Breton cliffs

My collection of autobiographical adventures has shrunk considerably; I've already told you most of them. The rest, which has moved me over the past 50 years, isn't suitable for writing down... ;-) But undaunted, I've once again rummaged deep into the old chest, cleared away the tall tales, and also the many amusing anecdotes that an amateur world traveler can tell when he's returned home safely (if he's returned safely, of course).

The story of a boxing career cut short was sidelined, just like the tale of the Holy Grail, of the first ascent of Montsalvatsch in the Pyrenees. I dust off the books of Merlin and Arthur, who have been waiting for publication for ages, and feel a silly wistfulness as I pick up the hand-drawn nautical charts of Oahu and Viti Levu: no, all that will come later, perhaps. King Richard the Lionheart and his wooing of the beautiful Berengara of Navarre: a quick puff of air, a wink in the small fountain of dust—and the dust blows to the ground like his adversary Isaac of Byzantium. Those three, too, will have to wait. I'll write all of that, but not until later—

Hey, what's this?! At first I thought it was an old bicycle inner tube, but when I blew off the dust and looked more closely, I discovered a dirty gray-orange children's kayak. You know, one of those inflatable ones that used to reappear every year, relentlessly, in the camping sections of Gerngross (God rest his soul) and Herzmansky (also) department stores.

What was it like again? A rocky cliff topped by a medieval fortress; a wide, bright sandy beach and a swarm of laughing children; mothers engrossed in the triple novel edition of "Summer Love" from Bastei-Lübbe, and screeching seagulls defecating on Bastei-Lübbe from a safe distance. Amidst all this summer bustle, an agitated father, frantically and sweating, scurrying across the beach....

The family vacation of 1984 was drawing to a close. In the last few days, my almost 12-year-old son, Tibi, had managed to soften his father's heart and now strutted down to the shallow sandy beach to launch the newly acquired rubber kayak, an inflatable orange monstrosity, for the first time. For the sake of good order (and in defense of my father's indulgence), it must also be said that despite being only twelve years old, he pitched in diligently and bravely, which proved to be a real relief, especially when it came to the large eight-person tent with its heavy poles. The kayak was therefore well and truly earned. Although Tibi was very disappointed with the orange color and would have preferred something completely different, something absolutely amazing; But it was the only thing in the tiny sports shop he could "choose" between... His mother Margret and my daughter Julia—not even two years old at the time—were already sitting on the beach with my daughter Anuschka—almost four—and Anuschka's mother Geraldine, enjoying the sun-drenched beach life: building sandcastles, destroying rival sandcastles, and running wailing to their respective mothers ("Mommy, Mommy, she's smashed everything again!"). Tibi's and my architectural consultation, including construction support and temporary staff, came to an abrupt end when Tibi encountered something slimy and slippery from the Earth's past at a depth of about 50 cm....

The first signs of mathematical genius appeared when one of them took a stick and drew a line in the sand: "My half, your half!" - which inevitably had to lead to a set theory drama ("Mommy! She has more sea than me again!").

Sun-drenched beach life, as I said. Tibi and I, meanwhile, were struggling further out, trying to inflate the orange monstrosity. My cheeks puffed out mightily, the vein on my forehead swelled alarmingly, and my silent curse on the stupid smoking habit and its noticeable consequences was loudly expelled into the rubber sausage with my breath. Then a light cough and another attempt at inflating!

The beach at the foot of the town of Douarnenez in Brittany, in the middle of which we camped, was one of the few family-friendly ones: it was a good 200 meters wide, the water was surprisingly warm, and you could walk out quite far before it got really deep. To the south, a mighty cliff face supported the town of Douarnenez, once a medieval fortress. The only downside was the cliffs that bordered the beach to the north; according to the nautical guide and the guide to France, there were relatively dangerous whirlpools there that could be hazardous to an unwary swimmer. Naturally, I explained the lurking danger to my children in detail, and that if you went out too far, you could be swept all the way to Brazil.

