In the States, I would not let my boys clamber over sharp rocks 20 feet above other sharp rocks in the surf. At least not without helmets. And perhaps tethers. But they got out there while the adults were still savoring the last sips of our rosé from sweating bottles propped in plastic bags of ice water, so what could we do? Sip again and watch them put a hand out to the scrubby gravel as they test their footing to take another step up, over to the next cove, to see what might be just out of sight.
Every 10 minutes or so a helicopter buzzes its way towards Saint Tropez. Certainly at least some of these are medical choppers laden with American boys who misjudged the French rocks over the dark blue Mediterranean waves. Or maybe they’re all just full of tourists in a hurry. The boys make it, the youngest well behind. Honestly, they probably don’t sell helmets around here anyway. But if they did, I know they would be more fashionable than ours.
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