Escape from Alcatraz. June 08, 2003

All's Well that End's Well!

No major swimming injuries occurred, as far as we could determine. No major kayaking injuries, either. (Unless you count the badly wounded ego of one anonymous kayaker who had to be plucked from the briny deep when his kayak capsized and filled with water.) (No, this time it wasn't me!)

After dropping their wet gear at Marina Beach, racers picked up their bicycles and peddled onto the second leg of their swim/bike/run triathlon. I lost track of my "Frozen Fishstick" in the hordes of other triatheletes. Maybe I should think of her as "the one that got away" in the crowd of 1400 other jocks. If anybody knows her or how she is, tell her I hope she finished well, and that we'll be looking for her again next year.

Count 'em: 51 Intreped Safety Kayakers

Tom Adams - Tom Baldwin - Karen Baughman - Matthew Blumenthal - Glenn Box - Michael Brassington - Dave Browne - Steve Cashman - Mark Champe - Jim Farnkopf - Loretta Fox - Don Frey - Colin Gift - Bryan Gillette - Roy Gillette - Brian T.N. Gunney - Don Harrison - Jim Haverkamp - Chuck Huttinger - Cass Kalinski - John Kinn - Bob Ko - Bob Lambrose - Rainer Lang - Dave Littlejohn - Steve Louie - Darrell Lupino - Clay Martinek - Dan Mauk - John McCormack - Dean McCully - Tony Mullins - Eric Olson - Mic Olson - Tom Passow - Floyde Pourroy - Nancy Powell - Pat Pruitt - RaphaelRenta - Todd Rogers - Ed Roseboom - Peter Rudnick - Alex Ruiz - Scott Silberman - Jeff Stine - Norm Strutin - Craig Tanner - Lori Tanner - Tim Verschuly - Albert Wang - LaRhee Webster

Email me if we missed your name.
If you're in a picture, let me know which picture
and I'll post your name and email you a high-res copy.

Late Breaking Reports

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LaRhee "Princess Lattee" Webster Reports from the Front

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By LaRhee Webster

What: The Escape from Alcatraz Triathlon
When: Sunday, June 8, very early in the morning
Where: San Francisco Bay, Alcatraz Island
Who: Tom Adams - Tom Baldwin - Karen Baughman - Matthew Blumenthal - Glenn Box - Michael Brassington - Dave Browne - Steve Cashman - Mark Champe - Jim Farnkopf - Loretta Fox - Don Frey - Colin Gift - Bryan Gillette - Roy Gillette - Brian T.N. Gunney - Don Harrison - Jim Haverkamp - Chuck Huttinger - Cass Kalinski - John Kinn - Bob Ko - Bob Lambrose - Rainer Lang - Dave Littlejohn - Steve Louie - Darrell Lupino - Clay Martinek - Dan Mauk - John McCormack - Dean McCully - Tony Mullins - Eric Olson - Mic Olson - Tom Passow - Floyde Pourroy - Nancy Powell - Pat Pruitt - RaphaelRenta - Todd Rogers - Ed Roseboom - Peter Rudnick - Alex Ruiz - Scott Silberman - Jeff Stine - Norm Strutin - Craig Tanner - Lori Tanner - Tim Verschuly - Albert Wang - LaRhee Webster
Wind: (from historical data, not guessing) 6 AM = 10 - 15 knots; 10 am 15-20 kts; 3 pm 20-25 kts.
Temperature: 55 degrees F (With wind chill, just above absolute zero)
Current: yes
Tides: always

When the alarm went off at 4:15 Am, I at first couldn't understand why it was going off so early and thought in my sleep-clogged brain that perhaps the cat had walked on it, pressing settings buttons and reconfiguring the wake up time. But no, eventually it sunk in that this was the big Escape from Alcatraz day! Yahoo! Time to get movin'.

