I was sixteen years old by then. One night, after our fried fish supper, I slipped away from the camp to rinse my hands in the sea. But instead of returning to the campfire, I paused. Something beckoned, and I obeyed. I skirted the camp and climbed up the sand dune behind it, my toes curling strongly into the loose sand – surprisingly cool to the touch now, despite the hot sun of the day. I found the smooth curved crest, and stood, facing the measureless interior, my back to the whispering sea. The African night enveloped me, deep, warm, the air stirring softly over my skin like loving arms. Stars hung thickly, in brilliant clusters, just above my head. Impulsively - instinctively -I unfastened my sarong, let it crumple lightly to my feet and stood, arms and face raised to the night, to the breeze. I stood like that for some time, exulting in my youth and strength, exulting in the possibilities that lay ahead, of love and of adventure, as yet untasted, but mine nevertheless - someday. At that moment I knew - I relished -the transitory gift of life, with all its delicious promise. Time stood suspended, just for a heartbeat. Then I stooped, collected my sarong, slipped it around my slim young body, and flitted back down the sand dune to rejoin my parents and younger brother by the fire. My mother was beginning to wash up, my brother and father were gazing contentedly into the embers. Nothing had changed whilst I had been gone; nobody else knew, but in that short time my youthful spirit had flown.