What a marvelous event the Beaver River Rat Race was! Unfortunately,
it went the way of the dodo a number of years ago. Not because of
under-population (as with the bird) but rather the reverse—it became so popular
that the organizers couldn’t handle the crowds and it was discontinued.
The race was run in April during the spring runoff on the
Beaver River in Ontario , Canada
In my view they missed the essence of the event. As far as
most of us were concerned it was not so much a race as a hilarious romp. We of
this latter ilk were content to consume copious quantities of grog while—for
the most part—allowing the river to take us. Harassing and attempting to sink
competing vessels was considered to be de
rigueur.
Few of the eclectic mix of craft in the non-competitive
category could be deemed even remotely sea-worthy. These vessels were generally
thrown together from scraps of just about anything by builders with vivid
imaginations but minimum manual skill.
For the last race I participated in, I put together a
simple, sixteen foot punt-like vessel with a four foot beam. It featured an
enclosed section in bow and stern (for buoyancy and beer storage) along with a
central bulkhead. She was designed to accommodate ten paddlers plus me perched
at the stern to dispense ales and issue commands.
As I recall, the race was scheduled to begin at one in the
afternoon. But by eleven in the morning all the vessels would be lined up along
the banks of the river. This was a time for milling around with fellow
participants, assessing the merits and shortcomings of competitive craft. Derisive
comments would be bandied about regarding vessels which were unlikely to make
it over the first weir.
It was also a time to quaff a few surreptitious beers from
coffee mugs while police officers strolled among the fleet confiscating any visible
stashes of grog. We old hands knew to conceal it in closed compartments.
As mentioned before, the race was scheduled to commence at
one with the firing of a starters pistol. Invariably though, around twelve,
some wag would let off a fire-cracker and off we’d all go.
A couple of boats along the bank from us was a friend, J.B.
with his entry—a rather flimsy-looking three man craft. The report of the
fire-cracker launched the fleet in a foaming flurry of paddles. J.B.’s boat
managed to get about ten feet from shore before plunging to the bottom.
Seemingly undeterred, J.B. thrashed to shore, ran along the bank and leapt
aboard our vessel.
But instead of grabbing one of the extra paddles and
assisting with the propulsion of the craft, he perched himself on the transom
beside me and proceeded to issue commands to my crew.
At this point in the event—when everyone was ‘at sea’ so-to-speak,
an eye cast around the fleet would reveal a certain activity in virtually every
vessel. Tools would be involved—tools to unscrew panels—tools to chip at
Styrofoam—tools to bring to light the hidden stashes of grog.
There are two weirs to pass over during the course. Having
made it over the first one without undue difficulty, we ran into trouble a bit
further along in some rapids off to the side of the main channel. Our veering
off course in order to get into these rapids was possibly due to the conflicting
orders being issued from the quarter-deck by two captains.
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| Dick about to desert ship |
Anyway, as a result, we found ourselves being swept
downriver beam-on to the current until a barely-submerged rock brought us to a
juddering halt. Again, a string of conflicting orders served to confuse the
crew even further, with the result that the vessel remained wedged against the
rock like a horizontal see-saw.
Eventually however, the pressure of the water became too
much for even my flawless workmanship and the valiant craft broke in two. Most
of the crew—along with Captain J.B. (who isn’t even Italian)—abandoned ship at
this point, scrambling ashore through the thigh-deep water. Meanwhile Jan,
Dick, John and I chased down the forward section which remained afloat because
of the bulkhead.
As the aft section came wallowing past, I grabbed it hope of
rescuing the remains of the beer. But alas, the bottom had been torn out and
the grog was gone.
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| John, me and Jan approach the finish line |
With Jan bailing furiously, we made it to the last falls
where, low in the water, we became wedged on the lip of the weir. Efforts to
dislodge the craft with paddles proved unsuccessful until Dick decided to
abandon ship by leaping up and grabbing the overhead bridge. With the loss of
his weight, we plunged over the falls, leaving him dangling from the bridge.
Our vessel finally gave up the ghost a little shy of the
finish line. The three of us swam across the line then scrambled ashore.
I read somewhere that
immersion in freezing water can have a decidedly
adverse effect on the human brain… Hmmm! ~ Davina