By 5:30 I arrived in San Francisco and discovered that our meeting place of Crissy Field had been unexpectedly closed. Even at that early hour, and barely light, pre-race bedlam was beginning, and the cone men (those guys setting out orange cones, not to be confused with cone-heads) directed me to go to Saint Francis Yacht Club. I didn't exactly know where it was or how to get there, but that was quickly solved, as I ran into Rainer who was also circling about, who led the way. Quickly the rest of the WSK group showed up (with only a couple notable exceptions of AW and DM) and launch preparations began. ...so what mischief had Dean gotten himself into this time? Was he truly lost? Still in bed? Albert, we knew was coming later, as always.

It was early, cold, dark, foggy, drizzly, windy and generally nasty ...normal June weather for San Francisco. Never mind that Rainer sported the latest in cold weather attire, shorts and a tie-died tee shirt and a smile, the rest of us more sensible types grumbled accordingly as we slipped out of our toasty jackets and quickly suited up with full battle gear to go put our lives, or at least our dry skin, on the line for the Escape swimmers.

We did make a 6 AM launch (gosh, how did that ever happen?) into choppy grey water, and with the wind at our backs easily paddled the two miles to Aquatic Park for the general kayak muster where we encountered the ever-smiling, coffee and goodies in hand, the Danish Donut Delight himself, Dean McCully. (...which proves he wasn't under a rock but out buying goodies for us all to help the swimmers escape from a rock... Mystery solved!)

There were at least 50 registered safety kayakers and several non-registered helpers. I noticed there was a grand total of three women, of which I was one. I began to wonder what had gotten myself into and what all those women paddlers who stayed home knew that I didn't! I was soon to find out.

After a quick briefing, and a grand entrance by Albert just in time for roll call, we headed out to Alcatraz. Spirits were high, the wind was high, the waves were high, the fog was low. It promised to be a delightful morning!

We gathered at the east end of Alcatraz island, more or less, then split into our respective groups. The theory was that we would form two 'arms' or flanks for the swimmers to stay between, and thus we would keep them herded in the direction of the finish line. So much for theory! It was chaos from the start and just got worse.

At the sound of a throaty blast from the Hornblower's whistle, swimmers with whoops and yells of excitement, jumped from its deck into the dark, green, heaving waters of the bay. It looked from my vantage point like rats leaving a sinking ship! Quickly I back paddled to get out of their way, as I was near the ferry. Wave after wave of swimmers kept disgorging, an awesome sight. The leaders were a quarter mile into the race and still they jumping off the ferry. The water was churned white with stroking arms and kicking kegs and caps of bright pink, blue and white looked like sprinkles of confetti on the waves. I turned sideways to help form a directional barrier as my herding instincts kicked in. I was doing my job. It was easy.

Then the ferries were gone, the swimmers were swimming, the wind was blowing, the waves were picking up and somehow, I found myself being a sweeper and bringing up the rear, a position I'm well acquainted with. Right away I noticed the swimmers close to me weren't doing nearly as well as those first off the boat. These were the nonprofessionals, the amateurs, the I-think-I-can-do-this swimmers, and they were the ones at most risk. (My daughter is a competitive swimmer, now age 16, and she's been swimming since she was 6, so I have observed a lot of swimming over the years.) Immediately I noticed that these swimmers' stroke was less crisp, less powerful, more erratic in the waves, their breathing rushed, their general demeanor exuding doubt instead of confidence.

One swimmer jumped from the ferry and swam immediately to my kayak and grabbed the bow. "I hope that's OK," he sputtered. "That's what we're here for," I replied. He nodded and hung on for a while. "I just need to get my breath," he said, "I swallowed some water when I jumped in." He coughed, sputtered, then swam away.

Quickly another swimmer came over and grabbed my bow. "Thanks!" he said lifting his ear flap on his cap so he could hear. "You OK?" I asked. "Yes," he gasped. "Just need a breather," he panted. "Any time," I replied.

He smiled and slid back into the water. I could tell he was already tired as he was being overcome by the increasingly large waves and wind, although he had barely covered any distance. He grabbed my bow again. "You won't leave us?" he asked. "No," I replied. "I'm here for you as long as you need me." He panted, hung on a while, then pushed off again.

