Our resident poet and writer Edwin Cheung finishes his actual accounts of our Venice trip where we took part in the annual 30km Vogalonga race.

Vogalonga, May 2008

The seeds of Vogalonga were first sown in 1974 when a group of friends participated in a first regatta. It occurred during in a time when the world was increasingly turning away from the means of the past, in the case of the Venetians their boating heritage. From then on and every year the event has grown with participants coming from all over the world. The true spirit of the race can be seen as an embodiment of these traditions; and reflects in it the very essence of the city itself, which is that of a time gone by, before machines there was man.

It had been months in the making, from the very first emails; the intrigue and suspense had been mounting… it had been touch and go as to whether we would have enough paddlers. We were all hoping that it would be more than just a chance to visit this charming city… and that we would get the opportunity to take part in the event too.

The plane had begun its final descent; to our right, what was once land hurried by as it gave way to the glittering waters of the lagoon. In another 5 minutes we would be landing. Abruptly, the engines roared back into life, and we found ourselves beginning to climb. Just routine, I assured myself. The voice of the captain came over the tannoy; just moments earlier they had received word of a passenger taken ill onboard the flight behind us. We had had to make way for them. Having climbed to a height of several thousand feet the plane banked to the right, rewarding us with an unprecedented vista of Venice and her islands as they emerged in the view below. It resembled a mosaic of terracotta roofed houses, interspersed with the ornate bodies of churches, and spires, all framed by the glistening waters of the lagoon. You could not help hide the smile from creeping across your face, at the very notion that we would be down there the very next morning, on a boat, paddling in those waters.

Sunday, May 11th 2008 marked the Tigers first foray onto the international scene. There were some of us who had taken part in the Great River Race the year before, but for the majority however, there was nothing really to prepare us for the scale, the setting of the event in front of us. It was fair to say though that none of that even mattered, as the experience and the achievement of the race would overshadow it all.

Race day cometh

05:17… the alarm had yet to go off. Blinking to clear the last vestiges of sleep, I lay on my back to see the orangey blue hue of a new day beaming through the window. I roused and dressed quickly. There was a brisk breakfast of toast and croissant which was hastily consumed. Stubbornly my body refused to intake too much. The thought momentarily crossed my mind, how much was this going to take out of me – would I have enough to see me through the upcoming 30km? The thought quickly flew from my mind and my attention turned to the time, we were running late; we were supposed to meet Jo at the Rialto Bridge for 06:30.

The streets were eerily serene and still. What had been a bustling throng of voices and commotion from visitors and trades people going about their business the day before; was now replaced by the sound of our hurried footsteps. We rendezvoused with Jo, then together with Dhana and Helen, hurried through the empty Venetian passages and through the maze of interlinked squares, retracing our route back to the sports centre where we had dinner the evening before. The skies were now an open expanse of azure; foretelling of a beautiful day ahead. There would be lunch to look forward to at the end of this; a change at least from our usual service station fast food fix.

We walked into the cavernous unlit sports hall which too was similarly void. It was only after venturing through to the other side that we found the welcome faces of the rest of the team, who were already making preparations. We also found our paddles, which had been stacked up in a pile on the ground. It was good to see that they had survived the journey in the plane’s hold, and we were thankful that we would not be resorting to using plastics or wooden paddles.

There was a general air of optimism throughout the camp as people walked around attending to bits of sponge, and passing a roll of elephant tape around, which they then using to secure the said bits of sponge to their personages. Stories had been circulating comparing the endeavour that we were about to undertake with that of Marathon runner, whereby the abrasion and constant mechanical motion of clothing against protrusions of the body were particularly prone to the prolonged effect of friction. Enter images of bleeding nipples. Lacking a sponge, and with the briefest of considerations I decided it would be best to spare my hips from this fate too, and proceeded to tape two lengths of tape to wear the effect of the gunwale against my sides. A decision that I would later rue…

The Vogalonga crew was represented by 12 members from Typhoon, 4 Hurricanes as well a further 4 guest paddlers from a South African DB team, Mujaji. Our helm finally arrived too. Assurances had been made that we were in experienced hands; a local, who had run the course at least 8 times before. He was tanned, dressed unassumingly in a black t-shirt and red shorts finished off with a pair of shades. He was Roberto. Having stretched and setting our minds on the task ahead, we paused for a quick round of team photos or two, before loading onto the boat having been called to do so already for a second time.

