by Tom Anderson
'Good spot there, guys. You'll get on OK from that point.'
He seemed to be in the know and immediately we tried to quiz him further. Unlike locals anywhere else in the surfing world, he was completely content to tell us everything he could. We learned that 'she' had been arriving five minutes late this week, but that the riverbed had been allowing for good power. Apparently we were also lucky to have picked what so far seemed not to be a particularly busy day (although almost a hundred spectators were now lining the stone wall in anticipation). My favourite little tip was that the wave could be ridden three miles from here without difficulty.
'The wife's in Longney,' he added. 'She's got the car there, see. I'm gonna get the wave to there and then move on to Overbridge. Are you gonna go there too? It's the last place to catch it before the weir. If you do go to Overbridge, paddle into her after she's passed through the bridge with the pilings because the river bed always goes deep on the way under – stops feeling the bottom. You'll lose her if you're up and riding before then. The foundations have made trenches along the bottom. Catch her after the bridge.'
We all thanked him and got into position, which involved wading about five yards into the river and waiting – anxiously, I might add.
'I can't believe how nervous I am about a two-foot wave,' Breige admitted. I had butterflies too. What if I couldn't catch it? Or what if I fell off straight away? The immense power and scale of the water behind this wave was right there at the front of my mind too. In Porthcawl you had utmost reverence for the tide, which was deadly during these full-moon spells. People got swept to sea at high water, sometimes never to be seen again, while at low tide shipwrecks from centuries ago reappeared, eerie and skeletal. Here in the wide, rolling River Severn, the waiting time added to the aura and mystery of the impending bore.
It was as much a relief as it was a rush when, moments later, what looked like a small crease in the surface rounded the corner in the distance.
'That's it!' the canoeist hooted. 'That is it!'
I squinted, trying to make out what was happening to the water downstream. A dark ripple was moving sternly forward, with clearly defined patches of broken white appearing here and there, either spreading or slackening off depending on what the river was doing. For one moment it would appear almost unnoticeable, before seconds later breaking quickly across the entire expanse of the river. This process rolled over and over a few times, with the size and scale becoming more discernable as it neared.
The canoeist, meanwhile, continued amping. 'Ooh – she's a beauty today,' he said, as white water exploded against the hull of the derelict boat. In the middle distance I made out some of the first row of surfers now up and riding, but by the time the shape of the Severn Bore was really making itself known to us they were all off and wading back to their cars. It didn't look as if anyone had held on for long at all.
It seemed an age yet before the river started violently pulling towards the approaching wave and I realised it was time to start going through the motions. Way bigger than the wave had seemed at first, it was with some adrenaline that I started paddling and felt the wall of water slam into me. With no need to hurry, I lay prone on the board and waited for the sensation to settle. We were riding a tidal bore.
Lying down was enough for the first minute or so; none of us made any attempt to stand up as we waited for the right section. The canoeist kept directing us out into the middle, or back to the bank, as the wave changed shape. He did indeed seem to know exactly what he was doing.
'Right – we can spread out now,' he said. 'She's showing the whole way across for a little while from here.'
At that, I popped up, only to wobble hideously as I remembered the weaker density of the water beneath me. The deep, single fin of my dad's longboard was slipping away and I had to really work to balance my weight out enough. The fin needed to be driven, but if I put too much weight too far back then the wave would start to outrun me.
During the first stage of the ride, I'd really enjoyed taking in my surroundings and laughing to Breige and Anne as we lay like total beginners on our massive boards. But now on my feet I could concentrate only on what I was doing and nothing else. My board's rails were pinching desperately to the river's surface, reacting completely differently to how they would on an ocean wave. The constant nature of the powerful bore was your best friend and worst enemy. There was no ebb and flow to it – whatever the wave did, wherever it went, the rhythm and speed were the same. The entire River Severn was moving forward with clockwork inevitability.
Gradually, I began to communicate with it. There was no need to worry about climbing or dropping for speed – the wall would keep you going whatever – so I started trying to arc out into the middle, to the shoulder of the wave, turning back in again a few times with increasing force. Meanwhile, the only other person I was aware of was the canoeist, still there, still riding and calling instructions to me – which I could no longer hear over the sound of rushing water.
After several of these half-attempts at cutting back, I felt the wave's hold on the riverbed start to slacken. It was hitting an underwater trough. Angling back for the bank, I tried to get across it before it stranded me. Within seconds things had changed, though, and I was too late. I could see my board losing the race and the Severn Bore slipping mercilessly underneath me, carrying Breige, Anne and the canoeist on towards the bend ahead.
I didn't care, though. It had been great, and now behind the wave I was able to really see its power and force. The island of sand on which we'd waited was now nowhere to be seen, but rather just a churning mass of angry brown sea, surging upstream.
As if unaware of how it got here and now afraid, trapped, confused as to its whereabouts, the ocean water behind the bore looked erratic and unpredictable. And I was floating in its midst.
