The four boys stood on the concrete former pontoon outlined by the mountains or hills on the horizon. I couldn’t tell you which they were from my position on the beach. Surrounding them, sat at their feet, were other young men and women. But the four boys who stood tall above the rest seemed to be in a group of their own. While the others occasionally jumped into the sea that was garishly sprinkled with diamonds of the type you’d find decorating the cheap bags on Avenue Guy de Maupassant, the boys fought.

Though mainly just shadows and outlines in the heat of the midday sun, I could see a tall one, a fat one, a shorter one and a fourth of normal size for a 13 or 14 year old. As my own daughter, who was playing in the sand on the precipice of the sea, was only two I still wasn’t able to recall what separated a young teen from a young man. A 13 year old or an 28 year old. But something about their violent play suggested real youth. The sort of play lion cubs partook in to train and test their mettle.  It mainly involved a lot of grappling. Heads held under wiry arms. Then a burst of feet and smooth legs, kicking ankles and pushing someone away. Eventually, though, it would reach its limit with the bravest – or stupidest – boy looking to go above and beyond. First it was a punch. Heard from the 50 or so metres away that separated them from me. Fist to chest. The victim stumbled back, while the thrower of the punch help hands up in realisation of a line crossed. Here was the crux, the moment that play fighting led up to. The creation of the hierarchy, once established was hard to break. Who would back down and cede control?

While this had been playing out in front of me, among the onlookers and sunbathers on the pontoon was a younger girl. Maybe 10 or so. She spent her time testing her own limits by jumping into the topaz waters. She would approach the edge of the platform and curl her toes over the sharp concrete edge. Then she would leap, high, curling her legs underneath before releasing them to break the surface of the water. For a moment or two after the splash had settled, she would be gone. And then she would rise from the water in another location, like a cormorant with a fish. 

The edge of the pontoon rose high above her by a good metre or so. But there were enough footholds and handles that she could easily pull herself out of the sea. At least, she could until couldn’t. Her young arms eventually ran out of strength – the adrenaline no match for the beating sun. She had a skinny leg lifted high out the water, grabbing stones with toes, and two hands holding with finger tips to the gritty edge. She held this position to gain her breath and strength. But all it did was actually drain what little energy she had left in her aching arms and legs. As she was about to lift herself, she lost her grip. Above her, the boys had thrown their punch and were stood waiting to resolve their little game. What they got was not the natural settling of order among teenage boys, but a thunk and a cry as the girl slipped, salt cured thing skin scratching on the stone, chin catching the edge casting her head backwards so fast that you feel if it hadn’t been connected by her neck it would have gone bouncing across the small waves.

As children who spent their days by the water, they all seemed to know something had gone wrong. Every child on the pontoon fell silent and still. I rose to a sitting position, realising something was amiss. My first instinct was not to run, but to check my own daughter, who was still playing, unaware of what was happening around her. My wife was away in town, so I alone was in charge of her. The distance from her to the girl was too far for me. But not for another adult. A man nearer ran across sand and dived in to grab the girl.

Not one of the fighting nearly men had moved except to look towards the ongoing rescue. The man pulled the girl from the sea – a slash of red water coming with her briefly as she once again rose above the surface. She coughed and then cried as the man dragged her to shore.

The boys turned within themselves, facing one another, looking for answers. They stood with half smiles on their face at a crisis averted – the mountains or hills still behind them. None of them felt like fighting anymore.

A waiter tapped my shoulder, ‘Your table is ready, sir’.

I nodded and called to my daughter who ran towards me with open arms. A picked her up and squeezed a cuddle out of her. She wriggled free and followed me to the table on the beach.

‘Excuse me’, I said to the waiter. ‘Do you know if they are mountain or hills?’ I asked, pointing past the boys to the horizon. He didn’t seem to understand my question.

– Jonathan Brown