Africa

It was a beautiful night in early July, the first night I had the dog. Sarah, Martine, Paul, Naomi, Mykel, Tequila and I spent a wonderful evening at the bar playing Tarot before returning to the house, where we sat outside drinking more wine and scotch. Slowly, one by one, everyone drifted off to bed. It was only Martine and I left, chatting, speaking of philosophy, enjoying the cool Côte d’Azur breeze. I think it was the first time he had seen the sunrise. The light began to grow stronger, the colors more beautiful.

I smiled slyly. “Will you do me a favor?”

He looked at me with reservation, but interest.

“Come to the crique with me? I’ve always wanted to be there for sunrise.”

He agreed. And off we went, Tequila, Martine, and me.

God, it was beautiful. The pinks and purples, the blues, the fresh air and glimmering ocean. I had to swim (in my clothes, of course… I hadn’t put enough though into this adventure to bring a bathing suit). Martine watched and laughed. It was so wonderful – the feeling of the water at sunrise, untouched by anyone else. The air was light and clear. Martine’s laughter provided the perfect soundtrack; swimming with my pure white pup provided me with a feeling of family. I was so happy.

I pulled myself from the water and bundled up in Martine’s fleece to protect my wet body from the cool morning breeze. We watch the sun climb higher in the sky in silence, awed by the beauty.

“Look,” I broke the silence, pointing a dripping wet finger in the direction of the deep ocean. “It’s Africa.”

Martine laughed. He thought I was crazy. “It’s a cloud, Catherine. A cloud. Close to the water, that’s all.”

But I insisted. I saw land. It was faint and far away, but it was certainly land. I could see the outline in the distance clearly, until the sun rose and swallowed it whole.

He teased me about it the whole way home, thinking I was either ridiculously silly or stupid. “Fine, maybe it’s not Africa,” I’ll admit, Africa is a bit far fetched. It’s a beautiful dream, though. “But it was land.”

Martine disagreed even then. He continued to tease me for days until I finally sat at the view with a book of maps, carefully comparing the drawings in my lap to the beautiful landscape before my eyes. I considered carefully the details on the paper, picking out which cluster of houses at the view (or which pool of flickering lights at night) were labeled which cities in the book. Using this as a reference, I concluded that we saw Monaco from the crique that morning. Or at least I did.

Martine still did not believe me. I could tell he thought I was crazy, stubborn, ignorant – American. But I know I saw something. I laughed about it, made it a joke too, for I knew he would never listen to me no matter how much I insisted.



I hadn’t thought much about it until the day Sylvia left.

The mistral had been blowing for several days, eliminating all the debris and haze typically hanging in the air, allowing you to see for what seemed like ever. Sylvia told me that the locals believed that in this weather you could see Corsica. “Really?”

So after her car pulled out of the driveway, while I waited impatiently for Ludo and his group, I decide I’d put this rumor to the test. Tequila and I walked to the lighthouse, where there’s bound to be both a local and a good view.

While Tequila waited patiently for me outside of the front door, I climbed the twisted staircase to the top, gazing as far as I could into the distance everywhere I could see water. If Corsica was visible, I was going to spot it. Unfortunately, the only thing of interest I could see was Talitha Pol, Tony’s boat, and I called him to tell him I was waving from afar. With some binoculars, he told me he appreciated the wave and that, though I couldn’t see it, he was waving back.

But I was disappointed. It’s always fun to see a friend and the landscape is always beautiful, but I was there to see something bigger, something new, something I had never seen before. I found the keeper of the lighthouse and, in French, said simply: “Someone told me one can see Corsica because of the Mistral. But I didn’t see it.”

He laughed. “No, no. Only in the winter,” he spoke perfect English. “In the winter you can see it often. But in the summer, no. In the summer you can only see it at sunrise. There.” And he stretched out one long, bony finger into the distance, pointing directly to the area where I once claimed to see Africa.

I couldn’t resist the small, proud smile of satisfaction creeping across my lips.



I immediately asked Sarah for Martine’s email. I am stubborn. I know when I’m right. Yea, so, I am American. He emailed me today with his address and I responded with the story I just described here. I am fresh.

But, I suppose, it’s better than being stale…