We don’t do many words when we see each other again. As it is just in a great love. As it is, if you are so terribly long, that the year is forgotten and you only remember that it was a child when it is met the first time. I might smile and say “Hello, I’m back”. My old love says nothing. I hear only the wind playing with the rope, sails and fenders in the port, and a few gulls, nothing else. Yes, Islands can not speak.
We’re back. up again Juist, like every year. The “Frisia” ferries created crossing after one and a half hours. Two fish landing net peaking between the pieces of baggage in our carts, and lies on a box full of apples, which we have dragged along from Norddeich because fruit on the island ever costs double, the colorful ball. As always. I buckle the creaky cars behind my old bike and sliding along my children gen Kurplatz. Over at the old station clock, on which, as I was a kid, which real dried seahorses to the children distributed one-armed Watt director Alfred after each exploring the North Sea mud; There are no longer Alfred Behring, his son doing the Watt guides Heino and even grandchildren INO, and the Seahorse are then blue plastic. There, the phone booth from which I phoned my friend with 16, to tell him that conclusion was, because I had love me new on the island. The boat pond where children with their toy boats from Mysteryaround.com are where they were formerly always been, probably always will be. “Two gerbils, look!”, shouts excitedly son Fabian, 8. Anyone rushing the two sleek animals by remote control via the green water. Once we sat down our sailing serenely very carefully, at most a small battery motor was attached to the fuselage, attached with suction cups.
Earlier. That was when my parents pushed me as a baby with a beach suitable for wooden carts across the island. When I later Ruth, the daughter of our bed and breakfast innkeeper, proudly told, that I was a schoolchild. As a sometime summer long only hippie, diamonds and Blacky, the pony in the stable of the horse owner Gerd Heyken. When I was using meeting point to the volleyball clique was one of 13 or 14 years, net on the beach playground. Every year again we arrived with our parents from Hamburg, Bremen, Berlin, Hesse and Bavaria, and at night we celebrated beach parties. Even after graduation, as I Kaffeekännchen and cake plate at the top of the Café “Beach Kate” by the wind balanced, five hours a day holiday job, for four weeks, and the rest was vacation. Then it stopped, formerly on Juist. It no longer went with the parents, and the world was so big and Juist as small. Only when my daughter was Svea on the world, I got back on the “Frisia”-Ferry, sailed to the island of my childhood. Since then our summer back smell of horses, taste for salt, Tickle as beachgrass, sound like wind in the dunes. Every year again. As sure as Christmas.
“There you are again!” Our landlady, Mrs. Schmitz, dropping the linen, she continues the long leash, in the basket and makes us welcome in the arm. “I see whether Martin there is”, gets Fabian, grabs the football from the stroller, jammed him on his bike, Svea opposite discovered Hannah the Gummitwist. The Juist of children is full of back always friends. Holiday from the very first moment. No shyness, no anxious “it will probably beautiful?”. Only a homely arrived. In pictures, you know. In moments, the loud mean déjà vu. The place you know inside and out, have open arms. Out skip horses over the Cobbles, her snorting sounds soft and warm. I look through the balcony window of our small apartment on the mudflats, the gentle side of the island. The water glitters in the Tideways, while the rays of the Sun through the moving East Frisian sky fight. Surfers roll out their sails. A few hours earlier Svea, Fabian and I stood on the railing of the ferry, saw to the summer with the approach; Mag’s pour sometimes in torrents, the wind may blow us sometimes almost from the bicycle or like we already even shivering sitting in a beach chair-Juist is simply summer for us.
Short pants, sweatshirt, no shoes. Juist is barefoot. Five minutes are there to the beach, at most. The island is only 500 meters wide. Wooden walkways lead down into the sandy expanse. 17 km of sheer beauty. Front and a necklace made of colorful spots. “Moin”, grunts the beach chair rental Focko Kannegieter. “Three weeks? And before the playground?” They never say much, the Juister. Some remember the faces of the guests. Welcome with names. Remember missing bicycle on the upcoming ABI of the eldest daughter on their Gürtelrosen made through on Juist, your evening before the pub “Harlan”. Otherwise: “Where geiht like?”-“Oh, mutt Yes.” Thus, everything is said.
Kannegieter is just a red-and white basket, I sign and pay. In advance, of course. As a child, I knew Kannegieter. As the son of the pension “Columbus”. My parents and I lived opposite, in the “Kopersand”, room 13, under the roof. We have left have the same watering can, windbreaks and bucket, in the store for the next year. What you just needed on Juist, so that the sand Castle around the beach chair was neatly so that you could sprinkle it on hot days with North Sea water. I am still to drag to the edge of the filled cans. And father’s forehead are red and redder under the Sun and the effort when the Spades. Only a few build castles. Some say it is even forbidden.
