My eyes are closed. I hear the sound of the sea as the waves break and run slowly to the beach. The wet sand presses through my toes until the cold water gently laps my feet. I take a deep breath. It smells of the sea. I can taste it, feel it while the light breeze plays with my hair. It's hard for me to open my eyes. Too deep is the feeling in this moment. But when I open my eyes it lies there, the sea in all its infinity.And as I look out to the point where the sea connects to the horizon, memories rise in me. Memory of the people whose lives were shaped by this coastal landscape. One of these people was my father. He knew the sea, in all its beauties, but also in its powerful, untamed energy that dragged many sailors down into the wett grave.
At the age of 15 my father drove out over the open sea. A slim boy who was confronted with the rough habits of the seafarers. The large ships of the herring fishery became his second home and the Northsea, too.Every time I was fascinated if my father talked about his travels at sea. Through his descriptions, he also let me share in a life far from everyday life on the mainland. This is how I experienced the storm and the fear of the men when the large herring logger became a plaything of the sea like a small nutshell.It looks like a monster if the calm sea rose to the meter-high waves. It threatened to drag men and ship into the endless darkness. "Then you should not have to blame yourself if you stand in front of your creator!" Said my father.
My mother's life was also closely linked to the sea. As a young girl she also worked for the herring fishery. She repaired and knitted the nets with nimble hands. The `Netland` was characterized by high piles structures. Here the large fishing nets hung to dry and here the net knitters also repaired the torn nets.
While my mother was doing the hard work on the net floor, my father was far out at sea, I spent time with my grandparents. In the lunch break my mother came over. We ate together and then she had to go back to her work. Only when the signal of a ship sounded that heralded the arrival to its home port did she take me by the hand. Together we ran to the sea lock because my father could be on one of these ships.I can still see the glow in my mother's eyes, in which the hope for a reunion was reflected, too.
Back then there was no cell phone or internet, so you had to rely on the information of the radio operators and incoming seafarers to find out about the relatives at sea. If we were at home, we often sat in front of the tube radio in the living room. Via Norddeich Radio it was possible to send greetings and small messages that we could listen to on the radio. Often I looked into the sad eyes of my mother. With a smile and encouraging words she tried to take away the fear and worries about our father. The joy was all the greater when the lean man waved us off the rail with his sailor's cap to hug us. The joy was all the greater when the gaunt man beckon us off the rail with his sailers cap to hug us.
While my parents talked about what had happened in the past weeks and months, I often lay down on the big sea bag. I closed my eyes, clutched him tightly, and I still remember today how it felt. The smell of tar, fish and salt crept into my nose and I became one with the sea.
Although I was still a small child, I can remember these smells and pictures from a time when the sea was not just a means of subsistence. It shaped the people, their language, culture and social life on the East Frisian North Sea coast.
In 1968 the herring fishery in Leer was finally abandoned. When the herring catchers stopped driving one day and the net floors disappeared, part of the East Frisian culture also disappeared. At least that's how I feel it.
