Grey Skies, Green Waves

by Tom Anderson

  A pleasant surprise awaited us in the line-up. The goofyfoot we'd been watching was a mutual friend of mine and Luke's.

  'Jonty!' I called out. He looked around and squinted for a moment, lifting his sandy-brown hair away from his dark forehead, his face burst in to a big white grin.

  'Hey! What brings you down this way then, fella?' Sitting up on his board and treading water with his feet, he held a sun-tanned hand out. 'I haven't seen you for ages!'

  I introduced him to Rich and explained where we'd been.

  'Awesome. Road trip! Got to be done, eh? I love just getting in the car and driving, looking for waves. It's what it's all about.'

  I agreed, and we set about exchanging a few waves as Challaborough's peak started to shift into place.

  In such glassy conditions, and with only two others out, you could really relish being able to watch your wave grow and line itself up against the cliff. Given that we had no previous knowledge of the spot, it was helpful. You could judge and assess the way the sets refracted off the foot of the cliffs before rolling along the sandbar, and then moving through into a dumpy, seaweed-filled shore break.

  After a few more waves, I spotted another surfer walking along the beach – a small guy with his wetsuit round his waist and head completely shaved. Although pretty distinctive anyway, this wasn't the main thing identifying the guy as Luke. He had a surfboard under his arm that sported some kind of punky, black and red spray job, each colour running over the other like blood, while a pink, chequered patch of pin-lined paint lingered underneath. He was renowned for this kind of artwork.

  By the time he'd reached the edge of the water, he'd spotted us and punched the air as a greeting.

  Typical Luke, he'd caught three waves before I even got to say hello to him face-to-face. Noted by friends for maintaining a permanent state of childlike stoke – a sort of constant grommet mentality, you could say – he kept spotting little waves on the inside and spinning around to catch them when he'd only paddled halfway out.

  Eventually he made it in to the line-up, whereupon a quick high five was the only indicator that we didn't all surf together every day of the year. The four of us continued calling each other into waves, hooting each other's turns or snaps and talking about nothing in particular as we waited for the next set.

  After a few days of thick right-handers, it was refreshing to surf on my backhand for such an extended period. The wave at 'Chally', as Luke and Jonty called it, was ideal for this as well. Its lip would hold up and break with forgiving timing, so each time you'd swung yourself around from the last turn it would be there again, wanting to connect with your board. You could build momentum easily as you rode across into a slightly slower section, which allowed you time to think before heading in to the shore break for a floater or a close-out re-entry.

  In almost an hour of surfing the only other surfer to join us was a girl on a yellow board, bearing Luke's logo, who proceeded to shred a couple of waves herself. Luke had done some lecturing with her father up at the university, he explained, which was why she rode his boards.

  'Don't need a reason,' said Jonty. 'Everyone rides his boards anyway. Luke owns this place!'

  I asked what on earth a reprobate shaper and hardcore beach bum like Luke was doing lecturing, and he explained it was for the 'Surf Science' degree that was now being rolled out at Plymouth. How could I forget? This oddly titled course had become world famous. You could indeed now study surfing in uni.

  'I go in as a guest shaper,' Luke explained proudly.

  Rich, whose fins were cutting knife-like through the rear of the wave every time he came off the top, was having a ball. 'I never surf this side of the Tamar usually,' he pined, referring to what was effectively the border between Cornwall and Devon. 'I'll have to do it more often, man. What a vibe.'

  'This is a great spot,' I said, looking up at the houses above us, with their great sheets of panoramic glass and landscaped gardens.

  Rich agreed. 'I want to live in one of those pads, man. This place is wicked. Sweet waves, sun, it's completely cruisey.'

  'Enjoy it while it's here,' said Jonty, arriving next to us in the line-up. 'I heard there's a front coming in tomorrow. It's gonna be the start of autumn again. But hey, perfect end-of-trip feel for you guys.'

  He had a point. The thought of a day's rain once we'd made it back to Wales seemed strangely comforting. A chance to stay indoors and recover from days of constant surfing.

  A wave swung into the bay then, bouncing off the cliff twenty yards ahead of us and swelling into a satisfying and tempting peak. With a splash, I dug in and paddled after it.

  'My turn,' I grinned, poised, ready to go and looking down the line at a moment of suspended bliss.

  Yes, there was something in what Jonty had said. This was a moment and nothing more, a sensation soon to be gone: this was the essence of a surf trip. As my hands gripped my rails, ready to push me to my feet, it occurred to me that this time I'd be sure to keep hold of these moments, to try and take them home with me. If indeed that was possible. Never again would I leave something so valuable behind on a trip to the south-west.