"Dad, what is Brazil?" - Well, I'm certainly no epically long-winded storyteller, not at all, but to let a child grow up so stupid and uneducated, no, I simply couldn't let that stand. "Brazil, dear child, is a far, very far away country..." - Margret and Geraldine took the children into the tent at midday to prepare their snack, even though I'd only been to Francisco Pizarro's house and of course Brazil was nowhere near, not to mention Pelé and Sugarloaf Mountain.

But please, I don't want to be responsible if one of my children forgets to eat because they're listening so intently and starves! So, give the Infante what is the Infante's, and then come back here so I can continue with Brazil - hey, where are you running to?!

"Papa," says the bright 12-year-old, and it seems to me that there is a little defiance in his tone, "I want to go paddling now!" But yes, I think, he hasn't even tried out the new boat yet!

"Okay, go ahead then, and be careful, there are dangerous whirlpools back there by the cliffs..." but the son has already disappeared in a cloud of dust, pulling the orange monstrosity behind him.

I look around to see if there are any other listeners – no, the mothers are reading and the young sparrows are doggedly starting new sandcastles, while Tibi, like his father before him, bravely and doggedly fights his way north against wind and waves – well, then I'll lie down for a few moments and think about how I can still get that stupid Pizarro, who was hopelessly lost in the Chilean Andes, to Brazil...

Margret nudges me lightly on the elbow. The sweet Indian girls with whom I had been playfully braiding daisy chains vanish in a flash, and I sleepily wink up at my wife. "Haven't seen the Tibi in quite a while!" she says seriously, and I'm instantly wide awake.

"He was just down there on the beach," I say, looking astonished. Where just moments ago there was a deserted beach, now hundreds are milling about! I jump up as if stung by a tarantula and start running. Naturally, towards the cliffs, to the north.

Do you know that feeling? Running through the hard sand, skidding over deck chairs and beach towels, chasing after every orange thing, no matter how inconspicuous? Soon enough, the orange objects turn out to be towels, swim rings, and swimsuits. But not a single orange inflatable boat in sight!

"Did you perhaps see an orange rubber boat? Avez-vous vu un bateau en gomme, un Kajak orange?"

I slow down and now walk step by step towards the cliffs - nothing! Carefully and as fast as I can go barefoot, I climb over the small rocks, round the cape after a few minutes and jerk back, stammering an apology, when a couple in love hisses venomously at me.

Not a single Tibi, not a single Orange anywhere to be seen!

Go ahead and laugh – but I'm staring like a hawk at the horizon, scanning the vast blue sea for something orange and rubber-boat-like. Nothing! My eyes are already watering from staring so hard, but I don't care, I have to save the poor worm!

Where could he possibly be? After some deliberation, I decide to go back to the beach and the women. I run along the water again, inquisitively observing each group of children jumping in the waves, and keep running. I ignore the anxious mothers clutching their little ones because a man is running along like a steam engine, nor the braver ones asking the sweating runner in all sorts of languages what's going on. It's unbelievable! Where on earth is the boy?

Now I'm back with Margret, Geraldine, and the girls. "Have you seen him?" We look around helplessly, our gaze growing increasingly desperate as we stare toward the cliffs. Our helplessness soon turns to certainty: my little son is adrift in the Atlantic, heading for Brazil!

Or maybe not? We ponder this, then my wife – the wisest wife of all, as a certain EK would write – says whether we shouldn't perhaps look in the other direction? – A weight lifts from my shoulders, but yes, of course! He certainly won't have swum to the right as usual, but will have exceptionally paddled to the left, towards the inner bay.

Relieved, I set off at a trot, the orange search filter fully activated. The closer I get to the inner bay, the fewer people there are. No one is swimming there; it's a collection point for dirt and driftwood washed ashore by the sea. I run until, blinded by tears, I stand before the high cliff face above which the town of Douarnenez towers.

No Tibi, no rubber boat, nothing at all.

It's not just the unfamiliar walking that makes my knees weak. No, I've now searched the entire beach, my little one is gone, gone, forever! Slowly, my big, soft heart turns into a small, hard lump of ice. I wander back, thinking of a thousand possibilities, from human traffickers and UFOs to slave hunters.

