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In a charming town on the Varoise coast that day, on the terrace the “Le Balto” cafe, it was disagreeably hot .

Raymond and I were on our fourth pastis when they descended the ferry, two young fillys glistening with sweat.

“Two lemonades and lots of ice!” they ordered, sitting themselves at the table next to us.

Raymond didn’t loose any time, slowly, but surely, he neared their table like a Cheyenne warrior crawling through the high grass, ready to attack the Shoshone camp. I must say that Raymond is crazy about young girls and that with his local accent, plus his angelic face and his Brad Pitt smile, well, that really helps.  The way he swept the blonde off her feet… it set a new speed record. My friend is the Fangio of the pick-up. He made them laugh with worn-out jokes that were so stupid, I wondered if the girls weren’t a little retarded.

And me in all of this? I had the brunette. Ah, one couldn’t exactly say that she was a beauty queen; but I didn’t have much to say in the matter, at the time I wasn’t exactly a beauty king myself. My frizzy hair, in a kind of raging anarchy, took off in all directions, the mediterranean tan could not conceal my acne and I was as timid as a young flea, which I was at the time.

Swept along by the talents of Raymond, we decided (such cunning young boys!) to fish for sea urchins in a craggy cove that my friend knew well.

After buying two bottles of white table wine and french bread and armed with scissors to open the sea urchins, we took the “Gaou” path at the edge of the village.

The girls let out little cries like quails, which after a while, was a little irritating. But I only one thought in mind: my virginity… to which I would bid “Adieu” that afternoon. The obsession of all adolescents.

When we finally reached the much desired waters of the cove we speedily changed into our bathing suits.  Raymond’s comb was stuck into the elastic of his shorts in keeping with american standards; combing his Elvis Presley hairdo was not just a vulgar tic with him: it was a religion.

The girls, to my great distress, had a big towel with a hole in the middle; the put it over their head and discreetly changed their clothes.  They made me think of big bedside lamps and I couldn’t stop laughing like an idiot, which was not the appropriate response considering my erotic expectations.

Raymond and I, like Olympic heros, entered the water ready for the hunt; a good half hour later our nets were filled with marvelous sea urchins. Black ones, violet ones, all brilliant and filled with treasures. Opening the sea urchins, soaking the pieces of bread in the interior,  carefully lifting the eggs – those orange tongues saturated with taste of the ocean – is a benediction of the Gods. All of it, sitting on the fine sand, the sun warming your shoulders, and the awful white wine that one swigged from the bottle… “les delices de Capoue” were insipid next to this. I have to say that the four of us were drunk as skunks at the end of the meal and when I clumsily started to remove the bra of the brunette (who had lost her glasses) she, as if in response, made a terrible volcanic roar and a torrent of vomit deposited two dozen sea urchins and a liter of wine, plus anything else she had swallowed, all over me, my swim suit and my thighs.

And what a stink, oh my god, a smell from hell; it was so ferocious that  I in turn, lost all resistance and sprayed the stomach of the poor girl with a hot and greasy stream.

Perhaps it was out of complicity, but Raymond imitated me and his blonde couldn’t resist either.

We returned to the village, totally wiped out and when we put the girls back on their ferry, there wasn’t even a little wave or a smile, nothing. (The brunette without her glasses, almost broke her neck climbing onto the boat.)

I was obliged to remain another year with my virginity intact; until the famous trip in the sleeping wagon on the  “Limoge-Paris” train.