We had been instructed not to focus on one swimmer, but it was impossible not to keep a special eye on this guy. I knew he was a candidate for a rescue. Once more he grabbed my bow. "It's tough out here," he said. "You want to get picked up?" I asked. He shook his head no. "You'll be here, right?" he asked again. "Yes, I'll be here, " I replied again, thinking to myself that one more bow grab and I was giving him the whistle, as he was obviously not going to make it on his own. He had been in the water maybe a half hour, but wasn't making any progress except downstream toward the Gate. Then the rescue zodiac came by and scooped up everyone in his little swimmer pod. There were only mild protests as they were bodily hauled from the water. It had been just under an hour.

We were now in the middle of the channel and I was still at the back of the pack. The wind was increasing and the waves were getting big enough to occasionally completely hide the paddler next to me. All I could see was flashing blades over the top of the piles of water. I was working hard in the wind, but was really concentrating on the swimmers, not on my paddling, and was pleased that some of my paddling instincts were showing up. I remember throwing in a high brace on a wave just as its top was starting to crumble and I thought it was going to break on me. Another time an automatic hip flick saved my butt when my paddle grabbed air instead of water. My paddling was running on automatic and for once, it was working well, in spite of the wind.

All around me the race had disintegrated into stragglers with no cohesiveness. There was no column of swimmers, no leaders and followers. It was like the aftermath of a great charge on the battlefield. The main push was over and what was left was each person with their own individual battle, hand to hand combat with the green walls of water. I watched swimmers swim up green faces like surfers battling to get out beyond the breakers. I heard them cough and sputter as waves would slap them in the face, breaking their rhythm and slowing them down. One kayaker encountered a swimmer so disoriented and hypothermic that all he wanted to do was crawl up on the man's deck, a sure way to get tipped over. Fortunately, before that could happen, another yakker came to his rescue and stabilized him so the swimmer could get up and out of the water. He was quickly removed by a rescue boat.

And so it went. Rescue whistles were sounding all over the bay as kayakers called for the rescue boats. One whistle was persistent, over and over. Don't they hear that, I wondered? Eventually it fell silent. Occasionally the siren of the SF police boat would sound as it responded to a whistle. There were fewer and fewer heads in the water. The race was winding down.

After an hour and a half on the water, most of the stray swimmers had been picked up, and us kayakers were now gathered on the water in front of the Saint Francis Yacht Club where we had herded the last of the stragglers. Some of us were rafted up, leaning on each others' boats, taking a breather. Nobody had drowned and we had all lived to tell our tales. Those swimmers who had been picked up by rescue boat were being let off a short distance off shore so they could have the pleasure of swimming the last distance, then walking up the stone steps and through the transition portal to the cheers of the crowd as the announcer called off their name, and sometimes, their age. We cheered them on too. They deserved it.

Did I hear somebody say one contestant was 80? Is that possible? There were swimmers with full wetsuits, swimmers with none. There were pros and there were very good amateurs. And there were definitely contestants who shouldn't have been there, and there were kayakers who definitely should have. We were needed, we were there, we did our job, and we were all proud of our effort.

Would I do it again? Yes, absolutely. It was a great day and great fun in spite of the lousy weather. Afterwards, we had coffee, donuts, and war stories to tell, then later, beer, pizza and crepes with our paddling buddies. Oh, did I mention that we actually got paid for our services? What more could a kayaker possibly ask for than to get paid to go do what they love most! Paddle on, dudes!

Cheers!
LaRhee Webster

Tale's from a Triathlete's
Point of View

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So, you paddled with the group and or read the report, looked at Dean's picture album and still don't have a complete feeling of what it was really like to be in the Escape from Alcatraz Triathlon?

Here's a report from a participant, my boss to be exact. Tom Knauer, over 40, came in 7th in his class. Posted with permission.
Enjoy! LaRhee

How The Underwater Half Lives
by Tom Knauer

LaRhee,

I wish I had known you were out there, I would have looked for you!

