A Line in the World: A Year on the North Sea Coast

by Dorthe Nors

A sharp watch is kept on the oldest women. Their skin is tanned leather, their hair clipped short. They have tattoos and big, wrinkled cleavages. They can call a child to their side from the open sea. Now and again, a man in a boiler suit walks past and talks to them. They put up with that, but he can’t sit down. They’ve been skinning fish since before they started school. They’ve ridden Puch Maxi mopeds, they’ve gone cruising with drunken men in Ford Taunus cars by the dam. They’ve cooked more chips than you’ll ever eat. They’ve borne their stormy nights. They have cried when he was at sea, and they’ve cried when he was home, and they’re not for delicate souls. But they are safe swimmers, and if war breaks out, I’d like one of them in my trench. Her and her grandma. They’ve hauled men’s mouths over to the drain in the bathroom. When he couldn’t get up, they let him lie. When he wanted to stand, they carried him. Fat, thin, sun-creased, cigarette-smoking, bathing-suit-stretching beauties in the sand. Always swim near them, because the water is theirs.