The Crique

No day here is complete without a good swim. Especially a day as beautiful as today. But when it’s late afternoon and it’s not worth the hassle to pile in the beach buggy, drive down the mountain, pay the gate attendee, and lay out your towel on the beach for a swim – you go to the crique. Today was that kind of day.

Around 4 o’clock, after we had finished all of our errands, we put on our suits and descended down the rocky, narrow path to our semi-private swimming hole. The crique has always been a favorite childhood swimming spot, since the days when my grandfather would come as a boy, throughout my father’s generation, and certainly during all of my youth spent here with my brother. It used to be different; it used to be owned entirely by the Michel’s and my great-grandmother took care of it – trimming the path, paving a staircase, pouring cement at the base of the jumping rock so there would be a place to lay out towels.


(it may be tough to see here, but this is a deteriorating step where my great-grandmother carved her initials and the date, August 2, 1938)

But, I suppose, all good things must come to an end. The government purchased the land in the name of conservation, making it part of the vast networks of parks that span the area. They leave the path a mess so now it is a tangled terrain and a walk down involves battling with pricker-bushes. Anyone is free to swim there, but not many really know about it. There was a time it was only our secret, when the path was wide and clear enough a car could make it almost half way down. Those days may be over, but the crique remains an amazing place.



Aside from hurling yourself off the giant rock into the crisp, refreshing waters below, the best way to pass time at the crique is snorkeling. B and I strapped on our gear and headed into the water and we were greeted by a plethora of fish. Underneath the green mask of the surface, jagged mountains sprawl across the ocean floor, disappearing into the darkness below. Fish of all shapes and size, painted in all sorts of exotic colors, meander carelessly as far as the eye can see. Looking past the rocks and into the heart of the bay, it appears as if you are witnessing hundreds of fireflies dance across an open field at dusk. In reality, thousands of tiny inch long fish swim through the deep blue sea flickering for a moment as the sunlight catches their sliver scales. It’s beautiful.



We saw all sorts of fun critters today. Lots of fish – some big enough to feed a family for dinner, others so small they look like bugs underwater. We saw a fish whose defense mechanism is to pass as a strand of seaweed; it looked like a long reed of grass, save for a penny-like fish tail on one end and a long, drawn-out seahorse-like head on the other. He was fascinating to watch. Another favorite was a rust-colored starfish clinging desperately to the rocks on the ocean side, as well swimming into the schools of yellow fish packed together so thickly you could feel their silky scales slide across your skin as you passed through.

The crique has always been – and always will be – an amazing place. It is a secret treasure of this house, a place I hope that I will show my children someday.

It’s just one hell of a walk.

So now we’ve returned and are resting, waiting impatiently for this thunderstorm to pass. Maybe dinner will be inside tonight.