From afar I can already see Margret and Geraldine running excitedly in my direction, and there, yes, next to them, a tired and very battered little warrior carrying a stubborn, orange rubber boat on his shoulders, which makes me think more of a turtle...

Tibi.

We have him back.

Nimble as a deer, I ran to my family, hugged everyone, and was overjoyed that we were reunited. We tried not to alarm the poor lad and then learned that he had indeed been blown towards the cliffs by the wind and surf, always in knee-deep water and never in any danger, until he decided to return home on foot, defeated, since he could no longer row against the forces of nature. I must have overlooked him—staring into the distance—and walked right past him. He didn't want to drag his new prized possession through the sand (I wonder what his father would have said!), so he turned the monstrosity upside down, hoisted it onto his head and shoulders, and then walked back along the coastal road to his mothers.

My adrenaline levels returned to normal, the afternoon grew hot, and I recovered with a pleasant nap. Phew, that was the last day of vacation—quite exciting, but tomorrow we head back home. And tonight we're going out for one last big meal, a "big wild boar feast à la Asterix." Then this adventure will be over, too. I drifted off peacefully. We had our son back, so nothing could go wrong now.

Absolutely nothing.

When we went to the tent and changed into our evening clothes, we were surprised to find a fair set up along the approximately 1km long coastal road leading to the village, with one stall after another. Cotton candy, sweets, teddy bears, and artfully decorated seashells. In front of the large, expensive restaurant, there was a carousel.

Up to this point, we'd managed to maintain general discipline; after all, we'd deliberately rationed our French cash so that there would be enough for the last evening. But we still didn't have enough cash for the fair. Discipline or not, even the most hardened shopkeeper couldn't resist that wonderful carousel. The children were allowed to ride. Once. Twice, three times. But that's enough now, children, we're going to eat. Four times. Okay. But that's enough for now; maybe again later.

As planned, we dined exceptionally well, ordering the best dishes on the menu and eating with cloth napkins and seven sets of cutlery. A real treat after several weeks in a tent.

Then Anuschka said – we hadn't even really gotten to the main course – that she was already full and now wanted to go on the carousel.

Now.

They patiently explained to her that another course was coming, followed by dessert, and perhaps a coffee after the cheese, and only then would the meal be finished. After the meal, there would be another carousel ride.

No! Little Anuschka wanted to ride the carousel, right now. In a matter of seconds, our sweet little daughter transformed into a roaring beast, to which I was certainly not related, and bellowed in a torrent of angry tears: "Carousel, carousel!" Not only did the waiters look offended, but even the portly head chef peered through the door and shook his head. Our attempts at mediation failed; the roaring became embarrassing, and the few other guests glared at us disapprovingly. Geraldine—usually a patient and composed mother—increasingly lost control of this roaring beast (which could not possibly be my daughter) and, in turn, screamed that if she didn't stop immediately, she would take her straight to the tent, and there would be no carousel ride. And so on.

We tried to look down our noses at the other, impatient guests. No, we weren't bad parents, we were alternative; we worked out these little differences with the children, they shouldn't be thwarted by maternal (less often paternal) dominance. And we don't do spanking, not even healthy spanking. But actually, child, that's enough now! You can stop, we know how strong you are. Stop, I said! "Carousel, carousel!" screamed the red-faced alien, stamping its little feet with every "ca" and "ru" and "sel," spitting tears and screaming in an increasingly shaky voice, "Car-ru-ssell, car-ru-ssell!" and howling and sniffling and stamping its little shoes.

Geraldine, who had bravely persevered until this point, had finally had enough. She grabbed Anuschka and whispered to us that she would take her a few more steps to the beach and let her cry herself to sleep there, then they would come back. And then she disappeared. We, the waiters, and even the chef breathed a sigh of relief as a refined calm returned to the five-star restaurant.

Julia and Tibi had been good about keeping to themselves. Julia, because she had been secretly gobbling up Margret's dessert (I think it was iced chocolate-covered chestnut slices) during this whole thing, and Tibi, who at 12 had no patience for screaming little darlings. But now Margret's dessert plate was empty, and the children were getting bored.