Now was the time to act quickly. You had to be bullish in your methods to get back up the riverbank and onto dry land; any delays would see you dragged yet further upstream. Anne's car was already way behind us by the time I'd climbed through the bushes and mud to find the road. Filthy, but laughing to myself, I wandered back and waited for the other two, who arrived a couple of minutes later, also covered in mud.
'Sorry Anne. How are we gonna get these muddy wetsuits home?'
'Don't worry about that. I've got some tarp in the boot to sit on. Quickly, let's get the boards inside and head after it! Come on, it'll be at Minsterworth in half an hour.'
She opened the boot of her Mondeo Estate and started forcing my dad's now mud-caked longboard across the passenger seat. Breige's followed, before we ourselves were crammed like cargo into the space that was left. Anne then shoved her own board, borrowed from the Llangennith surf school in which she worked, over our heads, and the chase was on.
You can catch the Severn Bore in several different spots. We had foregone ideas of the south bank this morning, because the easiest way to get three attempts in was to stick to the route Anne knew well. As bore virgins, we'd wanted to get the best chance possible of scoring a ride. Now that we'd done that, all that remained was to enjoy the rest of the craziest morning of surfing available on British shores (if in fact a flood plain in the middle of the English countryside can count as a shore).
The next parking spot was next to the most famous pub on the stretch, the Severn Bore Inn, which, given that it was one of the very few buildings along this part of the bank, probably owed the lion's share of its business to an ingenious piece of naming. St George bunting was billowing in what was now a light morning breeze – the day was finally drawing breath and coming to life. Outside the pub were signs, crudely handwritten and alerting spectators to the fact that the world-famous bore could be seen here this morning at 9 a.m.
Taking a little lane along the pub's right flank, we had to push through a crowd that had spilled out from the beer garden. They soon parted once they smelled us coming – none of them wanting to get any of our mud on themselves. The river was a welcome chance to rinse s
ome of the dirt off. We were soon all three side by side, paddling slowly back downstream away from the onlookers and around the bend in the river, where total serenity awaited. A basking heron glanced at us, uninterested as we sat and waited in waist-deep water.
For almost a quarter of an hour the only sounds anywhere were the birds calling around us, the trees swaying softly and the river gently eddying towards what it thought was a smooth entry to the sea. I glanced at my watch. 'She' was again running late.
The first sound that appeared out of the ordinary was that of a bush stirring on the other side – before a voice called out 'Woahh!' and a surfer plopped sideways into the water from among the foliage. His board followed half a second behind and cracked him neatly on the head – a moment of slapstick that Laurel and Hardy would have been proud of. He looked up, dazed, and then called over to us. 'Am I in the right place?'
'I dunno,' I replied. 'We don't know what we're doing.'
'Oh,' he sighed to himself – looking almost relived. 'That's OK, then.'
He started paddling across to us, when a speedboat suddenly rounded the corner ahead and tore past us. It was carrying a family in puffed orange life jackets. I waved at them and one of the kids shouted out, 'It's coming!'
There was just enough time for the boat's irritating wake to wash around us and lap the edges of the river before the bore swirled into view again. It was now much bigger than it had been earlier, but moving at that same steady yet formidable pace. All four of us started trying to guess where to get onto it. Twenty yards away it looked to be backing off a little, before at about ten feet off it abruptly peeled halfway across the river, pitching forward in a way that would have certainly allowed an agile and already riding surfer to pull into a quick tube. The white water again hit us with a thump, and when the initial shock settled I looked around to see that all four of us were successfully cruising the river while lying on our stomachs.
From there I started thinking about jumping to my feet earlier than last time, but then I felt a change in the water depth under me and thought it best to lie down for a little longer. This turned out to be unequivocally the worst decision of the day so far, as one of the heaviest wipeouts of my life was now seconds away.
On most other occasions, in my surfing experiences to date, I have always known, or at least been vaguely aware of, when a terrible wipeout could be about to happen. That's a good thing, as it means you're prepared for it and are less likely to get hurt – and in fact less likely to come off in the first place. Lying prone and riding a waist-high Severn Bore, though, you are not thinking about life and limb. But you should be, as I learned approaching the bend ahead when I suddenly saw the riverbed beneath me drain itself dry – allowing me a lovely ramp of rock and mud to run aground on.
There are beatings, and then there are beatings. Mind you, I wouldn't even call what happened next a beating. I'd call it a flogging – no a wracking, or even a hanging, drawing and quartering, a crucifixion. Bouncing across the bottom I was already bruising when the roots of a tree, half ripped out and completely obstructing any further passage, emerged in front of me. Without time to think of anything, I was stopped dead – hitting it with a thud that made my neck crick loudly above the roar of moving water shredding the riverbanks. A person then bashed into me under the surface – Anne, as I later found out – before being carried on and leaving me stuck face-first against a lump of soil, rock and root.
