The wooden path leads straight to the diffused morning sky. The nose is itching because of the salty air. The steps on the dunes are getting faster, the more the steady roar comes to your ears. And suddenly it’s there. The Baltic Sea. To the horizon.
Its lethargic waves roll its dreams on the beach. The world is still sleeping. As well as the seagulls, which are holding their beaks in the plumage and dozing squeezed together on the dunes. The beach is almost deserted. There are only a few people hungry for movement or lovers of the sunset, who are trudging isolated through the fine sand, which has been ironed by the night and has become maidenly smooth. And between the old fishing cutter and the black silhouette of the pier the sky is on fire. There is some kind of magic in that moment, when the shy sun comes out from the sea. Its rays, like a golden veil, are lying down on the waves, which break them. Millions of glittering diamonds. A new day at the seaside is about to begin.
The feet are sinking into the pleasant and warm sand. The smell of the suncream and of summer on the skin. The big ships entering the port in Świnoujście seem to be sewn to the horizon. Toys for the giants. From the neighbours’ beach chair you can hear children laughing. Pails and shovels are waiting to be deployed to build sandcastles. With a saintly patience, tower after tower, they become an ingenious fantasy creation. Those castles in the air become an engraved reality. Decorated with flotsam and jetsam. Freshly baked sponge cake makes you forget all your sorrows. The days are full of taming kites, playing volleyball, absorbing ice-creams.
When the freezing northeast wind whips the sand with its squalls though, it’s the beginning of times of silence and loneliness. The now desert, usually warm beaches belong to the warmly wrapped up rambler, who is resisting with his steps to the frozen moods of autumn and winter. Let the wind blow in your head. Feel free. Bizarre icy landscapes pile up from time to time even behind the piers. The water with crushed ice in it splashes over their pillars. The ice floes crash into them and brake. Also that is life at the sea. And nevertheless: the red winter noses peek out of the coats, that are wrapped with scarves and hats, to the icy Baltic sea air and they imagine the spring, which is timidly announcing itself.