Finding Heaven in Étretat

If I had to show someone the ocean for the very first time, I would take them to Étretat. I had seen a photo once of these chalky white cliffs and the azure sea, and I would daydream about soaring high above it, weightless and free. This was one of those places that felt like part of heaven had leaked into the air, onto the rolling green grasses, and beyond the golden glow of the horizon, floating on the edge of the Atlantic. One long weekend in early spring, Madeline and I decided to take a train and a bus to this little tip of Northern France. We packed our backpacks and camping gear, ready to embrace the adventure—well, nearly. We ended up leaving a day later because a fierce rainstorm swept across France, and while I sighed at the delay, Madeline painted an amusingly dramatic picture of us being swept off the cliffs in our tent. I laughed at the absurdity, though she didn’t find it quite as funny. So instead, we spent that evening playing cards, baking cookies, and watching a documentary as the rain lashed against my bedroom window. I fell asleep dreaming of ocean air, weightlessness, and the promise of soaring alongside the birds.

I have always loved the journey as much as the destination. As we sat opposite each other on the train, I gazed out at the passing countryside, imagining the quiet lives playing out within stone houses with vines only just beginning to grow back over their weathered cracks. I love window seats, where I can watch the world blur past, trying to drink in as much as I can—memorizing the gardens, counting the swimming pools, and conjuring up stories about the people who live there. Perhaps someone, in one of those villages, looked up at our passing train and wondered about us too. There’s a word for that—sonder. From the train, we transferred to a final bus, winding through impossibly narrow country roads that made me question how something so large could navigate so fearlessly. We left the rain in Paris, and as the sun broke through the clouds, I looked around at the other passengers to see if they, too, saw what I was seeing—an endless expanse of vibrant yellow wildflowers, glowing like molten gold against the emerald grasses. I could already smell the salt in the air. When the bus paused in what felt like the middle of nowhere, a man stepped off, carrying only a worn leather suitcase, disappearing into the wildflower fields. I don’t know where he was going, but I imagined it was somewhere magical, a place where spring never ended. We arrived at our campsite as the sun softened over Étretat, and within ten minutes, I was already planning a future of campervan-ing across Europe. “Okay, I hear you,” Madeline smiled, rolling her eyes as she struggled with the tent. “But can you help me set this thing up?”

The next two days were magical. The cold wind cut through the air like ice against our skin, but nothing could wipe the smiles off our faces as we wandered through the little town, taking in every charming detail. Madeline, who had been on a quiet yet determined mission to find the perfect yellow rain jacket, finally stumbled upon the jacket of her dreams. In Paris, we would always spot young kids wearing bright yellow raincoats lined with black and white stripes, and every time we did, she would subtly point and whisper with longing, “I want that freaking jacket.” And then, as if this town were sprinkled with a bit of magic, we found it. A tiny store, its entrance shaped like a wooden boat, stood proudly on the cobblestone street. Inside, hung neatly on the racks, were adult-sized versions of the very jacket she had been coveting—striped lining and all, complete with an embroidered navy boat on both sleeves. As if I wasn’t already in love with this town after witnessing a man disappear into a wildflower field, now it had gifted us the elusive yellow jacket. Étretat truly had it all.

On our way to the cliffs, we passed an ice cream shop. Did I mention it was freezing? The kind of cold that turns your fingers numb and makes the wind feel like tiny knives against your cheeks? And yet, despite the absurdity of it, we couldn’t resist. We ordered the most delicious ice cream bowls, our teeth chattering between each bite as we stood before the ocean, gazing out at what felt like the edge of heaven. Our hands were frozen, but our eyes were beaming.

one scoop each of violet, lavender & bubblegum

We explored both ends of the bay, climbing one cliff one day and the other on our final afternoon, where a beautiful church and tended gardens overlooked the vast, endless sea. Each ascent felt like stepping into a painting—one we were lucky enough to live inside, even if only briefly.

One morning, after a very, very cold night, we sought refuge in the free and surprisingly spotless showers at our campsite. It was divine. The water poured over us, boiling hot, and for a moment, the chill of the night before melted away. Madeline and I passed shampoo and body wash over the tops of the shower doors, giddy with gratitude. “I don’t want to get out,” we kept repeating between bursts of laughter, but then I thought about those cliffs again, and suddenly, I couldn’t get dressed fast enough.

That afternoon, we lay on the grass at the top of the cliff, the sky shifting between grey and gold. The ocean had turned turquoise, and seagulls drifted in slow, effortless circles above us. It was the epitome of peace. We sat in silence, leaning back against our backpacks, books in hand, but I never finished a single sentence—too distracted by the world around me. Every sense was alive, surging. I closed my eyes, afraid that when I opened them again, I would be somewhere else. A tight knot formed in my throat. What was this place? And why did it both hurt and heal my heart at the same time? Maybe it was pure tranquility—the kind of rare, expansive stillness that offers space for all the things you haven’t yet been able to feel. It was as if God, or the Earth itself, was holding me, rocking me slowly back and forth, whispering, “Shh, you’re safe here.”

