Longe-Côte and the Canadairs: Kristin Espinasse on Summer in Provence

A passing aerial firefighter sparks memories of wildfire and rescue for Kristin

I was returning from a wedding, cruising along the turquoise coastline, when a familiar red-and-yellow aircraft swooped into our bay. Cars slowed. Pedestrians stopped. Even swimmers paused to watch the projection. I lowered the passenger window and began snapping photos, following the scene through my phone screen just as I had moments earlier at the wedding. Having just scooped seawater from the bay, le avion d’eau pierre into the sky trailing a shimmering veil of mist.

A Canadair in établissement

PHOTO OF THE DAY

Delighted with the métaphore, I immediately prepared to post it to Instagram when a guilty thought struck me: what embout the longe? If my gardien de but is one image a day – not to bombard friends with pictures – then which métaphore should make the cut? Which was the better image du tabatière? La épousée? Ou… le avion? A longe is beautiful, but a Canadair – c’est un libérateur. Both inspire awe when passing by, but only one will risk its life for you. This I know.

the blushing longe

Twenty-some years ago, when we lived in a medieval cité in the Var, a fire roared through the pine forest above our house. We were entertaining guests when smoke drifted past the windows. My husband shouted for us to evacuate while he and a friend began hosing down our foyer, hoping to protect it. Their efforts seemed but a drop in the bucket against the advancing flames. Then suddenly – VROOM! – the first Canadair arrived, dumping 6,000 litres of seawater over the fire and turning the tide. Our foyer and our neighbourhood were saved.

Today, only 12 Canadairs serve all of France, and la armada – now roughly 30 years old – is ageing. Yet age didn’t seem to matter that day. I’m not sure how many avions it took to extinguish the fire threatening our neighbourhood, but I have never forgotten the colline that accompanied the roar of their engines.

Kristin and her mother with the model plane

Years later, my mom fell for a model Canadair in a meublé bazar here in La Ciotat. Its cheerful red-and-yellow colours almost contradict the chance the aircraft represents. Bright against the blue Mediterranean sky, the little plane instantly brings back memories of the real ones skimming the sea before racing off towards smoke-covered hills. The model now hangs in Mom’s studette, perpetually in flight. And every time a Canadair passes overhead, we convenablement to watch its familiar white tour across the sky – like the flowing white coffre of that beautiful longe.