First, I want to thank you (and your fellow kayakers) for being out there and supporting us. For most of us, the concerns and worries about the swim were running high even before the wind kicked up, and it was nice to know that you guys were out there - it was truly appreciated! I was on the Monte Carlo (the smaller vessel), and saw all of you hanging around the start area before we arrived - you must've gotten out onto the Bay very early in the morning - it was comforting to see a lot of boats. We jumped off about a minute or two after the pros started. The water was actually much warmer than expected, and the predicted "shock" didn't really materialize. The first few minutes of the swim were actually quite pleasant, and I looked up to see the film helicopter overhead. Then the chop start to take it's toll. Before the race, we'd been told to sight on the twin tower apartments behind Aquatic park for the first 10 - 20 minutes, until we were well into the current. I was figuring on ten minutes, and kept and eye on the swimmers and kayaks around me - no one turned towards Ft. Mason until at least 15 minutes into the swim. It seemed to take forever to make progress, and I looked back once to see Alcatraz depressingly close. The rough conditions bounced us around, and made it difficult to get a good rhythm going, and I swallowed a bit of water several times. Note that I have done a fair amount of rough water swimming, this was about the worst I've seen. One friend commented that he kept running into people swimming at right angles to him - either he or the other person was way off course - but you couldn't be sure who. People watching from shore said it was chaotic, and the great support by the kayakers must have kept all hell from breaking loose. About 20 minutes in, I started to angle towards the west end of Ft. Mason, and I couldn't really notice any current effect - I was constantly fighting the chop (you probably noticed the current more than we did). I considered "short cutting" and swimming directly towards the St. Francis Yacht club, but couldn't see anyone to my right (too many waves), and we'd been warned not to do this. Finally, about 30 minutes in I saw the breakwater at the Marina and angled towards the end. I'd done the swim along shore from Aquatic Park to the St. Francis, and knew I was in familiar territory - except a bit further out. The current became noticeable, and though still far east of the yacht club, I grew concerned about getting swept past the exit and started stroking harder, and at a steeper angle directly towards shore - which was a good decision. I ended up at the perfect exit spot, and was extremely relieved (and tired) to leave the water after 42 minutes of "beating". Thank you very much for the safety patrols, and to my friends and the fans cheering me on as I exited the water. Even the pros and top swimmers took 5 - 10 minutes longer than last year...

The rest of the race went fairly well - I felt crappy for the first half of the bike ride, due to the water I swallowed, but started to have fun on the return from Golden Gate Park. I noted that my feet were still a bit numb as I rode the last hill on Lincoln Avenue - 45 minutes after leaving the water. At least I felt better and was starting to have fun again. I had plenty of friends and fans greet me as I came back off the bike, and after a quick transition headed out on the run. Though happy to be on the run (my strength), I made the mistake of trying to cram too much banana into my mouth (concerned about cramps), and my stomach didn't feel too good for a short while. Once I hit stride, things went well and I started passing people. We topped out under the bridge and ran the trail up to Lincoln Ave. and then down to Baker Beach. I chose to run at the water line (firmer sand), and then turned around to hit the infamous Baker Beach sand stairs. They are everything people say they are - we had done some training on them and "ran" them then - no way this time, a fast walk was all anyone could manage. I passed several more people on the stairs, and then it was up and over the hill at Lincoln and back to the finish. The last two miles were fairly easy, with a nice tailwind along Crissy field. I have never finished to such a crowd, it was awesome coming in and having friends yelling my name! It was one of the most challenging and difficult races I have ever done.

Thanks again for the support, and maybe we'll see each other next year!

