for long stretches of time. So I've made it part of my brief to supply the living bejeebers out of 'em. The gold-standard for past contestants is the MRE: Meals Ready to Eat, as designed by the US military. I got a stack of them, complete with the nifty little tab that heats water so they are indeed READY to eat. Then there's the high-protein Mac and cheese cups, a wide variety of snack bars, flavored rice, instant noodles, summer sausage, peanut butter, homemade chocolate bars. home-brewed trail-mix, and instant oatmeal. Stowing it on the boat is not part of my job, but I sure hope they can put this stuff away.
Knocking wood.
I hyperbolize. A tiny bitty bit.
But a quick recap might be in order. At sunrise on the first Saturday in March (the 5th this year), a hundred or so small craft take to the water on the start of a human-powered adventure race called the Everglades Challenge. The fleet paddles, rows, pedals, or sails (or a combination therein) south toward Key Largo.
The racers stop in at a few checkpoints –– Cape Haze, Chokoloskee, Flamingo –– before crossing Florida Bay to Key Largo. It's been a thing my favorite skipper has done for a few years. (Here's a selection of past blogs.)
Some teams take their time, stopping to camp and absorb the natural beauty of the wild Everglades. Some vessels travel in supportive, companionable packs. Some stop for hamburgers on the beach.
The Spawnsters? Not so much. When noting the beauty of their surrounds, my team is on the fly. They aim to shave minutes or hours off their best each time.
It's a grueling event: they might get a few catnaps on the way, but they arrive in Key Largo looking rode hard and put up wet. But for 2022, in celebration of a big birthday, my team will not be calling it quits on the beautiful white sand beach in Key Largo. Oh no. Mr. Linton and his crew Jahn Tihansky (aka Moresailesed) plan to keep racing...threading through Keys, skimming past Miami and Fort Lauderdale and going, knock wood, all the way past Jacksonville.
North of Jacksonville, they will head up the St. Mary's river and leave the mighty sailing vessel Spawn and climb into the increasingly quirky canoe Miss Patsie.
They will paddle up the St. Mary's, eventually climbing out of the water and portaging 40 miles on the side of a county highway to the Suwannee River. Another 300 or so miles of river brings them back to the Gulf of Mexico, where they will switch back to Spawn to finish the circumnavigation at Fort Desoto.
Miss Patsie started off as a perfectly standard 18-foot-long Wenonah canoe.
Muah ha ha. She quickly grew a set of wheels, an old-fashioned lee board, and an outboard rudder. Then, after trial revealed error, Miss Patsie got an upgraded wardrobe. At each stroke, a splash of water landed on the legs of both paddlers. This water quickly pooled and offered a damp proposition for both voyageurs and their big pile o gear.
A yachtful of thanks to Leslie and Paulie at Masthead Enterprises for the time and energy, plus gear and brainpower to make a full expedition outfit for the canoe. Their support is precious to all the Spawnsters.
Then too, what if it's windy on the St. Mary's and Suwannee? Sailors gonna sail.
Thanks to Tom Barry at Sail Technologies for the creative (and lightweight) sail.
During a trial runl, we found that the full batons and a section of old windsurfing mast (doubles as a handle when the team is rolling the barkey along the highway) gave us ~2.5 knots downwind. Add one paddler, and the sail still provides a bit of lift going close to the wind. There is certainly a bit of extra zing when a gust of wind comes along, but nothing that catlike reflexes and the sturdy leeboard can't manage... Now, to modify the expedition cover to allow for sailing... And attend to a few Spawn maintenance issues... And put together meals and first aid... And... And... And...Wheee! Triple cork with a Geenie grab! We hope to land at the beach on Friday, March 4 for inspection and Concours d'Elegance.
He talked about the storms and heat and the nice lady who nearly insisted on calling an ambulance for him. He shared survival tips, like, if you can't get to sleep, you're not tired enough.
He lent guide books and told the guys where they might best employ a fully-rested daylight reconnoiter to save trouble later. Such as the bypass for the Class III whitewater rapids of Big Shoals. They took notes and planned accordingly.
