Insert your earplugs and strap yourself in for a wild ride in the New York City Powerboat Poker Run, and meet the people with a need for speed.
by Kim Kavin
photographs by Jonathan Atkin
Men jam the docks at Liberty Landing Marina in Jersey City, gold chains flashing and hair slicked back behind dark sunglasses. It's a sunny summer morning, the kind that brings out the tank tops, and there are plenty in evidence, on women and men alike. There are plenty of tattoos, as well, although none depicting bare-breasted women—as best I can tell at 8:45 in the morning.
A few teenage boys weave excitedly down the docks alongside fathers and uncles, but for the most part the crowd consists of middle-aged men with tubby bellies, many of them downing caffeine and no doubt trying to recover from last night's free passes to Larry Flynt's Hustler Club, located across the river in New York City. Through bloodshot eyes, they check out the detailing and engines on the 111 muscle machines about to take part in the ninth annual New York City Powerboat Poker Run. My Viagra, a Donzi out of Cortland, New York, is a few slips away from Aquaholics from Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire. I spot a Scarab called Bad Habits and an Outerlimits branded No Discipline. The air vibrates with the rumble of revving engines, competing for attention with screaming paint jobs. I will soon learn that flames on the bow are passé apparently, orange and purple fangs are all the rage these days.
I'm going to be honest: I am the yin to these raging yangs. Sure, I tend to drive 20 miles an hour over the speed limit on the New Jersey Turnpike, but where boating is concerned my crowd is more the 50-something couples from Maine who like to watch the coast slip past at 12 miles per hour from the deck of a comfortable trawler. On the rare occasion when I'm hungover, it's from too much bordeaux, not shots of Jagermeister.
In the distance I spot Marilyn DeMartini, who handles public relations for the Florida-based Cigarette Racing Team. She calls me over to meet Bob Scanlon, owner of Cignificant Other, the 42-foot Tiger that will be my ride for this afternoon's 75-mile run up the Hudson River to Ossining, New York, then to Haverstraw and back to Liberty Landing.
Thankfully, Scanlon looks like a nice enough guy, with short blond hair and a broad smile. I later learn that he serves full-time as a firefighter in Lake George, New York. I'd put him in his late 30s or early 40s, definitely younger than most of the men at today's event. He tells me his brother, Rick, will also be onboard, as well as their friends Billy Coon, Charlie Wieman and Safari Slosek. They've all got matching blue-and-white team racing shirts that look a bit like upgraded bowling uniforms. Marilyn will be joining us, too, as will Scanlon's friend, Lucia Maresca, who was the only female skipper in last year's event. She would have been at the helm today had her Formula 260SS, Nauti Gal, not been stolen from a New Jersey boatyard a few weeks earlier.
So I think to myself, let's do some math: eight people—five of them pretty big dudes—in the cockpit of a 42-foot Cigarette that has two bucket seats and a rear bench probably meant to hold three people. The plan is to race upriver at 70 mph, pushed by twin 572-cubic-inch, naturally aspirated Mesa gas engines turning 725 horsepower apiece. We'll be one of the slower boats. The really ripped hulls can hit 180 mph, but that's not my main concern.
'How will we all fit?' I ask first mate Billy Coon.
'We stand. Otherwise, it hurts your back.' He pushes his long, tousled hair out of his eyes and directs my gaze to the bench seat, adding almost apologetically, 'But it's not too bad back there.'
Then he tells me how long it took him to clean the blood off the seat in time for my arrival. Seems he was leaning too close to the passenger-side handrail when the boat hit a bad wave during a practice run. Luckily, one of Coon's buddies was able to squeeze his nose back into place so he could ride again this afternoon. Greeeaaaat! Never before in my adult life have I so badly wanted my mommy.
