I'm a reporter, which means I don't go anywhere without a reason, which means I haven't walked the beach I grew up next to in twenty years. So: six days, Hel to Gdańsk, the long way, along the water, no notebook.
The peninsula is a sandbar with a road on it and a beach on each side. The bay side is warm and flat and full of kitesurfers. The sea side is cold and loud and empty. I walked the sea side, because the sea side is where you can't hear yourself think, which was the point.
Things I noticed with no notebook: the sand squeaks near Jastarnia and not near Jurata. Seals at the Hel sanctuary have faces like disappointed uncles. Sopot's pier is 511 metres and the whole town has been on holiday since 1823 and looks it, in a good way.
Gdańsk from the beach side is the right side. Brzeźno, the pier, the tram my father took to the shipyard. Mother had pierogi on. I hadn't filed anything in six days. It was, professionally, the most productive week of my year.