  At the bottom of the wave, I dropped my back knee, felt for the face with my leading hand and waited for the right time to turn.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE RIVER SEVERN: BRITAIN'S LONGEST WAVE

  The Severn Bore is a bit like Marmite. The main similarity is that as a surfer you'll either love it or you'll hate it. However, I must also say that the wave itself is like Marmite, in as much as it's brown, sticky, smelly, slimy, sludgy and – when you inevitably get face-planted somewhere and duly force-fed a load of its trademark filth – you'll discover it too has a very distinctive taste. And how could it not? There aren't many places in the world where you can ride naturally occurring waves dozens of miles upstream. Tidal bores are immensely different prospects to wind-created sea-waves, offering a challenge even to the most savvy of beach bums.

  I had always really wanted to surf the bore, although like so many of my other bright British ideas, the convenience of Porthcawl and its surrounding spots had always stood in the way. When the bore was due to occur while I was in the country, I'd simply end up surfing somewhere else. Laziness could be blamed for some of it, but the other problem was that the bore happened on the biggest tides of the year – which in the case of the Bristol Channel meant it almost always coincided with great surf elsewhere. The power of half the ocean literally flowing towards the shore might send a two-foot wave gushing up the River Severn, but fifty miles further down the channel it would also lead to swell at rare high-tide river mouths and rocky outcrops; which meant that to score the bore you'd usually need to drive away from great waves. This is most certainly forbidden in the highest of surfing's commandments.

  With this in mind, my ears still pricked up when I got a phone call on my way back from Cornwall. In traffic moving at about five miles an hour down the M5 after a crash up ahead, and with Rich sleeping in the passenger seat, my buzzing mobile caught my attention.

  An offer to finally score one of the world's strangest waves was about to come my way. It was Breige, who had just been to see her friend Anne (with whom we'd bussed through Panama and Costa Rica a few years ago during the Riding the Magic Carpet journeys).

  'Anne reckons the bore's gonna break in a few days' time – fancy going up? She can show us exactly where to get it. Oh, and when to get it as well. That's just as important.'

  'Er…' It seemed odd to be arranging exact surf times for days ahead but, then again, this wasn't exactly going to be conventional surfing.

  'Come on,' Breige insisted. 'There's no swell due for ages now. Where's Grovey, by the way?'

  'Sleeping.'

  'Cool. So he's not hearing this conversation then?'

  'No.'

  'Good. Don't tell him. Anne's only got room for you and me.' That's surfer loyalty for you.

  'No worries. So do we need to go and see her first?'

  'Well, we
're going to meet on the prom for a coffee later if you're back in time.'

  'She's in Porthcawl then?'

  'Yeah. We should try and do this. You realise the bore usually breaks when its freezing – but this is a chance to actually surf it when the water's gonna be warm. And Anne always goes up there when it's breaking. She loves it. I reckon that's half the battle – being able to get to the right place and all that. But with her we'll be fine for all that.'

  It was starting to sound more convincing.

  'OK. I'll let you know how this traffic goes.'

  Three hours later, with Rich safely dropped off, I was parking up on Porthcawl seafront for a 'business meeting' with Breige and Anne, who turned up with a tourist map of Gloucestershire.

  'I know an OS map would be better,' she laughed, 'but you can still see the bends in the river with this thing.'

  I looked across at the blueing, pond-flat seas out front. It was a sunny day in late season and the dog-walkers and retirees of the sleepy Welsh seaside were out in force. We got a couple of 99s and a coffee in before continuing to plan our surf in two days' time. I started taking stock of moments in this country when I thought its surfing experience was as far removed as possible from that of the rest of the world. This had to be one of the most bizarre to date, I decided.

  'We can catch it in three places,' Anne explained, 'if we go to the north bank, that is – just beyond Chepstow. We'll end up in Gloucester either way, but I've wondered a few times now about trying to run around on the south bank. It's not going to have as many people on it. The bore gets crowded, you see.'

  'Does that matter?' I asked.

  'Well, not as much as the shape of the riverbank does. Maybe I'll have a look on Google Earth tonight. We need to avoid big sandbanks or obstacles, see. If you hit something while riding the bore, trust me, you'll really know about it. There's a lot of power in that water. Our main problem, whatever standard of surfer you are, is gonna be catching it and getting to your feet. It's pot luck. You'll see what I mean when you paddle for it.'

  It was with nerves not really experienced since competing as a youngster that I tried to sleep two nights later, knowing that tomorrow, after decades of hearing about it, I was going to ride the Severn Bore. At about ten, just as I was winding down, Anne had texted with some last-minute info:

  Got better map. Upper Framilode, Longney and Elmore seem best placed on the south bank. Will see you guys at seven – we can sort it out then. Anne

  This didn't help. I was really struggling to imagine what awaited me in the morning: a wall of violent, surging water running through unfamiliar land. A place where surfers were nobodies; the English countryside.

  A few perturbed hours of half-sleep later, the alarm went off.

  It was as clear a morning as the Severn Estuary region could present. Perhaps to make up for some of the raging oceans and Atlantic tempers, on a crisp autumn morning the whole stretch does have the ability to appear as sleepy as if it were encased in a glass snowstorm. On a tide of this size, though, that's a deceiving impression. Behind the veneer of stillness, a force was building that would command our respect.