Starting positions

There would be no qualifying heats, no final – just 30km of pristine Vogalonga course ahead of us. To get there though, we would have to paddle from the gym, at the North of the archipelago through the backwaters of Cannaregio. Then join an ever growing band of boats as we drew towards and down the Grand Canal and the start of the race in St Marks Basin. There were several times, when we had to observe our speed having been caught behind slower and less considerate boats with no room to overtake on the narrow water streets. The South African team had a trick up their sleeve in the form of a GPS locator, which tracked our current speed, and distance travelled. We had covered 4.5km alone just to get to the start line.

Finally spilling out into the basin, we assembled in an ever-growing number of vessels. It was impressive. No doubt an armada of this magnitude has not been gathered since the great Persian invasion fleets at the battle of Thermopylae itself. Surrounding us we were bemused at the sights of rowers stood up in traditional Venetian boats. Having seen them in amazement, we also drew our fair share of stares from other boats as well. We were not the only dragon-boat there that day either. Among them there were British crews; BA Hurricanes who were kitted out in full costume, rushed ahead of the start line after a brief acknowledgement, and Thames Raging Dragons who we had last seen assembling at the dock. It was good to have the prospect of something to chase! We would pass BA Hurricanes not long into the race.

The course was congested as we manoeuvred ourselves into position. We proceeded through with a couple of strong starts, like a driver priming their engine, restless in anticipation. Roberto, directed us to what we were told was the official start line, in line with the two columns guarding the entrance to the piazza. The scene was breathtaking. Here we were in a boat, sitting in the middle of the Venetian lagoon flanked on one side by the Basilica and the beautiful Palazzo Ducale, with the grand church on the Isola di San Giorgio Maggiore out in front of us, and all out into the horizon and around us, boat upon boat waiting for the starting order. Some of the guys in the boat developed a game of trying to spot the highest registration number for a boat; there were numbers in the 1470s… 1560s, we were number 465.

At 09:00 am, a thunderous boom from the starting canon echoed throughout the lagoon; to a cacophony of horns and cheers the race had begun. We had settled moments earlier in preparation for a racing start, which quickly powered us up to speed. It would seem, and rightly so that we were not going to treat this race any differently from any other. The rate grew, as we powered our paddles down and swiftly through the strokes, “UP… 3, 2, 1… and reach”. We felt strong, and quickly settled.

Soon we were approaching the first corner which would provide us with a taste of one of the enduring challenges of the race that being the dangers of having to avoid the traffic of boats around us. No doubt the fault of some eager over-zealousness we were treated to the sight of our first casualty. A kayaker had been rammed in the side by another bigger boat, and was sinking fast. We would do our best to avoid that happening to us – ‘we don’t capsize’.

Island hopping

Safely around the corner of St Helen’s Island, we set our sites on our first target, another dragon boat. The Vice Captain, Daniel Chin would began the first of the many calls for ups during the race, so that we could consolidate our position in the procession of boats that were now snaking out in front of us. Getting the inside track would be the utmost imperative, as it would give us right of way, we would have to fight for every corner from now on.

The sight of Venice diminished behind us; to our right were the Islands of La Certosa and Vignole. How long had we been going? The first signs came from one of the wooden pylons stood upright out the water, it was one of many situated throughout the lagoon to mark areas of low and high water; offering safe passage for vessels. It stated something like 20km… not bad – had we really covered that distance already? Upon getting closer however; we discovered it to be a sign for the speed limit instead… Actually, the distance we had covered was more like 7km… we were still a long way off yet.

We did our fair bit of overtaking and being overtaken. Surprisingly, whilst we jostled for position with several other dragon-boats, it was the single and double manned kayaks and canoes that kept on overtaking us.

The next battle loomed ahead; it would be a fight to take up position for the narrow strait as we approached the northern shore of Saint Erasmus. Dan shouted out, “UP, for 20!” There were at least a couple of other boats it would seem that had the same idea, as we were soon called for another 20 more. We were soon hurtling toward the gap, but in the end were forced to brake as we were cut up by others in front of us.

We would have no rest, as we would have to continue to repeat the feat many times, following the many bends as we stuck close to the serrated Northern shoreline of the island. It was a narrow course, on the other side of the shore were some built up sand banks, which acted as a natural funnel through which we had to all squeeze through.

It was relief to finally round the last crescent of the island’s tip, and we had earned a rest. We would not be slowing down, or as indicated in the literature stopping for a picnic though, as Jo Cheung, who was drummer, set about the first of a round of calls to successive pairs in the boat for a minutes rest. The TT captain, Andrew Liu, was adamant that the work rate be maintained. Evidently being warriors we would have to earn our rest and rightly so would not stop until the job had been done.

