Sea Air

by Meeringa, Jule

  I had to force myself to step onto the fourth-floor balcony. I’ve always suffered from severe acrophobia. As a child, I would panic even when my father lifted me onto his shoulders—while normal children cheered with excitement at being raised up, I would hyperventilate. But here at the sea, the balcony views were fantastic, and I was glad I’d made the effort to go outside and see them. I looked down at the dike and out across the quiet sea. People strolled along the beach in the evening sunlight; red, blue, and yellow beach chairs lay jumbled together in the sand. Ships of every size departed into the open ocean in a line, like pearls strung on a necklace. A large red ball on a string floated several yards in the air. I wondered what it meant.

  Since I’d brought nothing to eat, I decided to go find a nice restaurant. But first, I wanted to walk along the water. Grabbing my backpack and camera, I took the short path to the beach. There, I took off my sandals, sat in the still-warm sand, and played in the waves with my toes. I closed my eyes, savoring the mood of the silent, almost-deserted beach. I took long breaths, filling my lungs with clean air. Finally feeling more relaxed, I fell back on the sand, my arms stretched out beside me. The words of a television commercial crossed my mind: “At last, time for me . . .” I pictured a smiling man in expensive clothes falling back against a sand dune and tried to remember which product his image had been used to sell. Coffee? Brand-name clothes? Sunscreen? I figured I’d find out and then propose to the company that instead of showing a stylish, rich young man in their commercials, they should show an overburdened single mom with frizzy hair finally collapsing into a moment of relaxation. A much wider target audience would identify, I was sure. The statistics were on my side. How many dreamy men dressed in Armani were walking around? And just who identified with them? On the other hand, how many harassed, middle-aged women just wanted to let go? Of course, all this would be beside the point if it was a men’s aftershave commercial.

  A couple came toward me, their loving eyes on each other as they walked. They stopped and kissed like they would never stop. I wondered how that same couple would act in five years. They’d probably each be walking around with a different partner by then, I figured. I told myself not to be so hateful. I was jealous of their happiness, and I knew it. I missed the joys of love—how it felt to be lucky in love. A couple of times before, I thought I’d found the love of my life. But after a few years, I always found myself alone again. My biggest relationship disaster had brought me Paula, but her father had left us without financial support and, as far as I could tell, hadn’t even thought about us since he’d gone. He didn’t send us money, but we had something better—peace.

  Like my private life, my career had experienced a number of twists and turns. For a long time, I worked one temp job after another; hoping one would turn into something permanent. My bosses always told me that I was their most committed worker, but a permanent position was never possible, due to the economy, the general employment situation, or the political environment. “Thanks for understanding,” they’d say, and “We wish you all the best for the future.”

  Finally, four years ago, I teamed up with a former classmate, Marco, to start a design and development company with a focus on sustainable urban projects. We had some good contacts in local political circles, and our business started out so well that we were quickly able to hire an office assistant. We won a number of public and small private contracts and threw ourselves into our work. Like so many other businesses during those years, we were extremely successful. We could hardly believe our luck. The tax office couldn’t believe their luck, either, and they decided we could help bail out the treasury. Thanks to our efforts, the national debt shrank significantly. The money they didn’t take kept our three-person staff afloat, with just enough left over for us each to take a vacation every year.

  It was enough for us. It would have been even nicer if more of the projects we coordinated actually got built. But we had learned that just because people paid us to design a project didn’t mean they would ever build it. It took months for a design to get approved by all the necessary parties. People praised our proposals as “extremely creative.” But then some decision-maker would decide that the process had been “insufficiently integrated” and conclude that, unfortunately, he couldn’t approve the project. A town’s competing interests sometimes got in the way. Or it might turn out that a similar project had been shot down in a different town, and someone would conclude that the idea had been the problem, that it couldn’t possibly be good, and that “nobody is going to be willing to go down that road here.” One project’s deadlines couldn’t be met because Müller had just gone on vacation and Meier, as usual, had “not been informed about the project,” and Schulze, the only person left who had any authority, unfortunately didn’t feel comfortable signing anything.

  Even with all that, we could be content. True, much of our best work landed in the trash as soon as it saw the light of day, but at least we got enough business to keep our doors open. Many people envied the diverse nature of our work. But the more I found myself fighting for projects like the day care center, the more stuck and helpless I felt.

  The rumbling of my stomach reminded me that I needed a good meal. I started walking again. It was almost dark by now, and I stopped on the dike to orient myself. I spied a restaurant named The Starfish which was still serving dinner on the patio. I took a place at one of the empty tables and ordered a large crab cake.

  I had just started to eat when my cell phone rang.

  “Hi, Momma. We were in a traffic jam for a long time, and we’re staying in a great house that’s much nicer than ours, and it’s got straw on the roof, and tomorrow we’re going to the beach, and we just ate, and I had tomato soup and fish sticks and Anneke did, too, and I’m still not tired! Bye-bye!”

