The treacherous waters of the Dutch coast
It was a wonderful Sunday. One of those spring sunny days that millions are waiting for after a long winter. The April sun is still cold, distant and cautious, just probing the ground before the May offensive. Winter has not yet completely given up and is trying to make itself felt with a cool wind and squeamish concerts with spoiled weather between fine days. It’s not summer yet, but you understand that there is no turning back, and along with the unconditional onset of day to night, with every minute won back by day, the temperature of water and air will unconditionally rise in order to one day allow you to take off your painfully tired pea jacket and surrender to the waves to be torn to pieces . But we still have to wait. Just a little more.
But all this mental anguish about the weather goes in the background. As if the radio in the minibus purrs with a muffled speaker, at times pulling the thoughtful passenger out of his own image, but instantly returning back and forth.
The Netherlands, like the whole world, had a rest before the start of the working week. The unemployed dreamed of a job, those who worked dreamed of when it would end. Life went on as usual and everyone expected something from it. Only at that moment I didn’t dream about anything and didn’t expect anything. It was a day off, the sun was shining, a happy burning surf murmured its composition for a long time. I didn’t have a ball, I didn’t have swimming trunks, I didn’t have a kite, torn from my hands to freedom. I was a simple passer-by in a hat and boots, walking along the sandbar of the huge Dutch coast.
Nearby, the little ones chirped, gray-haired minds strolled with their no less imposing partners. Those who were left today without partners were walking dogs that ran along the water's edge screechingly shying away from the advancing foam. The combination of the sea and the sun reminded everyone of something of their own. About those wonderful moments that everyone had associated with the rest. Some in Mexico, some in Mallorca, some on the banks of Taurida. But this time, the time of travel will come. In the meantime, everyone is peacefully walking on the wet sand, getting the necessary doses of vitamin D for us and looking at the failed sea stars thrown ashore.
My Slavic colleague and I calmly drifted along the coast, chatting carelessly about life's adventures and conclusions from the scene. The water quietly extended its tentacles towards us, but we only deviated slightly from the route, giving way to it. Some water creeps carried us away. We took pictures, uncivilized poked a finger and loudly amused ourselves. Forgetting about time and space, we found ourselves on a sandy spit, stubbornly sticking into the water power the farthest. After a little thought, finishing the thought and planning a retreat, we turned back. And then we noticed an unusual…
At first, my attention was drawn to the fact that people for some reason were pointing fingers at us. Suspecting something was wrong, I did not panic, but simply pointed out the misunderstanding to a colleague. But when I began to probe the path of return with my eyes, for some reason I could not find our path with traces. The water moved suspiciously around and somehow strangely changed its shape. When consciousness came clear, I, grabbing my colleague by the sleeve, said: "Let's run. " Already on the move, we began to vigorously turn our heads and whisper the situation. The fact is that without living on the coast of Holland, France and the same England. It is difficult to foresee such a picture. Probably, the locals live in the rhythm of the local ebb and flow and know the schedule from memory. But how insidiously you can deceive visitors.
That's why the water quietly advanced in the first streams, which we took for asynchronous lunges of waves that differ in strength. That's why when we went there, everyone went from there. That is why the sand underfoot at the end of the journey was unusually soft. How late the final conclusions come to the head, when there is still not much use from them.
On the other side of the shore, a small group of Dutchmen had gathered. Everyone was talking, turning their heads and pointing in our direction. The water came at lightning speed. Drained huge areas of dry sand narrowed before our eyes, giving way to water. The water gurgled quickly and actively dragged the level bar up. In the head of an ignorant onlooker, a rise in the water level by half a meter does not pose any particular danger. Just think, knee-deep, he will say, getting used to the fact that such a water level can be found in the Crimea only in the first two meters from the coast. But for Holland, half a meter is enough, perhaps to flood a good half of it. At least in our case, a good third of the beach was flooded in 10 minutes.
Having found ourselves on the other side of the barricades on an incomprehensibly formed island of sand drifts, we realized that salvation is possible only barefoot on the water. The faster we think, the fewer areas of water will suffer and be soaked. With a certain amount of stubbornness and hope for the best, the only salvation will be to wade to the waist. On April 5, at a water temperature of, God forbid, 12 degrees to the waist, I didn’t want to go.
Everything ended well. We rode through the cold waters, screaming and screaming to the sour applause of the Dutch public. Happy and wet, we returned back, having light photo shoots along the way and sharing our impressions.
It's good that everything is fine - I thought, forgetting how it was in the original.