Tom

(click to zoom) Kayakers launch from all over the Bay for congregation in Aquatic Park.	51 brave kayakers congregated at 6 am on Sunday, 08-June-03 to volunteer for "Kayak Escort Crew" for "Escape from Alcatraz". For the first time in recent memory, Park Officials unexpectedly closed Crissy Field parking lot, our original kayak parking rendezvous location. Much consternation was caused because of the unexpected closure, but we were all able to scramble for alternative parking locations and launched for an on-time congregation at Aquatic Park. Click for more pictures of The Morning Launch	(click to zoom) The ultimate Kayaking RV. This 1965 aluminum-and-fiberglass behemoth is a thing of beauty. The custom kayak hatch in the back allows two ocean kayaks to be inserted onto custom racks that hang the kayaks just under the roof. This van has everything from a kitchen sink to a live-in bulldog (for a security system).
(click to zoom) The Kayak Safety Posse. Would you trust your life to this motley crew? 1400 triathletes did.	All 51 of us rendezvoused on the Aquatic Park beach, received safety instructions, and filled up on kayak fuel (aka high-test coffee, power bars, and donuts). During our pre-race briefing, the event staff stressed the importance of "Herding the SH*T out of the swimmers". A rising Ebb tide would be sweeping the slower swimmers under the Golden Gate and putting their lives in peril. Click for more pictures of Safety Crew on the Beach	(click to zoom) The Alcatraz Escape Armada. Prisoners of Alcatraz would be so lucky to merely have had the float bags on some of these high-tech boats.
(click to zoom) State-of-the-art kevlar* kayaks make their way past century's old wooden ships. I wonder which lasts longer in the harsh marine environment of the Pacific: kevlar or timber. *Poly-para-phenylene terephthalamide to you—thank you, DuPont.	The "Posse" of kayakers headed out precisely on time. That's the disconcerting thing for those of us who run on more laid back "Kayaker Time": TV coverage time requires clockwork rendezvous precision. Surge was 2 to 3 feet and wind gusts were rising as we rounded the breakwater and headed into the open Bay. The waters were cold and the tide was just beginning to ebb under the Golden Gate. The swimmers were going to have a rough morning Click for more pictures of The Posse heading out.	(click to zoom) The ever-present GPS units (lower left) strapped to the front of my kayak record the tracks of us support kayakers. Of course, I was holding up progress in this shot and was about to be creamed by an impatient safety kayaker.
(click to zoom) Looking for Blood in All The Wrong Places? Cass, and the other Kayakers in position and waiting the swimmer's ferry boats. And keeping an eye out for sharks.	We paddled into stiffening winds and strong surge to our assigned position before clustering into two large escort pods. One pod was to be the shore-side escort to shepherd swimmers away from the rocky eastern shores of San Francisco. The other pod was to provide Golden-Gate-Bridge-side escort to keep swimmers from being swept out the Gate by the ebb tide. Why anybody would jump off of a perfectly good boat is utterly beyond me. But there they were: 1400 brave tri-athletes lined up on the deck of the two HornBlower yachts, ready to hit the water. Click for more pictures of Mugging for the Camera	(click to zoom) Ed mugs for the camera. Check out the kayakers lining up on the gunwales of the California Hornblower. Within minutes, swimmers would stream off of those gunwales and we would be overrun with 1400 determined triathletes.
(click to zoom) The first wave of swimmers walks out the hatch and lines the gunwales of the California Hornblower. What prompts these people to get out of a warm bed at 6 am and jump into 50-ish degree, shark infested, waters?	As I fiddled with my camera, the "California Hornblower" and the "Monte Carlo Hornblower" appeared out of the mist. The California circled Alcatraz once, presumably to give the swimmers one last chance to chicken out. Then both boats stopped, the TV helicopter took position, and the swimmers appeared at the hatches. I wanted to take good pictures and I couldn't decide whether to join the San-Francisco-Side group or the Golden-Gate-side group. In the end, I waffled so long that my indecisiveness placed me firmly in the middle of the swimmer's lanes. Click for more pictures of The Race Starts	(click to zoom) Swimmers attack. The confluence of the swimming "slipstream" from the two launch boats turns nasty as swimmers vie for position. The swimming frenzy goes out of control when someone points at me and yells, "Heh, that kayaker has Krispy Kreme onboard!"