Again my ocean instincts served only to get me into further trouble. When a 'normal' wave smashes you into something it promptly recedes, allowing a chance to free yourself. That's because ocean swells have both a front and back – a rise and fall in water level. The Severn Bore, however, has no such back – remember it's a tidal surge – like a mini-tsunami. Once it has passed, the water behind it is two-feet deeper and will continue to push for miles. This is why these sorts of waves are so incredibly destructive. It's not the initial impact – although considerable in itself – that does the damage. The bulk of the danger comes from the unstoppable heap of water behind. If you've ever tried to carry a full bucket of water, you'll recall the weight of water easily. This, though, was several trillion buckets – it was like having all the swimming pools in Britain poured over you.
It wasn't long before I realised my predicament and then fear kicked in. If I couldn't prise myself free then I would drown and, of all the places I'd been and waves I'd surfed, my posthumous ego wouldn't have coped well with that happening thirty miles inland between Newnham and Gloucester. The taste of mud was trying its best to overwhelm me as I started trying to push sideways. Something else then smacked into me – a tree stump as it happened – and I was torn out from the obstacle ahead, careering and somersaulting underwater but crucially flowing freely upstream again.
When I emerged, spluttering and choking, it was to the sound of people applauding and laughing from the beer garden of the Severn Bore Inn. Each of them were showered and dressed in comfy clothes, looking as punchable as any human I'd yet laid eyes on. I wanted to shout 'You try it, ya bastards', before common sense got the better of me and I remembered to worry about Breige and Anne, who had also both been slammed at roughly the same spot. How would I explain such irresponsible behaviour to Breige's father if we returned to Wales with his daughter gravely wounded by a tidal wave?
Fortunately I didn't have to worry long, because only a few yards ahead I spotted that she and Anne had been treated much more leniently in their wipeouts, allowing them a good chance to also laugh at my near-death experience. I knew that most surfing mates would be obliged to enjoy your misfortune – but your girlfriend? Well, you learn something new about surfers all the time.
Expecting a hero's welcome back on land again, I was yet further exasperated to see that the public gallery, rather than wanting to make a fuss of me and mill around praising my no-guts-no-glory approach, were all racing back to their cars to try and watch the bore again at its last easy-access point, where the A48 bridged back over the river and into the city of Gloucester.
This, surely, was going to be where all three of us would score the ride of the day. In a perfect world, maybe. The Severn Bore, however, is many things – but perfect is not one of them.
Although who would want it to be? It's the sheer quirkiness of pulling up in places like the half-finished Redrow Estate we parked in next that makes the whole escapade what it is. At the third take-off spot we walked down a small lane, stepping gingerly around clusters of dog poo, and negotiating a little side cesspool of shopping trolleys and floating litter to wade out into the river for our final rendezvous with what we were hoping would now be the most powerful section of the bore.
The words of the canoeist – who was probably smugly back with 'the wife' after his three-mile ride – were in my mind. Catch it after the pilings, because the water was deep around the foundations. There were three bridges in a row, though, so I began looking for pilings that had been driven directly into the riverbed. It looked most likely to be the first of the structures. The A48 crossing over the Severn was by far the biggest piece of construction work but it didn't touch the riverbed, which actually seemed pretty shallow there. I set myself up right underneath it, with the sound of cars rolling by overhead. Breige and Anne moved a little further upstream and sat about twenty yards away. It would have been a tranquil little moment if a Scottish guy on a bodyboard hadn't emerged from the other side of the road and slipped under the bridge to sit by me.
'All right!' he grinned. 'Always wanted to try surfin', like! Couldn't miss this for the world.'
Realising how silly I looked by taking this at all seriously, I asked him where he'd found the board.
'Borrowed it off a mate. Reckon it'll be OK?'
I couldn't really think of an answer to that. A longboard would barely hook onto the bore properly, so a bodyboard without flippers wasn't much different to having no board at all.
'I don't know, man,' I said. 'I haven't a clue what I'm doing.' For the second ti
me today this was a great ice breaker. He laughed, congratulated me and wondered aloud what to do when the bore came.
Treading water, the guy was soon carried downstream – and barring a miracle I knew he wouldn't be coming back this way on the face of a wave. But he'd probably have a story to tell later, which was sure to be worth his while.
The first indication of this third encounter with the bore was the crowd up on the banks above us drawing breath loudly. I could see why when a solid wall of dark wet menace rounded the corner and feathered just before the first bridge – before breaking directly in front of it with a series of explosions. Against my expectations it was breaking through the pilings, which could well mean I'd chosen the wrong spot…
Heart beating and out of breath with excitement, I turned upstream and started paddling desperately. Behind me I could hear the wave sucking away at the land around it. I took a look over my shoulder and saw it speeding towards me. Only a few yards away it was still there and steep enough to catch – until the moment it arrived under the bridge I had waited by. Here, as if someone had turned a switch, it suddenly disappeared, sneaking under and onwards. Whatever I did was hopeless – yes, it was the bridge the canoeist had referred to. I groaned as my chance slipped away. I wondered how many of the spectators at this place had also seen my humiliation at Minsterworth a short while ago. It had to be the vast majority of them for sure.