  The Severn Bore occurs as a result of a massive build-up of sea water in the Bristol Channel, which reaches a critical point and then haemorrhages into the River Severn. It occurs hundreds of times a year but breaks big enough to ride on about ten or twenty of those occasions. The expanse of water from Cardiff to Chepstow, over which the Severn Bridge eventually crosses, acts as a funnel for the water that gets forced up it by the biggest full-moon tides of the year. At the top of the channel billions of gallons of water are crammed into an increasingly smaller estuary, where they meet the oncoming downstream flow of the river. Here a massive, swelling, stand-off of water occurs. Since so much weight and energy can only be held in place for a short time, something has to give – and at the very top of the tide it does, in the form of what is quite literally a tidal wave – the sea effectively flash-floods the river, with the subsequent surge pouring upstream for hours.

  The bore stops at nothing, has no 'back' (unlike an ocean wave) and is propelled by the weight of an entire sea. And, since it breaks for hours and miles, it can also be surfed for hours and miles. From conception to its final dissipation at a weir just beyond Gloucester, it lasts over thirty miles, in fact, although to date the record for riding it lay at somewhere between five and seven miles – depending on who you asked.

  On an empty M4 motorway, we passed the city of Newport lit with the oranges of a rising, autumnal sun. Buildings glistened, a smoke stack rose straight up untouched by wind, and beyond that the sea could be seen, swelling with the fullness of an enormous ego. The moon's magnetic pull had given it the power to encroach further than its usual entitlement. As the road bridged over the River Isca, which was testing its banks to their very limit, I looked back at the Newport skyline and was reminded of the ominous calm of Wordsworth's famous observations on Westminster Bridge: The beauty of the morning; silent, bare… and then this:

  Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

  The river glideth at his own sweet will:

  Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

  And all that mighty heart is lying still!

  In just over an hour the River Severn would be doing anything but lying still.

  That said, there is still an element of the farcical to the whole Severn Bore rigmarole. I defy anyone not to pull up in a car park in the English countryside, suit up and then begin waxing your board next to a smoothly flowing river without feeling like a complete prat. Granted, we weren't the only ones, but my self-consciousness was at an all-time high as I tucked my dad's big blue longboard (sneakily borrowed without his knowledge in the early hours, in keeping with a lifelong tradition) under my arm and began searching for a way down the riverbank.

  There was a lot about this that I wasn't used to: crawling through stinging nettles and thorn bushes to get to the water's edge for one. Beyond that there was the mud and the texture of the river. As I dallied at the top of the bank, another surfer, perfectly equipped with life jacket and an old pair of trainers, pushed me aside and demonstrated how to get into the River Severn – by sliding down a slope of mud and sludge on his arse, board held neatly in the air. With a plop, the landlocked local had made me look like a sissy. Anne and Breige promptly followed him, after which it was my turn.

  Lucky not to ding my dad's board, I made it to the fresh water, only to discover that the lower density (due to no saline content) made even a longboard lose a lot of buoyancy. I'd heard many times before that the biggest

  board you could find was needed to approach the bore, and was quickly beginning to see why.

  'This is getting better by the minute,' said Breige as we started to paddle out into the middle of the wide section of river.

  'Yeah. And weirder,' I replied.

  A few hundred yards downstream there was a big sandbank on the opposite side of the river. With the bore not due for another ten minutes we 'beached' ourselves on it, sat down and began to wait.

  This gave me another chance to have a good look around at where exactly this mad foray into British surfing had now put me. Lining the banks on one side was the village of Newnham. Sloping its way to the river's edge, it seemed a lazy place – a classic, quaint English village, which probably had summer fetes and farmers' markets. A stone wall and quayside protected a large pub from the water a little upstream and beyond that was a stretch of mudflats and then naught but countryside. I spotted a gap in the banks that I fancied trying to ride up to, as it would allow a nice simple exit from the water. Trying to scale the stone wall in the rushing wake of a bore didn't look like fun at all. Putting the longboard on one edge in the sand and sludge, I sat on the other.

  'Is this it then?' I asked Anne, the only one of our party who had been here before.

  'Yeah,' she said. 'This is it. Now we just wait. Sometimes it's early, sometimes late. We'll be able to see it way off though, so I reckon w
e just wade back into the river when it comes around that corner.'

  'That corner' was a turn about a mile downstream, in the nape of which was a large rusting boat. It looked as though the river separated hilly Wales on one side from flat Gloucestershire on the south. From among what must have been farmland I could see a few cars parked up, way downstream, and out of the grasslands a couple of other surfers were wandering dutifully to the river's edge.

  'They'll never make it all the way to us, will they?' I asked Anne.

  'Probably not. And if they do then this sandbank will probably get them. Remember: don't get stuck behind any obstacles.'

  'Right, thanks.'

  With only a few minutes left before the supposed arrival time, three more prospective bore riders made their way into the river. Two set up on the other side to us – the same bank as our car – while the other appeared on a kayak from way upstream. Life-jacketed up neatly, he greeted us, smiling.