from Yearning for the sea

By Kerstin Lindros

I dreamt of waves. I wasn’t greedy—I’m talking waves of moderate proportions, wavelets, a gentle swell, like the rippled old carpet in the hall, and thin but determined sheets of water, expanding over an ever-growing dark band of sand and licking at my bare feet, before retreating again until the next Gezeiten cycle. That would have made my summer.

In the film that played in my head I paraded amongst screeching herring gulls that followed me in pursuit of crumbs that might slip through my fingers. I rode gentle rolling waves on my tummy, and after, I raced for a turn in the hooded wicker beach chair my parents had hired for the week. When they were resting on the blue-and-white striped comfy seat, my place was on a towel. I ran through the labyrinth of paths between other families’ chairs and towels on a packed beach, playing chase with the other children. Then we jumped to keep a red-and-white beach ball up in the air as long as we could. And the sand flicked up as we leapt and we were reprimanded to calm down and be a little more considerate. Smothered in fragrant sun oil, we ate an Ostsee-Currywurst for lunch, and then soft serve in a wafer cone, while watching the giant container ships of the Deutsche Seereederei float past in the distance. But as a child, I never got to see the seaside.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kerstin Lindros writes short fiction, memoir and poetry. She holds a BA in Professional and Creative Writing from Deakin University. Her work has appeared in Meanjin, Verandah, Azuria, Gangway, page seventeen, Sächsische Zeitung and local anthologies. Kerstin writes in English and German to remain fluent in both languages as they evolve.