  “Paula?” I cut in, but she was already gone.

  “Nope, it’s Sandra. Paula took off again; she wanted to help Christoph make the beds. How are you doing?”

  “Good. You were right. The sea is wonderful.”

  “Enjoy it. You’ve earned it. I promise we’ll call again soon. Good night!”

  “Sleep well and give Paula a kiss from me. Bye.”

  I turned my phone off and ate my crab cake with great enjoyment, smiling as I chewed. Let all those people I had to work with tear each other apart. I was in a different world now, and what they chose to do, or not to do, wasn’t my problem here.

  I was awakened by warm sunbeams on my face. The night before, I’d had three glasses of wine with my crab cake, slept soundly, and now felt wonderfully refreshed. I’d decided that this morning I would walk along the beach to the next town and find breakfast there. Surprisingly, this still struck me as a brilliant idea, and so, after a quick shower, I set out.

  Only a few people were on the beach, which stretched out seemingly without end between the horizon and me. The water was gone; it was low tide. I saw the outline of a single figure who appeared to be walking out to what was, during high tide, a small island. At low tide, it could be walked to from the beach. That was a bit too far for me to attempt on an empty stomach, so I only walked on the foreshore, the area of beach exposed during low tide. The sand felt heavenly, soft and warm underfoot. When I walked on the beach as a child, I always imagined that I was an angel floating on clouds like lamb’s wool. My brother would bring me back to reality in a flash by throwing a handful of sand in my face. Spaghetti-shaped swirls on the beach had looked to me like sandworms, and I screamed at the sight of them. Patiently, my father calmed me down and, drawing on that patience, he refrained from punishing my brother Frank for tormenting me. Frank was my number one enemy, but all three of my siblings seemed against me. I would have much rather been an only child, like my best friend. Then, I felt sure, I would have everything I wanted. I wouldn’t have to share my bedroom with anyone, not even my parents. As it was, I felt like I always got the short end of the stick.

  Wh
en I was ten, I decided I’d take off on my own, going wherever I wanted and living on wild berries. It seemed obvious to me that getting stuck with so many brothers and sisters was a huge injustice. I wanted to know what waited for me in the “big, wide world” beyond the horizon. This idea didn’t sit well with my parents, especially after I spent a night sleeping under a blackberry bush near my home. Things just got worse when they grounded me for a week. I spent that week studying my school atlas. I decided that “equator” was probably just another word for horizon and figured if I could get there, I really would see the “big, wide world.” I read up on the countries that were lucky enough to be positioned on the equator and was delighted to learn that everyone who lived there had darker skin than me. I figured no one would overlook me there. For the next few years, I focused on my goal of reaching Africa, even after I learned that “horizon” and “equator” meant entirely different things.

  I thought about these things as I stared at the horizon. It still seemed infinite to me, and I imagined I could see the curvature of the earth. My longing for far-off places seized me anew and I turned my gaze back down the coast. It was time for breakfast and warm enough to sit outside. I chose a restaurant where I would be able to eat on a terrace overlooking the dike. I filled my plate from the buffet then sat at a table near the edge of the deck and watched a colorful, seemingly endless line of people set out on the long walk toward the island. From where I sat, it looked like an ant highway. A line of horse-drawn carriages appeared from nowhere, as if spit out by the dike. These, too, were following the path to the island. Each carriage was drawn by two horses and filled with around ten people. I sighed. Paula would love a trip like that. I pictured her large brown eyes, sparkling with enthusiasm. I promised myself I would come back here again and bring Paula with me.

  Suddenly, a tall man with binoculars stepped in front of me, blocking my view. Great. Now, all I could see were a yellow windbreaker, a denim-blue cap, and navy pants covering what I had to admit was a rather attractive male butt. I coughed in irritation, trying to telegraph my desire for him to move along. When he turned around, I found myself looking into the brightest eyes I had ever seen. A bearded face smiled at me apologetically. A friendly-looking man, he could have been the model for the decorative sailor that stood on the kitchen shelf of my apartment. Only the sailor’s blue-and-white striped shirt and pipe were missing.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hog the view.” He shrugged and, before I could reply, stepped to the side where he wouldn’t block anyone and put his binoculars back up to his eyes. I watched him for a moment, wondering if he would turn around again. But he stood like a statue, his binoculars trained firmly on a point in the distance. I tried but couldn’t figure out exactly what he was watching with such interest. Now, I was the one to shrug. I got up and left the restaurant.

  I spent the rest of the day reading and lounging in my beach chair, getting up only once to buy a fish sandwich and a newspaper before going back to read some more. When the temperature cooled in the evening, I trudged back to my apartment, stopping to buy cheese, baguettes, and red wine. I looked forward to spending a quiet evening in front of the TV. I hadn’t felt this relaxed in a long time. I hoped the next several days would be the same. What could be better than doing nothing at the North Sea? I was about to find out.

