“You see, boy,” said père Benoît. “That’s how fast it goes. Some fellas think they can make it inland before the tide, only four little kilometers. But you saw that wave, didn’t you? Never mess with the Gois. Remember that.”

Antoine was aware that every Noirmoutrin had a copy of the tide schedule stuffed into a pocket or a glove compartment. He knew the folks here never said “When can you cross?” but “When can you pass?” He knew they didn’t measure the Gois metrically, but by its rescue poles: The Parisian got stuck by the second rescue pole. His engine was swamped. As a boy, he had hungrily read all the Gois books he could get his hands on.

Before this trip for Mélanie’s birthday he had hunted those books down. It had taken him a while to remember that they were in a jumble of cardboard boxes in his cellar, boxes he’d never bothered to unpack since his recent divorce and move. His best-loved book was there: The Extraordinary History of the Gois Passage. He had opened it, smiling, remembering how he would spend hours poring over the old black-and-white photographs of wrecked cars poking their bumpers out of seawater under a rescue pole. He decided to take the book with him, and as he closed it, a white card came fluttering out. Intrigued, he picked it up.

To Antoine, for his birthday, so that the Gois passage no longer holds any mysteries for you. Your loving Maman. January 7, 1972.

He hadn’t seen his mother’s handwriting for a long time. Something pricked the back of his throat. He had quickly put the card away.

Mélanie’s voice bought him back.

“Why didn’t we ride in on the Gois?” she asked.