On the beach in Niechorze
Photo: imago/depositphotos
Uncle Horst never went to the sea on vacation. He fished where he lived, in the floodplains of two large rivers. When he worked on assembly, he often slept with us in Magdeburg. At night he sometimes screamed Tooor! Then our FCM had hit, he explained to me. And that we are the biggest in the world. With his sideburns, Uncle Horst looked like Axel Tyll, who became my favorite blue and white player. When I was seven, I was allowed to go to the stadium once. Hand in hand we climbed towards the bubbling cauldron. I saw Axel Tyll playing, we got him European Cup. Soon afterwards the FCM went to sleep and when he woke up again, Uncle Horst was no longer alive.
I stand under a cliff with a lighthouse on it and look out to sea. The Polish holiday resort of Niechorze is picturesquely located. Landward it has a lake behind it and hides hotels, bungalows and campsites in the forest. In front is the sea. The light gray sand covers an enormous width of the beach, with groynes protruding into the sea every sixty meters. In the Seebad Horstas Niechorze was called until the end of the Second World War, stood a huge wooden structure 100 years ago. The bathing establishment.
Above water
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Anne Hahn is an author of novels and non-fiction books and swims the waters of the world for “nd”.
For a long time I wade through the surf into the water. When it finally reaches my thighs, I throw myself into it. It’s icy, my forehead burns from the cold. Through my swimming goggles I see a fire jellyfish floating past in the blown sand. I dodge and swim back and forth between the groynes twice. I stand up trembling, holding myself straight in the roar of the waves. Hardly anyone is in the water, everyone is on the beach. At almost 30 degrees.
People, birds and dogs. There is easily one dog for every considerable number of rooks, seagulls and ducks that lounge on the groynes and on the beach. From handbag size to calf size. Every walk along the water’s edge turns into a slalom. It’s the beginning of September. The schoolchildren are gone, the bouncy castle has collapsed, tractors are collecting the lifeguards’ perches, and half of the restaurants, ice cream shops and stalls have already closed. The museum and lighthouse are still open. Crowds are pushing along there. Every time of day has its own crowd, in the evening the sundowner fans sit on the beach with bottles. The sea beguiles everyone. Newcomers blink and take a deep breath, little ones open their mouths, even smaller ones cheer. There are very few people inside.
We booked an apartment for three nights, a few steps away from the Horst seaside resort. Shortly before the dune crossing I find an amber stone where the wind drags the tractor track. I happily stroll along the beach. I discovered an old postcard in the museum and am looking for the spot where the bathing establishment may have stood. At that time, a slide led from a lofty height from the stilt building of the family pool into the sea. She’s up there. I climb the plank stairs in the seaside resort of Horst and I’m seven years old. Uncle Horst leans down so far that his sideburns tickle me and says, “Open your eyes, little star, and look, there she is blue and white world in front of you!”
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