Baltic impression

We arrived. The train was rolling into the station, even more weary from the journey than we were. The wheels turned slower and slower, finally coming to a complete stop. Everything seemed suspended, immobile. Even the sun-warmed air stopped vibrating. And suddenly, the slam of doors opening, the shuffle of luggage, the clatter of hundreds of feet on the platform.

The last station. Beyond that, there weren't even any tracks. Just this vast blue sky.

I looked out the open window. A crowd of travelers was slowly leaving the cramped platform. Husbands and wives, mothers and children, children and dogs. Luggage—backpacks, suitcases, bags, nets, boxes. If you looked closely, you could probably find a travel trunk from the last century amidst this dazzling storm of luggage. I like to delay the moment of disembarking the train, that mysterious

moment when, after a long journey, you leave familiar territory and step onto a wild, undiscovered land. I then think of myself as a traveler, a true explorer setting foot on uncharted land for the first time. These are emotions that are incredibly rare in our times—when everything is known, discovered, and worn out.

The last passengers were leaving the carriages. I felt strangely nervous. I took my backpack from the rack and took a deep breath. One last glance at the deserted compartment—empty soda bottles, the half-eaten sandwich of the girl across the street, the worn-out newspaper the older man had left by the compartment door. No trace of me—as if I had never existed, never been in that compartment. An empty seat that an hour later would be filled by

an unknown replacement. He would sit there for several hours—as anonymous as I was, enriched only by

the August sun, encased in a tan. He would probably sleep the entire journey, luxuriating in dreams

filled with the sound of sea waves and the summer breeze. And then he'll get off onto the platform, warmed by the afternoon

sun, look around, and go his way.

I picked up my backpack and slung it over my shoulder, tightening the straps. Hold on, I thought, feeling another surge of nervousness. This is my first seaside vacation. I mentally excused myself and moved forward. Two steps across the compartment, twelve down the carriage corridor. Station, stairs, underpass.

Street.

Here I am.

The wind hit me hardest. It blows completely different from here. The air carries a strange scent, something like a promise, an invitation—go ahead, come, I'll show you something you've never seen. And the August sun—it's morning, early morning, and the sun has already warmed the asphalt driveway in front of the station. The air trembles and vibrates, stirred by the wind.

An invisible force. I move forward. My sandals are stuck to the black slime, as if something wants to prevent me from seeing the sight I've been waiting for. I struggle to lift my feet from the ground. The city grabs me, holds me, won't let me go. But my will is stronger, I overcome my desperate attempts to hold on to the inevitable. Do I really think like this? Isn't it thinking for me? After all, the city—or anyone else—couldn't stop me.

After all, this is just a trip—why does it suddenly feel like a Columbus-sized expedition, a new discovery of America?

I recognize that voice—it's my common sense. It always wants to spoil the most magical, enchanting moments. I won't give in to it, I won't surrender my joy of the first sight of the sea to some common sense. Besides, what good is it to anyone? I want the sea! A sudden

impatience grips me. Suddenly, I lose the calm of a pious acolyte awaiting enlightenment. I turn into a bloodthirsty zealot, wanting to run ahead, feel the sand beneath my feet, see it as quickly as possible, immerse my hands in that all-encompassing blue.

I leave behind the City that wants to hold me back, I leave behind Reason, rationalizing reality. I'm going. I'm simply going ahead.

When I was little, I dreamed of living by the sea. Living the peaceful life of a lighthouse keeper, surrounded by the wild elements. Lighting and extinguishing the lighthouse every day, watching sailing ships pass by. Later, I wanted to be a pirate, chasing and sinking the Spanish Viceroy's ships, looting gold and treasure from the Caribbean colonies. I wanted to sail on a sailing ship, under Admiral Nelson's command. But my parents love the mountains above all else, and for as long as I can remember, that's where we've spent

our holidays.

Just a few steps away. Boczna, Lipowa, and Portowa Streets. And there it is. Blue.

Only blue.

There's nothing else. We're standing opposite each other. The Baltic Sea and me. Is it possible to describe such a feeling? The sea looks at me and is silent. I don't know if it's an illusion, but the wind has died down.

The water's surface is smooth. Not a ripple. It sways gently, moved by the most secret internal currents. I kick off my sandals and step onto the sand.

It's warm from the sun. It's scorching. I take a few steps, throw my backpack and sandals on the beach, and get closer and closer to the sea. Our encounter is inevitable. The edge of wet sand. And suddenly, a gentle gust of wind. A small wave slides across the sea and timidly reaches my feet. I take a big step, and suddenly I'm ankle-deep in water. One more step, and I plunge my hand into it.

The water is clear and warm. Salty. Nothing is visible in front of me. One vast blue. I can't tell where the sky ends and the water begins. An incredible experience.

I return to the beach and sit next to my backpack. My hands are wet. I look at the sea, and it looks back at me.