High-performance powerboats are a unique breed. They can be monohulls or catamarans, and they're designed to literally fly across wavetops. The fastest can reach speeds approaching 200 mph. The manufacturers of these boats aren't as well known as the larger production builders—except at a poker run. Here, the names Outerlimits, Eliminator, Formula, Fountain, Spectre and Baja are as recognizable as Sea Ray and Bayliner might be elsewhere. Cigarette, my host for the day, is one of the marquee brands in the niche. According to Scanlon, his used 42-footer is worth about $200,000, but a new model of the same size would cost somewhere in the $500,000 range, depending on engines and paint job, which can run $60,000 or more.
Cigarette Racing Team flags fly high at poker runs, which are to high-performance powerboaters what weekend raft-ups are to everyday cruisers. Poker runs started in the mid-1980s and have since become part of a boating subculture. More than 100 events take place every year, each one attended by 50 to 150 teams. In the New York City Powerboat Poker Run, skippers pay an entry fee of $650 in exchange for the right to collect playing cards at various stops and then compare five-card hands at the finish line. The National Powerboat Association, which sponsors the New York City event, is careful not to call it a race or give awards to the fastest boats for safety reasons. Instead, trophies are handed out for 'Best Poker Hand,' 'Best-Looking Crew,' 'Best-Looking Boat' and so forth.
The same is true at poker runs all over the country, and a lot of the boaters here today attend many of those events, as well. Though Scanlon is from upstate New York, his favorite poker run is a weeklong event in Key West, Florida. In fact, he and a few of the guys riding with us today participate in at least two or three poker runs every year.
All the hoopla and flash can mask the serious nature of the boats. They are powerful machines, to say the least, and at events like this one, the water conditions make operating them even more challenging. The Hudson River, especially where it runs along the west side of lower Manhattan, becomes an ever-changing obstacle course when dozens of speedboats rip simultaneously through its middle. 'It gets like an ocean in here,' quips Wieman, referring to the huge wakes bashing into bulwarks on both sides of the river. Six-footers churn in all directions around the narrow, shallow-draft hulls.
Such conditions combined with high speeds can result in tragedy, as was the case at last summer's Smoke on the Water event in Grand Haven, Michigan, where a 42-footer flipped, ejecting all four crewmembers. Two survived, one was pronounced dead on the scene and one was never found.
It's the kind of story that poker run promoters don't like to see in the papers, which is why they go to great lengths to enforce safety measures. Official pace boats typically keep the drivers at slower speeds along crowded waterways, and a veritable army of onlookers stands ready to lend a hand should anything go awry. 'We have marshal boats, police, Coast Guard boats and paramedics at each of the events, plus helicopters and divers, just in case something happens along the route,' explains Bill Taylor, who owns Poker Runs of America, a company that organizes more than 100 events a year. 'You could have an accident, a fire onboard. A broken propeller at 80 mph can cause an accident. Poker Runs of America usually has two paramedic boats that follow [the fleet] to make sure everything is all right.'
I have to say, even though the National Powerboat Association seems to be on top of things, it's hard for me to believe that every person registered for today's event has seriously considered the risks (especially the turkey who called me 'hon' near the refreshment stand). On the other hand, my host has a sense of seriousness that calms my nerves.
'I get so worked up, I get the dry heaves,' Scanlon says of the days leading up to each poker run. 'You've got to get the boat ready. Change all the fluids. Get the weight down. Clean everything. Then you turn the key, and it's good. It starts to be fun.'
Just when I begin to think I'm in good hands, Scanlon cranks up the CD player, whips out an American flag bandanna and ties it around his head as we ease out of the slip. He nudges the throttles and hands me an extra pair of goggles as a mischievous grin creeps across his face.
Cignificant Other noses into line behind the other participants. The engine noise is deafening, but not as loud as Scanlon's Bose speakers, which reverberate with such force that I can't tell whether it's the bass or the powerplants that are shaking my butt off the seat. I no longer wonder why some waterfront communities are banning these boats altogether, and I can tell by the smiles on our team's faces that they really don't care what anybody thinks of them. ('There's always someone who doesn't like the noise,' Taylor told me later, 'but then there are hundreds who love it. It's like music to their ears.')