  I’d stretched out my TV-watching until three a.m. and woke at noon feeling irritable, so I cheered myself up by stopping at a bakery and walking to the beach with croissants and a small cup of cocoa. I’d walked quite a distance when I came across a couple of boys in swim trunks collecting treasures from the sea in their buckets. I sat nearby on a small boulder and watched the ships slowly force their way against the current into the open sea. The sun made my back nicely warm. Dark clouds gathered in the distance, and I felt the wind pick up. The sun still shone overhead, causing the water to flash with light.

  “Are you looking for something?”

  Me? I turned and looked behind me. At first, all I saw was the blinding sun, then a flash of yellow flapping in the wind. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the harsh light of the North Sea sky. To my surprise, it was the sailor from the day before. He seemed to smile at me with his incredibly blue eyes. He wore the same yellow jacket, but today he had rolled his tattered jeans up over his calves. His feet were sunk to the ankles in mud, and his binoculars dangled from his neck.

  “Where’s your ship?” I asked before I even stopped to think. I couldn’t believe I’d said it. The question just rolled off my tongue.

  “My ship?”

  My face started to burn. Nearby, a small crab buried itself in the sand. I wished I could follow him.

  “I just mean, you look like . . .”

  “Like I’ve lost my ship?”

  “Yes. I mean, no . . .”

  “You’re right.” His mouth curled into a smile and he looked down at me in amusement. But his eyes held something that looked like longing. And sorrow.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “Coffee?” He held out his hand. Without thinking, I took it and he pulled me up firmly. We walked side by side, back toward the beach.

  “I’m afraid I chased you away yesterday. When I turned around, you’d vanished.”

  So he recognized me from the balcony, I realized with surprise. I’d thought at the time that he’d barely noticed me.

  “Don’t worry about it. I was about to leave anyway.”

  “A couple minutes before that, you looked ready to fight for your territory.”

  “And now you’re giving me the third degree.”

  “Not at all!” he protested. “I was just trying to think of an excuse to invite you for coffee, and then you were gone.”

  “And you thought you’d try again today so you followed me for miles down the beach.”

  “A nice thought, but I’m afraid running into you again was a lucky coincidence. Really.”

  “What did you mean when you asked me what I was looking for?”

  “A person who sits alone on a rock in the middle of the tidal flats, lost in thought while looking at the open sea, is always either in search of something or on the run. Or both.”

  “Who says so?”

  “I do.”

  “Why are you so sure?”

  “Because I do the same thing.”

  “Which begs the question, are you searching for something or are you on the run?”

  “Both.”

  “Let me guess. A long time ago you stole a treasure and buried it in the sand, and now you have to find it again.”

  He laughed. “You have an evil imagination. But I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. I’m no pirate.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I don’t know. Life’s pretty exciting without having to resort to piracy.”

  “You think so?” I wondered what he did with his life that was so exciting.

  “Look, the ball is up!” He pointed toward the beach, at a floating red sphere.

  “What’s that?” I asked. “I saw it yesterday, but I don’t know what it’s for.”

  “It means the water is coming back. It’s telling us to get back to the high water mark, unless we want to swim back.”

  “It’s a good thing you found me, then, or I would have drowned.”

  “And just like that, a lucky coincidence turns into a full-fledged miracle.”

  As we reached the beach promenade, dark clouds swallowed up the sun and the first drops began to fall. Families hastily gathered their belongings and ran from the beach in a colorful line, disappearing behind the dike. A plastic shovel lay forgotten in the sand. My companion and I pulled off our shoes. The sand crunched between my toes, a noise that always gave me goose bumps. I shuddered.

  “Are you cold?” he asked. “I know a pub that hasn’t been discovered yet by the tourist crowds.
Consider it an insider’s tip. They’ve got the best potato-and-fish stew at the North Sea, and it’s only a few blocks from here. Sound good?”

  I nodded and followed him. After a few minutes, he turned onto a side street and descended the basement stairs of an old fishermen’s cottage that had “The Skipper” written in plain letters over the entrance. I caught snippets of north German conversations spoken in low voices all around us. As we entered, someone said, “Moin, Mathis, ook who in’t land!” My companion gave a short nod. He guided me past the counter and over to a corner table from which we could see the whole room. The pub was small, but its wooden tables were massive, and all but one were occupied. Most of the patrons were men dressed in plaid flannel shirts or navy-blue peacoats. Some played cards, some threw dice on the counter, and others just sat there. No one spoke much. A model ship with three masts hung from the ceiling, and the walls were painted with maritime images. Beyond that, the room was simple and unadorned.

  Our server came over and set a beer on the table. “And for the lady?”

  I figured this wasn’t the place to order a latte macchiato. “Black tea, please.”

  He disappeared behind the counter and returned shortly with my tea.

  My companion placed his binoculars beside him on the bench and pulled off his yellow jacket. Underneath it, he too wore a plaid shirt—a blue one.

  “Your name is Mathis?”

  “Mathis Hagena. And you are . . . ?”