Bernard did arrive on time for the service Wednesday. We were early and he was there when we got there. The small stone church is centuries old, the continuity of generations ebbing and flowing. Most of those who came were family, Deverts, Plots, Mercatellos, LeClercs. Amanda who had known Harry in Paris was there with her husband Matthieu and their two young children. Corrine who had met Harry through CouchSurfers in the Phillippines was there as well and gave me a lovely card on behalf of the CouchSurfers and so were Marina and Lionel who had known Harry since they were children. There was a call to worship written by Harry’s aunt, Soeur Simone, a poem by Charles Peguy, based on a text by Saint Augustin, another poem, a favorite of Bernard’s, and the prayer of Saint Francis of Assissi. Then there was Harry’s letter and Bernard’s homily. “A world without witnesses does not exist,” Bernard said. “Harry was a witness to the world.” Harry had told me, “Someone has to see this. Someone has to see this and let others know. Not everyone has the luck I do to be able to go where I go and see what I see. I have to let people know how incredible the world is.” Harry said he felt his life was a pilgrimage. Bernard understood that. And then yesterday. The Mistral had whisked the air so clean and clear it was like a picture frame around everything your eyes could see. Glimpsing the water from the winding mountain road to La Ciotat, we passed two bikers in bright yellow shirts, coasting down the cliff side of the road. Cassius was snuggled in his car seat, Maya beside him, full of life and zest and at the same time tired as only a new mother can be. This is a person who goes the distance for her friends, who loved Harry with a boundless love. As we drove into La Ciotat I suddenly had the feeling that once again something I had no control over was happening but that this time what was happening was perfect. We arrived at the pier where the small ship and the Sauveteurs en Mer were waiting. The clean salt air, the clear, cloudless sky, the crew who welcomed us on the Bec de l’Aigle which would carry us to our destination near the mountain the ship was named for, the Eagle’s Beak, everything was there for us, for Harry, for Georges and for me, for Maya, a surrogate for Harry’s friends who knew and loved Harry and had such fun with him, for Cassius, a boy whose life is just beginning, someone Harry would love with an open heart as he loved children all around the globe, for Pierre Marie who strives to be a good man, a man who loved his father as Harry did, each son loving his father in his own way, Pierre Marie who arranged this for us. We left the pier as the bells were chiming ten and set out across the water, a deep, rich, embracing blue, white bubbles churning in the wake behind us. The morning sun made everything bright and warm. Lisa, a member of the crew, tied everything together, Lisa from Britain with family in the United States and Mexico, now living in France with her husband and two young children, one born in Spain, one in France. She told us the cliffs of the Bec de lAigle are the highest sea cliffs in Europe, peaking at 394 meters. Our destination was a spot in between the Bec de l’Aigle and Isle Verte, Green Island. Devert means “of green”, a good sign. The captain turned off the motor when we arrived. The urn was made of compressed sand, shaped like a soccer ball, made to hold its shape for 5 to 7 minutes after being placed in the water. It was filled half with Georges’s ashes and half with Harry’s, Harry’s ashes resting on his father’s. Once the ashes were in the urn, I lit a candle and dripped clear wax around the flat disc at the top and watched the wax turn white, sealing it. It was heavy in my arms as I said a few words and let them go, a shaft of bubbles rising as the urn descended. We had brought lavender with us and that followed the urn, floating on the surface and marking the spot. Lisa later gave us the coordinates: 43°09.481 N 5°36.448 E. The time was 10:22. We floated there in silence and then the captain turned the engine back on and slowly piloted the boat in a circle of respect before we headed back to the pier, leaving Harry and Georges in each other’s company at a gateway both to the open sea, to a safe harbor and to beautiful beaches. Georges was Harrys safe harbor. Harry was Georgess heart. I felt we had done right by them both. -Ann, who is ever grateful for both Harry and for Georges.
Posted on: Fri, 26 Sep 2014 11:30:28 +0000
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