"The World's Most Unusual Wave," by British surfing champion Rodney Sumpter, ran in the September 1968 issue of SURFER Magazine. This version has been slightly edited

The dart game stopped abruptly; a fellow with foam on his mustache stood frozen in the middle of the room holding a half-drained pint of English beer. The pubkeeper had both hands on the bar and was staring at me, mouth open. A fellow throwing the darts paused, holding a feathered barb next to his right ear.

There I stood with my surfboard under my arm in the middle of a typical English pub on the banks of the Severn River. ‘‘What are these people staring at," I thought to myself. “Haven't they ever seen a surfer before?”

The pubkeeper was the first to react. “What's that under your arm?” he asked. All eyes zeroed in on my nine-foot surfboard.

“Why it's a surfboard, of course." The pubkeeper blinked a couple of times and then turned to the dart player and the beer drinker and said in a voice that meant, well, that explains everything: “A surfboard—he’s carrying a surfboard!’

The dart player mumbled something and threw a dart that hit a corner of the board. The man carrying the beer went over, sat at the bar, and just shook his head. Finally, the pubkeeper looked at me and said in a very quiet voice, “Why are you carrying a surfboard around in the middle of England?”

“I’m going surfing tomorrow," I said. “I'm going to ride the Severn Bore.”

Looking back, I can understand why they were surprised. After all, they’d probably never seen a surfer ride the bore—that curious but powerful wave that sweeps up the Severn River several times a year at spring tides. But I had come to ride the bore, and photograph it—the Severn Bore, perhaps the world’s most unusual wave.

Bores occur only in certain rivers of the world, like the Severn, whose estuary is funnel-shaped: wide and deep at the rivermouth, then growing narrower and shallower as it moves inland. At spring tide, the tidal range (difference between high and low tide) can be well over 40', and as the incoming tide pushes up the estuary, a wave is formed—sometimes a powerful ripping wall of water that precedes a great flood.

Now, I had explored the Severn many times and been intrigued with the idea of riding the bore. But there were several unique problems for a surfer: I had to know where and how far from the bank the wave broke, and to try and judge on which side of the river the wave keeps breaking and upon which side the wave fades out or just slams against the bank.

At my surfing base in Cornwall, I had heard that during March the bore was going to be the biggest of the year. So I jumped in my surfing van and drove up, and that’s how I found myself in that English pub at the Oakle Street Hotel, Gloucester, overlooking the river.

I explained to everyone in the pub exactly what I was going to do, and the pubkeeper—still looking strangely at me—gave me a room. But I didn’t go to sleep right away. I strolled out into the soft English spring evening and watched as the first of several bores rolled up the Severn. It was eerie; moving under the moonlight—a growing roar as the wave appeared out of the darkness. It had perfect shape and was glassy, and as it rolled by a shiver went up my spine.

The next morning I was up at 6:00 sharp and into my green wetsuit. Frost lay thick on the ground, and it was bitter cold. I’d come for two reasons; to ride the bore, and to be photographed doing it—which meant keeping ahead of the bore by running off across the land and picking it up at different spots upstream. My camera crew, headed by my girlfriend Simone, was going to help me, and so the first move was to set up for the opening ride.

From a nearby cliff, I checked out camera positions, and Simone moved down to set up our 16-mm rig. Guessing what I was up to, a local farmer in rich dialect advised, " Ere boy, ye don’t wanna go muckin’ round in the river. Ye’ll get washed away by the bore!"

Then I heard the bore coming: It was a mile away, breaking and smashing against the banks. As it rounded a bend three-quarter miles away, I jumped off the bank and paddled into the river where the current swept me downstream at five miles an hour, over sandbars and past spring-green fields. Occasionally a rat or a dead sheep floated by.

My first problem was to decide where the bore would break and upon which side. The river here was a quarter-mile wide. I glanced over my shoulder and saw it rumbling towards me a hundred yards away—peeling off and shaped perfectly.

I paddled a few more yards from the bank, looked around and began to stroke as the bore caught up with me. I felt the wave pick me up, and then I was standing. I trimmed, cranked a few small turns and relaxed as I would on any small ocean wave.

“Blimey, bore-riding is beautiful," I sang as I boomed along upstream.

Glancing up, I saw Simone and the camera crew busily recording the ride on film. When I looked back at the river—trouble! Ahead was a dry sandbar stretching from bank to bank, and within a few moments I felt my fin dig in and scrape bottom. Quickly, I picked up my board and sprinted across through shallows over the sandbar and flopped down in deeper water just as the bore caught up with me. A moment later I was back standing up and waving to my cameramen.