The scouting adventure started in the pre-dawn hours, when I dropped the fellas off at the Fort Clinch boat ramp. They headed upstream (pushed on a flooding tide) toward the Georgia border.
Our planned rendezvous was a little boat-access beach at the Route 17 overpass –– an isolated and frankly sketchy location about 19 nautical miles* away. What is it about waterfront parks that leads to so much graffiti, used condoms, and empty beer containers? Rhetorical question. Discretion being the better part of valor, I betook myself to a cozy coffee shop and hitched up my trusty interwebs machine. All the better to track their progress.
After crisscrossing the Florida-Georgia line an estimated 294 times, we achieved St. George, Georgia. This tiny town is the southernmost named settlement of Georgia and has the happy privilege of marking the start of the Ultimate Florida Challenge's 40 mile portage.
So each time I spell "40 mile portage," it seems like a) a typo, or b) an episode of Alone, wherein our heroes must carry their barque through the woods. Even to me.
But nope. It's c) a roadside slog on a country highway frequented (but not too frequently frequented) by logging trucks.
At the end of the forty miles (37 miles? Who the hell's counting?), one reaches the auspicious village of Fargo, Georgia, population 321 (as of 2010), home of the Stephen C. Foster State Park.
Which is where, naturally, you can get down (way down) upon the Suwannee River.
Sooookay, back to the actual Suwannee river and those –– who knew?! –– a Class III rapids. Big Shoals, by name, visible on satellite maps, and, I am relieved to report, avoidable by a 150-or-so-yard portage to skip the worst of the whitewater (and rocks).
The guys took off from Big Shoals State Park a mile or so upstream of Big Shoals and came ashore seven or so nautical miles* downriver at White Shoals, Florida after walking AROUND the alarming rocks.
They did locate several pieces of landscape in the lesser whitewater of Little Shoals, and the newly named (more anon!) canoe bears a minor scar or two.
Team Spawn gathered enough intel to keep the two sailors chattering all the way back to Jacksonville. Not the least important bit was what culinary delights await them at the distal point of the 40 mile portage...
*Why nautical miles? A nautical mile is first and foremost a minute of latitude. And even though our team is almost never going to go 1.5 land miles without a change in longitude, it's navigational tradition. Training for the Ultimate Florida Challenge adventure race has been ramping up around here. Slowly. We all know how long it takes to recover from a simple bout of tendonitis. Over the summer at the Farm, Captain TwoBeers hiked a few miles every morning (minus a couple of lay-days for fishing and sailboat racing), and each week we tried for at least one tandem kayak trip. The tandem boat is an excellent addition to our summers. Instead of tethering my kayak shamefully to Jeff's when the mileage on my hinky shoulder is up, I've got built-in rescue propulsion. AND it feels like I am contributing to his fitness regimen. Each time I set down my paddle and pick up the camera, the binocs, the Googlemaps, it's for the Spawn team effort. I'm not just dreamily contemplating the scenery, dang it, I'm coaching. But as summer passed, we stepped up. Jeff hunted down and ordered a racing canoe made of Kevlar®. The supply-chain kinks felt palpable as the small factory in Wisconsin kept us apprised of when/if they were able to start building again. Our faith in capitalism was rewarded when a nice fella drove up in his truck and unloaded the as-yet-unnamed canoe one sunny October day. Thanks to the advice of young Chip Clifton, the team will be using kayak paddles on the canoe –– a seemingly small distinction, but one that should save mileage on everyone's hinky shoulders. So while Moresailesaid and TwoBeers are working on their physical stamina and paddling skills, as well as sailing all sorts of boats in all sorts of events, I am thinking about the ground-control challenges. It's an unsupported adventure race, which means that between stages, our heroes are on their own. They can stay at hotels if they want (they won't, but they could), or eat at a fancy restaurant along the way (they might, weather dictating). And at the end of each stage, I can meet up with them, replenish their supplies, usher them into hot showers, et cetera. There will be a lot of road to cover chasing the team, which also translates into a lot of tourist-y opportunity for me. Fort Clinch, for instance, is a race check-in point, and ALSO where they switch from sailing Spawn to paddling the as-yet-unnamed canoe. What did I know about Fort Clinch? Absolutely nothing. I might guess it's a former military outpost, probably historical, possibly a good spot for making out. A few clicks later, and I know the fort was first started in around 1847, and it has a bit of a tradition of being not ready for the conflicts that come its way. It was restored by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s (Ooh, I wonder if Grampa Navy worked on it? Note to self: research employment records for the CCC). And it's right next to Amelia Island. Huh. That leg of my road-trip just planned itself. NOTE:
The Ultimate Florida Challenge begins on the first Saturday in March at sunrise at Fort Desoto beach. Depending on what time a person keeps, either the clock is ticking or the drums are calling... The laundromat: a hotbed of outrage. Maybe it's a North Country thing, this expression of grievances. Every day is Festivus and they have a problem with you people.