Julia fidgeted in her chair and refused to sit still any longer. "A French restaurant like this isn't really suitable for little girls," she told herself, and became quite a nuisance. Then she became even more so. I felt sorry for Margret, because she was worried about Geraldine and Anuschka, who had been gone for a very long time; I felt sorry for myself because I knew—one way or another—that the final cognac and the fine cigar would be gone.

You wouldn't believe how creative and clever some children are at just 12! Of course, Tibi couldn't care less about my cognac, and certainly not about the stinking cigar, nor about Mother's concern for the screaming Anuschka. He was very embarrassed by our little play; he would have much preferred to be far away—in the safety of the tent, for example—and because his little sister was already fidgeting in her chair, he offered to go with Julia "to Geraldine and Anuschka's." Margret and I, who were (presumably) deeply embroiled in a parenting debate about fancy restaurants, carousels, and toddlers, nodded absently, and dear Tibi took his little sister by the hand and left.

Minutes later, Geraldine returned from the beach with Anuschka. Anuschka had run around and played to her heart's content. We looked curiously towards the door, wondering where Tibi and little Julia were.

Wars have probably been lost, or princesses not rescued from the evil dragon, because "listening carefully" is quite a difficult thing... Geraldine hadn't seen them, no, they weren't in front of the restaurant either. Margret and I exchanged pale glances. We paid as quickly as we could, then raced off, combing the area. No Tibi, no Julia. It quickly became dark.

What had he said? "I'm going to Geraldine and Anuschka's!"

So, Geraldine had gone to the beach with Anuschka, to the deserted beach, so that Anuschka could scream her head off without bothering anyone else. But where, "to the beach?" No, not again: the cliffs!

We searched everywhere; by now it was pitch black. The tide was rising relentlessly, and the small footpath along the cliffs was already completely submerged. I took off my shoes and balanced across the slippery stones, searching every nook and cranny. Margret, Geraldine, and Anuschka, who had become very quiet, searched behind the shooting galleries and in the small dunes, but there was no sign of our children. They had vanished, swallowed up by the night.

I resolutely approached the only policeman I could see. I put on my best French and tried to explain to the fat, phlegmatic man in blue that my children had disappeared—a 12-year-old boy and a girl just under two years old; they had gone to the beach, but there was no sign of them. After several attempts, he understood and leaned into his Peugeot to radio it. Ah, the tourists! Another couple of children have gone over the cliffs, fallen into a crevice at night, and drowned miserably!

At that moment I glance over the crowd – I don't really like such sudden deaths, and I prefer to look into the distance so that no one can see my twitching eyelid – so at that historic moment I see Tibi. Tibi, carrying Julia on his shoulders and looking very exhausted.

I see Margret run off, right into the middle of the crowd. I talk frantically to the policeman, telling him the little ones are back, that he should just forget about it, and then he's amazed, because I also run off like Nurmi.

After the reunification, the children are allowed to ride the carousel again (of course under the strictest supervision), get an ice cream and walk back with us through the noisy shopping street (also under the strictest supervision).

Gradually, everything became clear. Tibi had only heard that Geraldine had threatened the raging Anuschka, telling her to go to the tent; but he hadn't heard Geraldine whisper anything about the beach. So he and Julia had gone to the tent, but there was no sign of Geraldine or Anuschka anywhere. Getting into the well-locked tent was, of course, little more than a chore, and before Julia could really start to get scared in the dark, the resourceful Tibi had lit a mosquito lamp. Still no Geraldine, no Anuschka. So he sat down with the little girl in front of the mosquito lamp, read her a story, and waited anxiously for Geraldine and Anuschka to appear. After a while—a small bar of chocolate had also been sacrificed in the meantime—he went back to the coastal road with Julia to see if anyone was coming. But no one came, except for a friendly neighbor from the next tent, who cycled towards him just before they reached the village and said that his parents were desperately searching for him! Without hesitation, he grabbed the now sleepy Julia and hurried on to the village where he found us.

Wars have probably already been lost, or princesses have been killed by the evil prince - - - uhhh, we've already been through that... Well, what I actually wanted to say was: I was goddamn glad to have my children back.