The goggles squeeze my face as I try to squint over the bow. I wrap my fingers firmly around the handrail. I remind myself to keep my head high, as I prefer my nose to remain intact and unbloodied. It's crowded in the cockpit, but I figure my fellow crewmembers are so big that I'll bounce into them like the ropes of a boxing ring if things get rough. I'm the only one who seems nervous. Everyone else is listening to Eddie Money scream through the speakers and shouting along with fists pumping toward the horizon: I've got two tickets to paradise …
Not 10 minutes into the ride, before we even reach the Tappan Zee Bridge and really open up the throttles, I'm mentally thanking my creator for giving me a well- cushioned rear end. The pounding is near constant, as is the rolling caused by the churned-up waters of the Hudson. I try to clench my rattling teeth enough to fake a smile and take solace in knowing I'm better off than the half-dozen swamped kayakers to starboard, having chosen this of all afternoons for a leisurely paddle.
When we ramp up the speed a bit, I'm surprised I don't feel seasick. We're starting to catch air as we fly over the wavetops, but at least the rolling has stopped. Unfortunately, the incessant pounding is creating issues for my upper body, but at least I now know the reason for all those Spandex tops I saw at the docks.
As we leave the Tappan Zee in our wake, I notice several of the fastest boats heading back to the marina, having zipped up to Ossining and Haverstraw and back again in the time it took me to adjust my goggles. Scanlon eyes the speed machines with lust and pushes Cignificant Other's throttles to the pins, launching us at close to 75 mph. This must be what astronauts feel like, I think, as hundreds of gallons of fuel ignite to force them out of the atmosphere. I'm the only one still sitting, holding on like a first-time roller-coaster rider. The rest of the crew are on their feet, crouching like cheetahs and looking for the next wave to use as a launch ramp.
I'm wondering just how black and blue one's backside can get when I hear a loud pop. Cignificant Other's big engines have barely rattled to silence by the time Coon has opened the engine hatch. Scanlon turns around in his seat, worry lines spreading across his forehead.
The diagnosis is a blown outdrive. A new one costs anywhere from $2,500 to $8,500 and requires a haul-out for installation. With Sing Sing prison looming ahead in the distance, we realize we're done before even reaching our first stop.
Several other boats slow down and idle over, asking whether we're all right and tossing engine oil our way. Mike Kennah and Steve Marini, both from Albany and riding aboard the Formula 280SS Hammertime, pass over a dozen cold beers with a sympathetic smile. We begin limping back toward Liberty Landing Marina at 7 mph, which usually suits me just fine but now feels like crawling through quicksand.
By the time we reach our slip, the barbecue pickings are slim and the award ceremony is about to start. Oddly, the other drivers still have perfectly slicked-back hair, but their expressions have gone from tough guy to tired. Looking at them again, I don't notice the gold chains so much as the relaxed smiles. One 50-something guy has such a perfect 'do that you just know it was a pompadour back in the day. Most Saturday afternoons he'd be wrestling with a lawn mower in his half-acre yard, but not today. Today he's in a bright-yellow team shirt, feeling the sun on his face and the rumble of powerful engines beneath his feet. He's not Daddy the Money Tree or Tired Mr. Bossman. He's Super Star Ocean Racer, leaving normal life in his wake as he roars off at 90 mph.
The same happens to be true of my new friends aboard Cignificant Other. The boat, you see, is named for Scanlon's wife, a financial whiz who bought it for him and his fireman buddies to enjoy. I could write a lot of things about their partying ways, their predilection for crazy speeds, their strange amusement at breaking their noses at sea, but that just wouldn't be the essence of what today's poker run is about.
'What you should write about,' Wieman says, 'is a bunch of guys making $40,000 a year who get to go out and do this.' He raises his beer bottle in the air and puffs out his chest. 'I mean, come on!'
Author Kim Kavin, center, poses with new friends from her Hudson River Poker Run adventure: (clockwise from top left) Marilyn DeMartini, Karen Wieman, Charlie Wieman, Safari Slosek, Rick Scanlon, Bob Scanlon, Lucia Maresca and Billy Coon. |
