You Want To Be Happy? Fish On The Cliffs

And enjoy the journey

My Grand-Father would turn 98 today. He has been gone for four and a half years, but I keep celebrating his birthday. I miss him.

I miss his heartfelt wisdom, one of an old man who’s survived a lot in his life. He was a prisoner in Poland during WWII, in the camps first, then as a compulsory worker. He scoured German battleships’ oil tanks in Gdansk, thousands of miles away from his French hometown. He would never mention what happened there. He was ashamed. And shy, in his own way.

I miss being a little girl by his side. When I was old enough to walk — which took me a little longer than any other kids — he brought me to net-fish on the cliff, next to his childhood summer house. Most of his other grand-children had given up the craft by the time. They were keener on camping in the woods or kicking soccer balls with their friends. Enough with the old man.

It was the two of us, then. Prepping the nets with shrimps’ favorite dishes: fish heads and tails, watermelon relishes, and freshly ripped crabs. Smelly as hell — almost unbearable to my hypersensitive nostrils. Off we went, walking the 500 meters to the nearby cliffs, an hour before the Rendez-Vous with the tide. You don’t want someone else to steal your spot, do you?

Little action can happen before the sea withdraws. Thus, we filled our extra-time breathing in the fresh air, embracing the ocean, and exploring multiple possibilities. We retreated in thoughts. We meditated, except, in the ’80s, we would call that ‘waiting in silence.’

Even when the business began, we would barely talk. My Grand-Father was this type of man, speaking mainly by groans and grunts. The happy growls and the sad ones. His question marks were embedded in a very special grunting from which you knew right away if an answer was expected or pure rhetoric.

The old man behaved like a therapist, reverberating my thoughts and self-interrogations. When no solutions arose, he’d point the ocean from the blue of his gaze. When feelings overwhelmed the place, he’d send me to lift a net or drop another.

Net-fishing is not an elaborate drill. You gently put the net down at the bottom of a crevasse. Wait. Pull it up. Repeat. It requires biblical knowledge to perform well, though. Starting with the most prolific crevices’ locations. Plus, old fishermen’s wisdom.

My Grand-Father understood that Mother Nature and shrimps have their own agenda. Deal with it. Bad weather happens. Empty baskets too. Sometimes you end up drenched by a nervous wave. He fell into a rift, once. His absurd cotton hat drifted on the surface while he swam to the shore and climbed back to the rocks.

None of that mattered. His devotion to the craft remained boundless. He’d repeat the well-known gestures he had learned from his father’s science. On a given day, when the efforts wouldn’t pay off, he’d deliver the “be better next time” type of grunt. He would even articulate a smile to acknowledge the happiness our time together granted him.

The Sun Always Shines Beyond The Clouds, reflected my second Grand-Father, the pilot, with slightly more poetry. They both had a strong and simple faith in life.

They believed in the next day. They believed in giving life another chance to improve. And us, another opportunity to enjoy it. In each moment, they perceived the essence and clarity of the world. Small pleasures were treasures. They healed themselves at tiny bits, like lifting a full net out of the ocean. A sunrise would make a day. A sunset would soothe the next one.

The lighthouse in the distance — Cordouan — would guide my Grand-Father, then me, as it did for the trade ships entering the river towards Bordeaux.

Don’t ever give up — Coldplay (Up&Up)

I have worn this philosophy right under my skin, like an invisible tattoo, until now. Mostly when I competed in wheelchair tennis.

Training to reach the top was hard. Victory would not always land on my side. Sometimes, I felt homesick or anxious. Every time I was down or blue, I relied on the mantra. Every time I was looking for mental peace, I visualized that place on the cliff where I grew up and learned the most important things.

On September 13th, 2008, I was waiting in a dull corridor to step on Beijing Paralympic Tennis Center’s central court. I couldn’t hear the crowd outside because of the music in my ears, but I knew it was there. And I knew my parents and boyfriend were standing among them, to cheer for me and help me achieve the 3rd place. We all shared Athens’s memory, four years prior, when the bronze medal flew away from my neck.

Calming nerves was the key. I recalled the wise men, back home, waiting in the night for the game’s result. I breathed and thought, the sun will rise tomorrow. No matter what happens today. Life doesn’t define in a ribbon, but on my journey to reach that day. The rest is history. I won.

I was right. The sun rose the next day. Then went down shortly after on a horrific morning in December. Happiness never lasts. After darkness and hurdles, the light always came back. The strength I forged on the journey kept me alive, standing, and ready for the next episode.

I follow my Grand-Fathers’ legacy in all meanders of life. As for advice through challenges at work. When I endured I.V.F procedures and all the surrounding uncertainties. When I was rushed to the O.R. last year because the pain in my hip was unbearable.

The medal lays on a dusty shelf in my living room as a family reminder that :

• The journey is what matters. Not the result.
• Tomorrow will come. Failing is alright.
• Don’t ever give up.

Happy Birthday, Paulo.

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I am a writer, speaker, Paralympian, mother of twins, and constant dreamer. I earned bronze in singles and doubles in Beijing 2008 as a wheelchair tennis player.