Whenever I look at this painting on my wall, I feel happy. It is not even a painting, but a ten euro copy I bought on a busy promenade in my town, full of souvenirs waiting to be sold to tourists. I do not care, it is the cheapest piece of art I have, however it brings so much joy to me. I gave it to be framed, a green wooden frame fits so well. It reminds me a lot of my childhood.

I do not remember anymore how many steps were there on a small pier in front of my grandpa’s old house. I do not remember how old I was when I was learning that elegant jump in the water. I know I slipped on the last staircase covered with seaweed and hit my back so badly.  My mother used to warn me to mind those green steps, but they were the most important, the closest possible to reach all the mussels.

What I do remember is the smell of the sea in that small bay, mixed with the smell of paint for boats. There was always one small boat in bad condition, waiting to be repaired.

I also remember how the shallow bottom of the sea in that area was causing some fear inside of me. Seagrass would float on the surface, casting a dark shadow underneath. Various shells were hidden among the grass and my child imagination saw monsters sleeping there, waiting for our little feet to wake them up. We became good swimmers at a very young age, forced to swim, to avoid all possible traps. What I remember the most, is my mother sitting with me patiently on those stone staircases, teaching me how to make a fishing lure out of bread, saltwater, and the slimy inner part of the mussel.

I remember every heavy rain and my uncle running in the morning to take the water out of the boat to save it before it sinks.  Almost every boat had one to two plastic bottles cut in half for this purpose.  One of them, a small, green one, if I remember well the color, was very often all under the sea.  Looking at someone’s boat you can learn a lot about its owner. Some old boats have been left there and forgotten, not repaired for years, telling the story that the life of their owner is coming to the end.

I must say I never liked those new, beige, plastic boats. My favorites were old, but freshly painted wooden boats with a fishing net on the bow and two peddles on the sides. Even today, on the ground floor of my old grandfather’s house, on one side are fishing nets, and on the other an old barrel in which the boat’s engine was stored during the winter. I always loved watching those fishing rituals. Meters and meters of fishing nets, knitted by the fishermen during the long hours sitting on the pier. So much life in this small place.  Cats, dogs, pigeons, seagulls, children, seniors, all gathered around one thing – a fish.

That summer sitting on the same pier, I did not know that it will be my last summer spent there. I was a teenager, dreaming about big cities, famous universities, traveling the world, having an important career. I started jogging, actually sprinting through life. That is how it should be done, right? To move forward, to see more, to feel more. My pier starts looking so small, so basic, so old, so forgotten. It was replaced by sandy beaches and newly built mega yacht marinas. Life became so busy, just a couple of kilometers away.

One day everything stopped. The whole world stopped. Beaches became empty, marinas had gaps where the biggest yachts used to be. The painting is still hanging on the most visible wall in my living room, a couple of years already, but this was the first time I looked more into it. My friend told me once, you need to visualize what you wish for. That is it. That’s all this painting represents. A stone terrace on the sea surrounded by rosemary, one wooden table, two chairs, fresh flowers, and a boat small enough waiting to be painted. A green-blue sea, surrounded by steep mountains, a peace. I believe a part of us always belongs where we came from.