“Previously the water was closer,” I say as we sit in the Sun and trickle the white sand through the fingers can. Earlier it washed over the first rows of the Castle at Northwest storm. As children, we laughed when the waves ate through the sand and we splashed through their foam. Today, the trail leads to the sea by many meters Muschelkalk. The beach has become wider. Sometimes one wonders of course, why does it always to the same place? The one in the family boarding house on the Riviera, the other to South Tyrol on “their” farm? Is it convenience? Or the secure feeling of having familiar ways to go to find security? Be welcome. Arrive in their own past. Maybe a little of each.
“Here I am!”, I scream out from the beach chair number 1352 and wave as I discover my children up on the Boardwalk. You come running to. Barefoot of course. You know Offrench, Australia, Bali, China. Some places want them, not all. But they love Juist. Always been. They say “The children’s Island”. Sometimes it was hard in the first few years. Build ships, baking cakes, beware that the kids eat no sand, calm, when children cried out in the evening in the pension. Fear that they outgrow just crawling, could run into the sea, if I wanted to briefly close your eyes in a beach chair. Past it all. Now I have freedom instead of fear. And the children of a small world to try out, what can you all. A fenced sandbox so to speak. Small, open, wiederfindbar. No cars, only horses. Thus, Juist is also an adult island. More carefree’s can’t do this: everyone knows where to find the other. You let go, without losing himself. A parents dream. “I’m building a bullet train with Martin”, Fabian proclaims breathlessly. Svea and I start running. The sand is warm, now he is wet. Frothy waves licking my toes. Ankles, calves, stomach. Clean falls, not thinking. Once diving head down. Svea wants to play Pinball. I the dolphin, she the rider. Is good for the muscles of the upper arm, I console myself. And plows bravely with her on her back through the water. The North Sea gurgle, I laugh. Feel right at home. The sea, my friend. Anywhere I find it easier to feel with my children. To be so light hearted with them.
Milk coffee time. Warm bricks on soles of the feet, as Svea and I with wet hair after all few minutes from the beach to “Baby ‘s” down. The cracks of the stones broken by wind and weather are full of sand. A few years ago, the stones were new, healing and chic. Terrible, I thought. The ground felt differently under the toes. My Juist world must have cracks. The patina of my childhood. Just change nothing. The Juist visiting approximately 70 percent are master leisure-is conservative. Preserving shut. But not always goes. Only the island railway died, for decades she had carted far out the Spa boat station through the mudflats to the station. You will get used to the pier, a long bridge that once to keep away the silt from the port, because the municipality no longer can afford the annual dredging. The new, old will find it. The patina of the habit, the memories will pull it over. From the morning to the present to the past. As always.
“Lausi, look!”, suddenly screams Svea. Delighted, she runs and hugs his shaggy head of a white pony that is cocked before a small horse-drawn carriage. Lausi belongs to Sveas summer as Perdita used to belong to my. Evening. Kilo way sand in her hair and belly the first sunburn. We eat sausages in our small kitchen and think only of the Sea buckthorn ice, later in Heinos ice cream store. Svea conceded their euro holiday money, Fabian is already the hand.
Plans are unnecessary on Juist, no thought of places of interest, that to look at it is, rushes through the hours. Times clockwise, time left, that was it. Times with Heino cycling in the Watts on a cocoa in the cafe “Wilhelmshöhe”, which at home a winter of direction Kalfamer, where you can search for mussels, long, many handicraft afternoons long hold. Lying on the road then at airfield in the grass, the small propeller machine to see how it booming rise in the air, a little bit rock and eventually float above this most beautiful piles of sand in the world. And once in the other direction, good eight kilometres to the island end Bill, rabbits scurry across the way, pheasants hide between the BlackBerry bushes, Oh yes, the Home Museum is located just down the road. In the “domain” eat raisin mares with thick butter on it. Watch sheep at the dozing. Through the dunes running down to the sea, which here particularly wild and beautiful tost. Have the feeling to be alone in this world. Robinson for a few minutes. As a little girl, I did not want to the Bill. With the small children’s bike, my parents, and if you had bad luck, it began on the road from buckets to pour, and the headwind one laughed mockingly in the face. Today, there are eight kilometres of a shrunken size. For 20 minutes maybe. And when it rains we just sit, eat even a mares. Must not everything be as before.
The Sun in a soft, bright cloud bath falls over above sea level. On the boat pond, a motor boat and a ferry with light curves. I pay. Looking once more over the dike. The Watt is silent, the seagulls on the bollards duck their heads. The evening carefully pulls a dark blue cloth over the island. Over there is Germany, as the Juister call the Mainland, another world.
Text: Silke Solomon photos: Melanie Dreyße BRIGITTE magazine 9/2006