We ventured onto the bay and the sound of those round alabaster, marble-like pebbles meeting our boots as we walked to the water’s edge is probably one of my favourite sounds in the whole wide world.

We wanted to run into the water naked. Instead, we crouched by the shoreline, hands lingering just above the surface, waiting for the tide to submerge our fingers and send that sharp, cold sting up our spines. The Atlantic stretched out before us, vast and endless, its salty air filling our lungs as we took in the moment.

Madeline’s voice broke the quiet, her words settling deep into my chest.

"This is the ocean we both learned to swim in."

She was right. It was the Atlantic.

Tears formed in my eyes, but I quickly blinked them away, laughing at her observation. It was one of those truths so simple yet profound that it ached.

There’s a quote I once read—one that never really left me.

"My mother always wanted to live near water. She said that it is magic, because it's the one thing that brings us all together. That I can have my toe in the ocean off the coast of Maine, and a girl my age can have her toe in the ocean off the coast of Africa, and we would be touching. On opposite sides of the world."

I know there are angels with me on all my journeys. Sometimes, I forget. But moments like this remind me—not one second of my life has been short of magic. The most brilliant synchronicities, like how I once read that book without knowing that one day, I, a girl from the coast of Africa, and she, a girl from the shores of Maine, would stand together in Normandy, where these pebbles met the Atlantic, and for a moment, return to our childhoods.

Madeline picked up a tiny shell and held it close to our faces, whispering how some male fish crabs hum to attract their mates. She hummed to it, waiting for a reply. It didn’t hum back, but watching her stand there, smiling at the sea, gently singing to a silent little shell, made me smile too. It still does, thinking back to it now.

The whole afternoon felt like we were kids again. And maybe, deep down, we always are. Maybe we’re just children in grown-up costumes, waiting for the right places, the right people, to let us be little again. To let us be young, and free, and unafraid of the waves.

We found a large cave with an oval opening near the natural rock pools at the edge of the bay. Without hesitation, we climbed through, curiosity leading the way. The tunnels stretched into pitch-black darkness, the air cool and damp against our skin.

"It must lead somewhere," I kept saying, feeling along the walls, "just look for the light."

Madeline’s voice, a mix of skepticism and nervous laughter, echoed from behind.

"Aren’t we supposed to not follow the light?"

Well, in this case, we were. Though it wasn’t the light we followed—it was the sound. The faint, echoing voices of children, the hushed crash of waves, the whisper of a perfect ocean breeze. We moved forward, the air shifting, the darkness thinning. In here, we were sheltered, the world outside momentarily forgotten.

And then, we reached it—the archway at the end of the tunnel. A portal.

For a moment, I wanted to turn back.

It was as if stepping through would mean leaving something behind, something intangible but real. The tunnel behind us might disappear, the entrance swallowed whole—but maybe that wouldn’t matter. Maybe, just maybe, we’d be perfectly fine with it.

Above, Below, and Through

Étretat is a place I return to in my softest dreams, the kind that leave me aching when I wake to the sound of rain or stand at the ocean’s edge, longing for something just beyond reach. If a place could hold a heart, then mine is there—woven into the cliffs, the wind, the whisper of the tides.

Scatter my ashes here one day if you will. Because this is where you’ll find the most tranquil parts of my soul.

Why? Well, I left them there.

I whispered my secrets into the breeze atop those cliffs and watched the wildflowers dance in response, promising to keep them safe. I closed my eyes and let myself drift, weightless, from the edge, soaring with the seagulls, tracing the alabaster stones below until the sun melted into the horizon, pulling the day into sleep.

On our final day, I wrote a single page in my journal while sitting atop the cliffs. It read:

*"So often, I try to be present. I try to be right here and now. Other times, in the future, I know I’ll close my eyes and imagine myself returning to this moment. This piece of the Atlantic coast. The seagulls are suspended in the air above me, and I imagine soaring toward the horizon, looking back at the milky cliffs that I trace with my fingertips—soft as chalk. It leaves white powder on my hands.

I hover where the sun will set to sleep. I imagine taking a little boat and floating out there in a mist of powder blue, listening to nothing but the sound of the water lapping up the sides—a lullaby of solace. I’d let my head fall back until sea and sky blend so seamlessly it makes my head spin. Strange, how everything below can be such trouble and chaos, while above, the sky is peace and gentle."*

There, one day, I will return.

There, in heaven.

Heaven, in the distance. Do you see it?

I see it.

And I saw it there.