He couldn't savor the moment for long. Bearing down on him in single surf skis were his countrymen, Oscar and Herman Chalupsky, the brothers from Durban who were waging a battle with the double in addition to their own personal war. While the singles and doubles were in separate categories, prior to the race Oscar publicly predicted that he and Herman would be the first boats to cross the line - bold words since a competent double ski should be faster than a strong solo ski paddler on flat water. However, in many people's eyes, including his own, Oscar Chalupsky is the best surf ski paddler of all-time, and his imposing brother is not far behind. That's why it came as no surprise to those familiar with both his prowess and his bluster that he proclaimed he and Herman would slice 30 minutes from the course record of 4 hours and 53 minutes set by Simpkins in 1997.

Somehow, the incongruous picture of rapacious South African paddlers in surf skis dodging whales in the frigid waters of northern Quebec captures the wild and curious nature of the Championnat du Monde de Kayak de Mer - the World Sea Kayaking Championship.

Why is the World Sea Kayak Championship in such a remote part of Canada? And, as long as we're tossing questions around, what are surf skis - boats typically raced in warm, ocean swells in places like Australia and Hawaii - doing in a race billed as a championship for sea kayaks?

True, Northern Quebec produces about as many potent kayak racers as New York City does hockey players. But when you consider that the Inuits, the indigenous people who hunted whales and seals from kayaks, live a few hours north, the race does have a certain geographical logic. For much of its 760-miles - from Lake Ontario to the North Atlantic - the St. Lawrence is less than a mile or two across. But as you follow the river north and east from Montreal through Quebec City, the widening river flares out like the world's largest piece of pie. Near Forestville, the small logging town where the race begins, the river is more than thirty miles wide and looks more like a Great Lake than a river.

Those who live near the St. Lawrence speak of the volatile waterway with reverence. Unlike an ocean, this section of the St. Lawrence is large enough to dwarf man but still finite enough to fit onto a human scale. Fog, squalls and high wind can turn this mellow sea into a frothy mess. Up here, as the locals like to joke, summer is the week after the seaway melts and just before it freezes again. Even in August the water rarely gets above 47 degrees F - temperatures more suited for chilling a six-pack of LaBatt's than racing tippy kayaks.

Still, the question remains: How did the World Sea Kayak Championship come so far north? In 1996 a race known as the Grand Traversee - "the Great Crossing" - offered $15,000 in prize money and followed the same course from Forestville to the quaint resort town of St. Luce on the opposite shore, a 16-hour drive from New York City. When I went there for that first race, race organizer Denis Senechal told me the race was conceived in August 1995 after he and three cronies spent 12 hours crossing the St. Lawrence in sea kayaks. "It had never been done before," he said in his thick French accent. "Nobody thought it was even possible. We decided a great kayak race should follow that effort."

The following year, they offered a larger purse. The field grew, including a handful of elite racers like seven-time World Surf Ski Champion Dean Gardiner of Australia, and that wistful whale watcher Colin Simpkins. Gardiner, his surf ski stuck at the airport in Toronto, handily won the sea kayak division; Simpkins, paddling a ski in the competition class, won the $5,000 first prize; I collected $750 for third.

In 1998 Senechal and Gleeson sought to up the ante. While there were World Championships for virtually every other discipline in kayaking, there was none for sea kayaks. After a year's hiatus in ï98, the organizers raised enough money to offer $100,000 in prizes, including $15,000 to the first solo finisher - a King's ransom in the impoverished world of marathon racing. They billed themselves as the World Sea Kayak Championship, alerted as many paddling federations as possible, and waited for the marathon moose to come out of the woods.

The week prior to the 33-mile crossing, racers were required to participate in an 18-mile qualifying race in Montreal. That race had two goals: To bring the event to the largest media market in Quebec, and to trim the field to a tidy 100 for the big dance up north. When "only" 75 racers showed in Montreal - a larger field than they had in 1997, but not the turnout they'd hoped for - anyone who finished was allowed to paddle in the World Championship.

Another disappointment was the lack of depth in the pro field. While big names like Gardiner, four-time Olympic medallist Greg Barton, and other Olympic studs, planned to attend, one thing or another kept them from the starting line. There were some very good paddlers in attendance, including members of the French National Marathon Team, but the only truly decorated participants were the brothers Chalupsky.

The biggest buzz to come out of that race weekend in Montreal was the discrepancy in the various craft. Within the sea kayak category - any production boat with hatches - you had hull speed variances as wide as that between Secretariat and Mr. Ed. And while the race organizers made the allowance for surf skis to be included in an event called a sea kayak world championship - creating separate categories with cash prizes paid five-deep in each - they forbid U.S. Olympians Mike Harbold and Phillipe Boccora from using an Olympic flatwater K2 that the duo had slightly modified.

Therein lay the rub: World class racers don't race (and rarely paddle) sea kayaks; few recreational paddlers can sit in a high-performance surf ski. While the debate about craft and specs for next year's race needs to be ironed out, the bottom line was that the wide range of boats and talent participating in Montreal ventured up the St. Lawrence for the World Championship.

The week before the race on the St. Lawrence, Colin Simpkins, New Zealander Malcolm Hall, and I spent the week in the furnished attic of La Maison Gallant, a charming bed & breakfast, just a manicured lawn away from the St. Lawrence. In my two previous crossings, I showed up a day before the race, paddled, and headed home. This year, however, I hung out enough to learn about the seaway's history and capricious moods. One calm afternoon I paddled two miles out to the spot where a passenger ship called the Empress of Ireland was struck in 1914 by a Norwegian steamer. The luxury liner sunk in minutes, killing 1,012 passengers, more than were lost on the Titanic two years earlier.