(click to zoom) My "frozen fishstick" triathlete breaks away from the pack and heads for the beach. The sharks must be thinking, "Heh, with a Sunday Brunch as big as this, where do we start?"	The Hornblower's famous horn sounded and the swimmers poured out. Like ants late for a picnic, they kept streaming toward us. Red swim caps, blue caps, green caps, white caps, the water was alight with thrashing swimmers. The two streams of swimmers from the two launch-boats converged toward me. I was definitely in harm's way of being run over by victory crazed athletes. So I maneuvered my kayak out of the confluence of swimmers and started snapping pictures. Heh, "down the middle" was the best place to be to get the best shots of streaming swimmers. The water looked like a feeding frenzy as swimmers churned relentlessly past me. I couldn't help but wonder what thoughts were going through the minds of underwater carnivores as swimmers thronged toward the 1.5 toward the safety of the shore. Click for more pictures of Swimmers If you're in these pictures, let me know and I'll add your name.	(click to zoom) Like piranha thrashing the water, swimmers hurl onward. The ebb tide is sucking the weaker swimmers toward the deadly Golden Gate. Gate-side escorts are yelling, "Turn Left, Turn Left" as we follow our instructions to "Shepherd the SHT out of swimmers who won't follow instructions!*"
(click to zoom) "Um, pardon me. Do you have any Grey Poupon?	The first wave of olympic-speed athletes sped past, leaving the slower swimmers and safety boats in their wake. Now our real job began: keeping an eye on cramping, exhausted, hypothermic, or otherwise struggling swimmers. We were strictly instructed to watch for signs of hypothermia, cramping, and other disabilities. If a swimmer seemed to be in trouble, whether they thought they were ok or not, we were to raise a paddle and summon one of the several motor "Rescue Boat". Click for more pictures of Daring Swimmer-Rescue Pictures	(click to zoom) An exhausted swimmer hitches a ride. "Do you know the way to San Jose? Or, um, San Francisco, for that matter?"
(click to zoom) Swimmers hit the beach to finish leg one of the triathlon.	Those semi-frozen swimmers who were not plucked from the freezing brine, were allowed to crawl from the chilly surf and lurched through the swimmer's finish line. Like a myriad of creatures from the black lagoon, evolving out of the waters of the San Francisco Bay, swimmers were encouraged through the swimming-finish gate by the screams from the cheering throngs. Alas, swimmers were only 1/3 of the way finished with their triathalon at this point. There was biking and running yet to do. But at least they were out of the frigid waters of the Bay and on dry land. Click for more pictures of The Finish Line	(click to zoom) The finish line for the first leg of the triathlon. 1/3 of the way done.
(click to zoom) Having done our chilly chore, the "Kayak Posse" heads for shore. With tales of pain, I will not bore, suffice to say that we were SORE!	As the ebbing current picked up, rescue boats preemptively plucked slower swimmers out of the water, and "repositioned" them closer to shore just to prevent disaster. There was no disqualification for hitching a ride on a safety boat and being "repositioned" closer to shore. Thus many exhausted swimmers took advantage of the free rides. When the last swimmer was safely through the finish gate and the Bay was swept for stragglers, kayakers headed to hot coffee and bagels on shore. Click for more pictures of The Posse Returns	(click to zoom) Spectators help tug our kayaks onto the beach.
(click to zoom) Swimmers' wet gear littered the beach.	Post-race debriefing crews provided much needed hot coffee and bagels with extra cream cheese. We were CHILLY after paddling in soaked wet suits, high seas, and ferocious winds. But we survived and we had done our jobs well. "Did everybody remember to herd the sht out of the swimmers?"* the staff asked. "You must have, because none of them were swept out the Gate!" Cool! Click for more pictures of The Aftermath	(click to zoom) Escort kayaker debriefing and coffee-frenzy.

Alcatraz Challenge