We'll get the pun stuff out of the way first. Today was going to be really 'boreing' and ... well I can't be arsed with any more of that. So let's move on. Today was to be all about the River Dee bore.
At Point of Ayr the water had receded even further so it was a long trolley drag across the sand and then, slightly disconcertingly, across mud.
I got in the boat with enough of the stuff to put my shoes on par with a decent set of 1970's platforms heels. Like Abba only clad in goretex rather than spandex.
I set off early, I'd rather sit on a sandbank for a while than miss the bore I first ran the Dee Bore on this trip in 2003, finishing in the dark at Chester. Today is a sort of surfing anniversary. I am looking forward to it.
I have a route planned on the GPS, just follow the numbers and match the timings, simple.
At Mostyn Dock I have a choice, out into the estuary or take a nosey at the dock and move up the shore channel. My curiosity gets the better of me, and from that moment my fate is sealed...
Rather than grief I got a cheery hello in the port. There is a buzz. The place seems a little livelier, making money supporting the offshore wind farms.
The flow is starting and I cruise along the channel at close to 7 kts. I've allowed less than 4kts to make my boreing rendezvous, so all looks good.
I drift past the Duke of Lancaster 'ghost ship'. Not sure of the full story but it sits high and dry by the muddy channel. The last time I saw it, it was white (and rust) and seemed to be a large scale canvas for graffiti art.
Now the fun police have arrived and it is steadily being repainted in a fetching shade of black.
Anyway I continue up the channel but soon run aground. No worries, the water is rising by the second, and I have plenty of time.
Well to cut a long story short, I don't have plenty of time it seems. I bump and scrape around for an hour so. Every time I think I will lift out of the channel, there is more sand.
Eventually I am lifted high enough to see over the top, my heart sinks, the estuary is full and shifting mightily. Bugger.
I finally join the flow and paddle my little arms off trying to catch the leading edge, maintaining over 10kts, with the help of the press-ganged flow.
I think I see it as I pass under the A548 cable-stay bridge, but no.
I think I see it at the wharf in Connah's Quay, but no.
I think I see it by the railway bridge, but no.
I can see the long straight now to Saltney, if I don't get it soon it isn't going to happen.
I am sweating like a fat lass/lad in a sweety factory by now. The sun is blazing down on my helmet-clad head.
Then I can see it ahead, the small splashes from the first wave catching the sunlight. It is a long way ahead.
A quick bit of on-the-go maths; I am doing 10kts, the wave doing 6 kts so I reckon I will gain a mile in quarter of an hour. Is that right? Who cares? Keep paddling.
We have passed the blue bridge I know it is going to have less than 30 mins of bank-dissolving, mud-churning existence left.
It is going to be close.
I continue to chase, but eventually realise it is futile - and I am knackered. I ease off, beaten.
But then it slows visibly in the shallows, hope!
However as I pull hard again the wave reaches deeper water and speed ups, a false alarm.
As we reach the Saltney footbridge, I have reached the secondary waves, but can't get over them - still 50m behind the leading edge.
The wave starts to fade, I have blown it, on my surfing anniversary. Bum.
I had worked my nuts off and all I had to show for it was a sweaty cag and a muddy get-out in the Chester undergrowth.
I drag the boat across the busy road in Chester and take to the canal.
I call it a night in Hack Green (near the secret bunker - shhh!) The 39 nm for the day isn't quite enough consolation.
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