Then another decision: The river was curving to the right, and I could feel the wave’s main force shifting to the left bank. So I either had to follow the force of the swell as it shifted to the left or keep on the right where the sandbar had better shape. I cranked a turn to the right and rode several hundred yards before the wave completely faded out.

Then—off to another spot on the river. I picked up my board and waved to the camera crew to start moving out for the next shot, which was 12 miles down the twisting river, but only four miles by auto.

There was a mad dash back to the van. As we bumped over the twisty road, I changed films in the camera. We screeched to a halt on the bank, and once again I sprinted off with my board as Simone set up the camera—just in time. The bore, snarling and vicious, was moving around the bend and heading our way.

I paddled out amid logs and debris and sat on my board waiting. Occasionally a rat swam out from the bank. Having rounded the bend, the bore tumbled toward me, breaking on both sides of the river. I drifted toward it and paddled close to the bank.

I made a late prone takeoff as the wave, suddenly breaking from bank to bank, closed out. Water shot over the nose of my board for a split second—I was pearling, but wrestled the nose up quickly and rode the soup for 300 yards. I finally ended up with my fin scraping a bank of gravel and cement where the Severn River Authority had reinforced a flood control. End of the line. Time for another run upstream.

Same drill: jump in the van, change films and screech down the road. Twenty minutes to catch the bore again. By heading overland, we beat the bore to the next spot by ten minutes, as it had to wind around several turns in the river.

Carrying my board, I cross a railroad track, ran through a field, and skidded down another muddy bank as I heard the bore moving in. I paddled out and waited while cameras were quickly set up on a railway bridge on the river bank.

At this point, the river was just 50 yards wide, and I made another takeoff close to the bank where the bore foamed up beneath overhanging branches. Ducking under the branches—sometimes riding through bushes—I rode under the railway bridge where a row of spectators were watching this crazy surfer take on the world’s most unusual wave.

Briefly, I had some company. Two members of the Pretty Things pop group, who sing in the style of the Beatles, tried to ride the bore. Within moments they both lost their boards and ended up scrambling in the swift chilly current for the bank. I guess the bore convinced them that they should stay in the music business.

I raced along, moving easily back and forth as the wave help up beautifully. Glancing back, I saw Simone and the camera crew bundling the equipment in the van and speeding off to try and catch me at another spot further down the river. Alas, they never made it—or rather I didn't make it.

I came sweeping around a turn, just away from the bank at a little town called Stonebench. The wave, moving over deep water, flattened off to a glassy eighteen inches with a very short shoulder. I edged toward the nose in order to keep riding, and moved close to the bank where trees, bushes and stumps came at me at an alarming speed. After ducking under a tree, I proned out and smashed through an overhanging bush, then stood up again—at which point the bore smashed against the bank, hurling a mass of mud and foam sideways, flipping me over.

Imagine—a wipe-out in the middle of England. It was really wild. I hung onto the board upside down for a few moments, skidding across mud, then let it go. while submerged, I could hear the water still boiling and booming, and when I opened my eyes for a split second I discovered I was being pushed by the wave along the bank on my back towards a tree. Panic-stricken, sliding along, I began to grab at every branch and bush in a desperate effort to stop. The bore continued to smother me with mud, grime and foam. For a moment, I had the panicky feeling that I’d never come up. As this is not just a single wave—it’s a small portion of the Atlantic Ocean coming in at twelve miles an hour. In spite of the currents and turbulence, I finally popped out the back of the bore and crawled up the bank. I found my board tangled up in some branches a few meters up the river. Putting it under my arm, I walked away, bruised and bedraggled, from one of the wildest rides of my surfing career.

Where were Simone and the camera crew? Somewhere downstream waiting for me to appear around a bend, no doubt. I trudged over a field looking for someone who might give me directions back to the main road. I was really a mess, covered with mud and branches. My green wetsuit was ripped and torn. My board, somehow, had come through unscratched.

Finally, I came across a small cottage nestled in the corner of a rolling farm field. I knocked upon the door and a little old lady answered. She looked at me standing there, all dressed in green rubber, my hair matted and full of Severn mud and branches. Wiping the grime from my face, I flashed my friendliest surfer smile.

But do you know what? A curious thing happened. Her eyes got very large, and she started to scream: little mouse-like squeaks that began high-pitched and just got higher and higher and higher.

Still screaming, she turned and ran back inside, leaving me standing there wet and cold and wondering why the English sometimes act so strange when they run into a perfectly normal everyday surfer.

"THE WORLD'S MOST UNUSUAL WAVE" - ROD SUMPTER RIDES AND REPORTS ON THE SEVERN BORE, 1968

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