I've resisted the impulse to post the rather frequent road-side rants –– partly because I have very little access to the web, but also because it seems so unkind to broadcast these beefs or private tragedies any farther. The farm with the big hand-lettered sign about the "Careless Driver who Ran over our Dog..." or the beautifully manicured lawn with the sign: "Community Propane SUCKS!!!!" or, the one I can't quite read and am afraid to stop for a photo or a closer look, which starts "This is NOT a parking Lot! It's Private Property..." and ends with "Now get OFF my PROPERTY."
Crossing the Sunshine Skyway as playful gusts of wind nudge my RV from one side of the lane to the other, I dart a quick look to my right.
Of course the fleet of adventure racers is long over the horizon. Even knowing that my TwoBeers and Moresailesaid are sporting fine Gortex® waterproofs, I knock wood that they're hauling (dry) butt ahead of the rain.
Rain that is just starting to ping against the windshield. When my favorite skipper and Moresailesaid push Spawn off the beach for the Everglades Challenge each March, their focus is 100% on getting to Key Largo. The event is an "unsupported" adventure race, which means the racers carry whatever they expect to need. Preparation is key: for months, I'll find lists of how many AA and AAA batteries, of food ideas, of which things need fixing. There are long looong phone calls about how best to stow gear.
I stay out of most of it. I consider myself a quartermaster rather than a chef d'équipe for the team. I obtain and make stuff in advance of the event.
But when they take off at 7 am on the first Saturday in March, my focus changes. I'm ground control, so I keep an eagle eye on their SPOT track. And another eagle eye on the weather news. And another on the WaterTribe tracking page and on the RaceOwl page when the WaterTribe page gets bogged down. Plus one more on what's shaking on the social networks. Oh, and maybe a peek at the weather radar. How many eyes is that? (Whatever you do, do NOT Google "eagle spider." Jayshusmaryandjoseph)
Among the many management challenges of the Everglades Challenge each year, the only thing tougher than organizing batteries and gear and the boys' socks –– for me –– is keeping a lid on worry.
Knocking wood and crossing fingers and so on.
As anyone who knows my fondness for Archie MacPhee will testify, I am liable to announce a propos of nada: “Sharks have no bones!” It was a catchy tagline from a catalog some years ago. And true. Shark are all cartilage and attitude. And, as one might discover on a foggy January wander along a beach – teeth. Sharks continually shed teeth and grow more. Row after row of them.
Walk down the right beach and tune your attention to the y-shape, and dozens of teeth will appear.
Which makes sense, because sharks have been swimming about for millions of years. And some grow up to 35,000 teeth in a lifetime. I suppose someone has done the math, but it’s a lot of teeth underfoot. One might say, the opposite of hen's teeth, even. Each year, I find myself taking photos that I hope will catch the visual essence of the sweetness of the season. This year, of course, I've snapped any number of pictures of the farm, but really, summertime in the North Country? It's about cottage life, boat-rides, and the Water (whichever body of water, it's always capitalized: The Lake, The River, The Beach). For over a hundred years, my family has spent weekends or weeks or the whole season on the granite shores of the St. Lawrence River. The scent of old life-preservers and clean seaweed.
Sleeping porches. The "whap" of a screen door pulled shut by a long spring. Pine needles. Lichen.The lapping of water under the wooden dock. And the inexorable march of Labor Day... |
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