Abers

As we enter the third week of our French sojourn, we finally join the Britannic coast. Here, the sea churns against the jagged rocks in a turmoil of oceanic saltwater. So different from our own tranquil gulf, who coquettishly raises her hem at the passing tides to reveal a scattering of sand dollars or a scant space of sandbar, here the sea withdraws in a rushing flurry, a French cancan of flowing water and bare land.

There are tracts of space where the current has invaded the continent, cutting a swath with its fierce, salty tides. Called “abers” in French, these tributaries of the sea are fully engorged at high tide, a playground for the sailboats that dot this part of France. But when the tides depart, flowing at a gallop back to their Atlantic origins, the abers are suddenly dry and the white-hulled boats litter the silted ground.

The last week has flowed in a tumultuous coming and going of activity: a new Rotary club every night, visiting a crepe factory and a French battleship, touring the air traffic control center at Brest. Like the tides, our energy levels have risen and plummeted, sometimes exposing our own dry abers and the scattered bones of fatigue. But, also like the sea, the flow of energy returns.

As we prepare to enter our fourth and final week, saying goodbye to the host families of the club of Landerneau that have so warmly welcomed us into their homes and hearts, we even now feel a final surge of enthusiasm for the week to come. We will follow the coastline northward, in the direction of Saint Malo, but also westward, towards the Atlantic, the United States, and finally home.