The view of Venice was long behind us now, as we were coming up to unbeknownst to us at the time the halfway mark at the island of Burano. It was nice to see the colour of the terracotta rooftops again, as we rounded the top of the island to begin our return leg. On the way we passed the island of Mazzorbo, which then marked our long trek into the wilderness of the waters to Murano. The strokes seemed relentless, as we drove on, the power had dropped, and the wind had picked up and was now against us. Even drummer Jo’s resolve seem to be wavering, as she seemed too became increasingly distracted; thoughts of gelato tainting her perhaps. It was Dan’s unflagging calls that kept us in check, and the second round of rest cycles provided us brief respite from our now aching muscles.

A discord had been growing amongst the boat. What seemed like miles from any visible land; questions were being raised about the course being laid by the helm. Conventional logic dictated that we follow a straight line, as the crow flies between points; to follow the rest of the pack… In seeing that we were increasingly adrift from the main group, Jo was finally nominated to speak on behalf of the boat. She nodded in response to the Roberto’s defence; there seemed to be merit to the madness after all, as we were apparently sticking to deeper waters, which explained the line of pylons that we had been following.

Ironically though, as we approached Murano, perhaps in part reprisal to the earlier vote of no confidence, or more likely still as part of Roberto’s continuing master plan, we took the corner being drawn out by the lines of boats ahead, to cut the distance to our next approach. Strangely, our paddling had become increasingly heavy and laborious, as the boat barely moved. After a few moments of realisation; the very real hazard of shallow water that we had been avoiding earlier on was now a very real problem. As it turned out the reason our paddling had become so hard was because we had hit some shallow water; all our blades were doing was simply digging up the lagoon bed. A slight course correction; the crisis was averted. You just had to brush the whole incident off, as it was never going to be an uneventful ride with our helm.

We sailed without incident through the walled embankments of Murano’s canal, banked on either side by its shelves of buildings; shops selling its famed glass; tourists milling around, like bees in a bed of flowers, popping in and out of each boutique in turn. It was nice to finally take an opportunity to enjoy the surroundings again, and our spirits lifted as we went under our first bridge, where we were greeted by the warm applause of sightseers, who had begun congregating atop of it.

Cruising (down the Grand Canal)

The last four kilometres of the race would define what would be the climax for everyone. We were nearly there, and the best was yet to come. Having spanned the final straits of Murano, we found ourselves hugging the Northern shore of Venice. We were approaching the last turn before entering the mouth of the Cannaregio Canal, from where we would then enter the Grand Canal. The work rate had been scrappy up till now, but we were soon to be greeted by the first round of cheering crowds that had been gathering in ever bigger numbers on the canal banks, giving us a renewed determination. Not one to miss a trick, we locked it in tight, and treated the spectators to a little excitement, surging forward to their applause with a powerful start.

We were back in the Grand Canal with Venice’s famed sights either side of us. We skipped our way through the mob of boats that had begun to form again. Like a circus lion’s roar of indignation at having being whipped by the ringmaster, we continued to bear down with a mighty start at each crowd, and bridge that we crossed, much to everyone’s delight. The harder we paddled the more the crowd cheered, the harder we paddled. It was great, if slightly tiring.

I can still remember the resounding thump of the drum, and surge of the boat as we entered the bend under the Ponte Rialto. The booming drum beat echoed and resonated as we went under the great arch, like the drums of war. More crowds and more cheers, lining the bridge and its surrounding banks, but this time we could also hear the faint cries of Typhoon!, which came from the group of friends that had come out with us to Venice to share in the occasion with us. Thanks friends. I am sure that it was as much fun and an experience as it was for us as it was for you.

The Ponte dell’Accademia was up ahead, and behind that the giant tiled dome of the church loomed in the background, only a few hundred yards were left between us and what was the end. Still we had it in us for one final all-out finish. It was not to be the case however. Yes we had finished, but there was to be no finish. Instead we had some officials ushering us towards the embankment, where a podium had been erected. At this time it was 10 minutes before noon, we had completed the course – cheers from everyone – “who were we – Ty-PHOON that’s who”. It was a magnificent performance by everyone, and we achieved a great time to reflect that too. Our final time was given as 2 hours and 51 minutes.

