French Riviera (Patrick Wensink)

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.