I also got to know Malcolm Hall, a gregarious South African who moved to New Zealand two years ago. This 6'5", 240-pound former bookie dispensed gifts and good cheer like a beer-drinking Santa Claus in training. (When he inadvertently scared a homeless man from rummaging through the trash, he hustled after him and gave him $10. "You can't have an old man digging through the rubbish," he said indignantly.) We spoke about race and politics, about running waterfalls, sports, fistfights, women, and becoming an ex-patriot. Such chance meetings, I realized then (and now), is one of the reasons I travel to long, hard races.

The day before the race, the placid seaway turned hostile. All week the wind had blown gently out of the southwest, producing a perfect sea for a kayak crossing. Now, a biting northeast wind kicked up a nasty two-to-four foot side-chop that had each of us envisioning a private hell. What the top paddlers figured to be a four-plus hour race, might in fact turn into a sixÜtoÜseven hour struggle - if they weren't too cold or weary to continue. Local kayak guide Jean-Francois Dube looked like he'd seen a ghost. "If these conditions continue," he fretted loudly, "I won't paddle tomorrow. I want to live to go to work on Monday."

Luckily, on race day the raucous seaway sat back down like a mischievous schoolboy threatened with extra homework. The sky was so clear I could even see the rolling hills on the distant shore.

I can't say what others were thinking moments before the race, but for me, having twice done this frigid grind, I felt a combination of anxiety and excitement. I trained hard, but I'd done no paddle longer than three hours. If all went well, I'd be out there for almost five hours. Some, like Marie-Eve Desjardins, a handicapped 20-year-old woman who captivated the local paddling community when she completed the crossing in 1996 after capsizing en route, would be out there for seven hours or more. (Sadly, she dislocated her shoulder mid-way through and was unable to finish.)

There were a handful of competitive races waged on this day. In the sea kayak division, Edmund Joy, Florida's top marathon paddler who finished second to Simpkins in the 1997 crossing, and former Navy Seal Steve Landick, were within spitting distance for more than five hours. Landick, a minor legend in long distance paddling circles after he spent three years in the early eighties paddling 28,000 miles around North America, is also the solo record-holder at the 260-mile Texas Water Safari. Joy broke away in the last miles and landed the $5,000 first prize, but seeing him in the medical tent passed out in the fetal position, one wondered if he felt it was worth it. (It was, he said days later.)

Closer and even more intense, was the domestic battle waged by the Chalupsky brothers. Oscar, 36, has won Molokai a record eight times; whereas Herman, 35, has won the race once and finished second to Oscar six times. Pushed by their father Paul, a driven man who helped transform South African paddling from an adventurous pastime to a competitive sport, the brothers have trained so hard for so long that in time their only true competition in the sea came from each other.

The two are a fascinating study in contrasts. At 6'4", 240 lbs., Oscar is built and behaves like a bear. His quieter younger brother is the same height but 20 lbs. lighter, with movie-star good looks. Oscar, who represented South African in the K2 1000 meters at the 1996 Olympics, earned national recognition in swimming, water polo and rugby. One year he bet a mate $10,000 that he could become a scratch golfer within a year, a nearly impossible feat for a beginner. After practicing five hours a day, he cut his handicap to three, short of his goal but impressive nonetheless. Herman, who smirks often but seldom speaks, is nearly as accomplished as an athlete and waterman yet without the hype. Discussing his younger brother's racing temperament, Oscar says, "Herman is evil."

Racing against each other, they tend to treat each other like rival pirates at sea. (When we train together, says Oscar, we go "flat out.") Racing together as a team, they've angered their share of the opposition with their words, actions, or both. At a prestigious race in Spain, an on-the-water scuffle with a Spanish tandem that left them capsized so infuriated the Chalupsky's that they caught the Spaniards at the finish and rammed them hard enough to slice their kayak in half. The bottom line is this: Beat a Chalupsky in a surf ski race and you've done something special.

It's hard to know what was going through each man's head during the race since neither is prone to psychological analysis. For all but a few minutes of their 4 hour and 24 minutes on the water the brothers took turns pulling each other as they pursued the team of Simpkins and Cruickshanks. When they passed the tandem a few kilometers from the finish, it was then each man for himself.

With one kilometer to go, Herman blasted, laboring with the determination of a man eager to settle a score. He gapped his heavier brother in a shallow section near the finish and earned a career-best $15,000. After 33 miles, he'd edged the more decorated Chalupsky by a mere 13 seconds. "It makes me cross," Oscar told me afterwards. "I had the ability to win but I lost because of poor strategy." In other words, particulars aside, their life-long skirmish continues.

That night a large group of us went to dinner. After drinking and dancing into the night, Herman, who spent a considerable amount of his winnings on beer, stayed behind to continue the cultural exchange with a local jeune fille. Oscar, however, returned to his motel, packed, and drove straight to Boston. In the morning, he went for a run; in the afternoon he played 18 holes of golf. Herman flew to Boston and the brothers made their way to New York City. Following another night of revelry, Oscar called me at six in the morning to say he and Herman would be at my doorstep in an hour for breakfast, a few hours before heading to the airport for their fight home.

"What's holding these guys up?" I wondered.