No bananas

I guess in today’s commodity crisis and impending banana epidemic, I could excuse the officials’ seeming oversight as to why we were denied a share of bananas being handed out along with the medals. Oh well, more likely it was just a case of an unfortunate game of modulus where we happened to be the other of the every other boat, to receive the what would have been much welcomed treat.

Ah, yes where were we, so spirits dashed slightly by aforementioned banana incident (of which I am sure I was not the only one), we had completed Vogalonga. Medals in tow, and having been ushered to move away from the stand, we had our first opportunity to bask in what we had just achieved.

Even at the end, our helm still had some surprises for us. I was beginning to form the opinion that he was no crowd-follower, as we proceeded away from the finish line towards the now busy channels of water taxis and gondolas beyond St. Marks Square. Having successfully negotiated an oncoming taxi, in a game of chicken in which I think we eventually concede, and having squeezed through scores of gondolas, after what was possibly a protracted affair we once again headed into the peaceful waterways once more. Composure by now was beginning to wane, and the physical and mental trials of the day were making themselves known in every muscle and our resolve. Everyone was shattered; I suspect that even our watery dog of a helm was looking forward to getting back to dry land. So having been subjected to course diversions, salt water in the face, and the Mediterranean sun beating down on us we were all very much in need of a good stretch, and some food. Looking over at Sam, who had been paddling next to me, his face and body had been caked in salt spray; a shower would be very welcome too. The remaining task for us now was to paddle the remaining 4.5km to back to the dock.

It was later that I found out to some amusement that our helm was indeed quite the lad. It would appear that he was quite the celebrity and recalling back now there were many a time when individuals from a competing boat would shout across in acknowledgement to him. It would seem that our man Roberto, often chatted to the occupants of other boats, and then would regale, to those within earshot, his deep knowledge of the history and landmarks that we passed along the way.

Where had we come in the race? Honestly, I don’t know. I have found myself being asked that very question many times since getting back. Not that it mattered; for we had done a good thing. Having completed the race, we had upheld our end of a commitment to our sponsored charity the NSPCC. We had raised £1,395, with several hundreds of pounds in matched pledges from companies on top of that. Well done Tigers on that!

Spending that weekend together with the team, and friends epitomised for me what the core of team is about; a common commitment, a will to succeed and to seek new challenges and experiences, of which there will be with every certainty more to come. Did I hear someone say Great River Race 2008…? Count me in. I will make sure I avoid the curries this year ;)

The case of the tape…

On the bands of elephant tape stuck to my sides during my pre-race preparation, I would have to record a verdict of misadventure. Although having been reasonably successful at acting as a barrier between the gunwale. I regret to report back however, that it neither had the coverage, nor the required elasticity to meet the demands of the job. Thankfully though, after some coaxing, the tape did eventually manage to peel off, skin intact(ish).

By Edwin the ‘time taken to write a report can be held to be directly proportional to the distance covered during the race’ Cheung

Crew list

Thanks

Where to start… with Joanne Cheung of course, without whose sterling efforts this trip may not have come been reality. From what I understand from what were the first tentative conversations, to her tiresome drumming, to organising the charity effort; to her we owe a debt of gratitude, redeemable in the form of her choice of a three-scoop gelato!

Cheers to Captain Andy Liu, Sunil and Andrew Cheung for managing all the updates and administration. Ping for safely arranging transportation of our paddles (can’t think of someone better than a true paddle lover).

Thanks to our ever diligent and entertaining helm Roberto, and to our adopted South African Tiger paddlers Martie, Nadia, Pam and Hendrick.

To all our sponsors for their excellent donations and making this trip even more worthwhile.

And last but not least to our friends and family who came along to support us!

The Route

The Vogalonga starts from St Mark’s Basin. After going round St. Helen Island, it coasts the Island of Vignole, Sant'Erasmo and San Francesco del Deserto. Burano is reached halfway through the route; then, passing the Islands of Mazzorbo, Madonna del Monte and San Giacomo in Paludo, the line of boats enters Murano and crosses its Grand Canal. After reaching Venice, the boats go through the Cannaregio Canal, reach the Grand Canal and, finally, they pass the finish line located at the Punta della Dogana, opposite St. Mark’s Square, http://www.vogalonga.com/eng/percorso.asp (June, 2008).

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Image courtesy of Google™ maps, 2008.

Glossary of Terms

Gunwale (pronounced “gunnel” to rhyme with “tunnel”) is a nautical term describing the top edge of the side of a boat. We learn something new everyday.