Daring Dives in the Riviera
Standing on the cliff, I nearly turned back. I couldn’t figure it out, but my mind wouldn’t allow my body to jump dozens of feet into the sea. I call it common sense, others would call it cowardice, but it took all my strength. And still no one believes me.
When I tell people I went cliff diving in the French Riviera their reaction is disbelief. It makes perfect sense, frankly. I appear more like the type who would make up this escapade for a laugh. It’s the kind of adventure that anyone can have with a little luck, a little more nerve and help from friendly locals.
Next to Paris, France’s most popular spot is Cannes. No matter if you pronounce it “can”
or “con” this gorgeous Mediterranean city attracts the world’s elite. That is, during the world famous Cannes Film Festival in May. The rest of the year it’s a tourist-friendly beach town. The city is a mix of other worldly glamour and suffocating Western influence. You can walk up the same red carpet as Tom Cruise and notice there’s a Planet Hollywood across the street.
The beach is little more than soupy green water splashing on pebbles. Luckily, we met a young Californian studying in Cannes. We expressed our disappointment in the beach and she advised us to take a bus to the sleepy coastal town of Theoule Sur-Mer. There, she assured us, we would find her favorite beach and the hidden gem of Cannes.
After a lengthy bus ride that dropped us off literally on the sand, we made our way up the beach. This was real sand, soft white powder that seeped between bare toes, not the pebbles of Cannes. After we passed the last of the beachfront restaurants, the scene we had been searching for was laid out before us like a postcard.
Soft, baby-blue skies contrasted the red cliffs and hills that stood over our shoulders. The hills wrapped around the modest beach and blurred into the beautiful, snow-white sand and out onto the most breathtaking water I’d ever seen. The piercing blue sea splashed and rolled into an endless horizon, looking more like a pane of stained glass every second.
After walking the entire length of the beach, we set up camp. On our way through this paradise we breezed past every stereotype imaginable: European men strutting about in skin tight Speedos, topless sunbathers and small children splashing in the nude; everything you’d ever heard about the French Riviera comes to life in a half-mile stretch of sand. We were the only sign of anything American for miles and we loved it.
Soon, we were neck deep in the clearest water we’d ever seen. The crystalline waves revealed a floor of smooth rocks and plant life, all varying shades of green and blue. Just perfect. Little did I know I was about to take the biggest leap of faith in my life! The further we swam away from shore, the more we began to realize there was life beyond our perfect beach. Off in the distance, a large rock rose from the water. To say this was a rock is an understatement; more like a mini mountain. This spire of reddish purple stood nearly 80 feet tall, with jagged shards poking out its body all the way to the peak. From our watery viewpoint we could make out tiny figures leaping into the water. Every 30 seconds a new body would plummet into a watery explosion of blue and white.
Out of curiosity, we began our paddle to the mini mountain. Now, in the middle of our marathon swim, we could clearly see dozens of feet below us into the pristine depths.
After 20 straight minutes of swimming and a half-gallon of seawater in my stomach, we reach our destination. At the base of this enormous rock we clearly saw the full array of dives: countless cannonballs, a handful of ice picks, a brave few doing a full summersault and one graceful swan dive worthy of Olympic competition. To our shock, this wasn’t the college swim team, but a party of kids. At their youngest maybe eight and the eldest, the swan diver, was possibly fourteen.
After realizing we had nearly ten years on our competition we decided to take the leap. If a twelve-year-old could do it, surely we could. We paddled our way to the side of the rock where a quasi-line of floating boys waited.
We scaled up the rock through a rudimentary ladder carved by thousands of years of erosion. Every foot I climbed, the pit of my stomach grew an inch. But as these young boys were shooting towards the water, yelling the French equivalent of “Geronimo!” I knew this would be an unforgettable experience and a great story to tell my friends.
Once I’d made my climb, I realized I was nearly thirty feet above the surf. Here, a rocky platform stood as the launch pad; eight feet above that the older kids showed-off. This was a smaller ledge, further back into the rock where young Franks proved their virility.
A few cannonballers gave war cries and disappeared over the ledge with a splash. Suddenly, it was my turn. As I stood on the lower platform, the pit in my stomach began to throb and my wet feet turned to cement. From my perch, I could see more of this beautiful sea spreading around the half-moon cape of Theoule-Sur-Mer. Sailboats, motorboats and yachts glided past in the distance as the salty breeze flapped my swimming trunks. A split second of calm came over me and I decided to take advantage as my common sense let down its guard.
Two big steps and time stopped. Everything went silent as I hung over the crystal clear water. And it hit me, “I’m cliff diving on the French Riviera. This is the coolest thing I’ll ever do.”
I returned to the States and my friends asked me what the best part of my trip was. I gave them the abridged version of this story. And after assuring them a few times that, “No. I really did. I’m not making it up,” they finally believed me.
In Theoule Sur-Mer you don’t have to be rich, famous or physically elite to be a cliff diver—you just have to have the courage of a French boy. For the record, I did an ice pick. I may have been scared stiff, but I had my pride. I’m no cannonballer.