A fresh wave of reality

Now, I have never been a beach person. While some people would love nothing more than recumbently roasting on a beach for the rest of their lives, I take sand and surf in limited doses, not in the least on account of the fact that I have an aversion to the sun. Once every year, however, even I—the translucently pale girl who wears SPF 50 on cloudy days—venture to the seashore.


All of my direct family (which is tiny to begin with) lives in Europe, and so, each summer, we go to spend time with them in the family's former house, where they lived during the Second World War before emigrating to the States. Located on the Côte Sauvage in southern Brittany, Saint Marc sur Mer holds a special place in all of our hearts: it's the place where, since the end of the war, the family—then very large, and living all over Europe and the States—would come to reunite. This tradition of our “family reunion” extends right up to today, though the house is now unoccupied for 10 months of the year, and the family is now limited to the four or five of us who can still make it. I have been going there and loving it since before I could walk.

One of the best parts of Saint Marc is the seashore—not your stereotypical, boring beach, but, a savagely beautiful seascape: a pristine beach flanked by rugged cliffs. Every day that I'm there, usually anywhere from a week to ten days, I will make it a point to swim each day. Now, I may not like hanging around on the beach, but I love the seashore, the smell of it, the way it sounds, the way it looks, the sensation of the wind beating across your face. That I could do for the rest of my life. In addition, I love swimming, not in pools, but in the ocean, where the waves toss you around a bit, and where you could keep swimming if you kept going. No boundaries, just open skyline and water. I could swim in the ocean for hours, like my grandmother and namesake (notice similarities? For example, we could both smother people with our hair.) who was a champion swimmer here in the 30s. I have also apparently inherited her love for frigid water, which Saint Marc has a lot of. It's not for the weak; if you're looking for the water to embrace you as you step in, this is not the place for you. But, for me, nothing feels better than plunging into the cold, choppy waves straight away. Maybe I'm crazy. It wouldn't surprise me.