The Broken House

Long years of tide against the shore,
of hands that held and asked for more,
of weathered storms and sun-drenched days,
a thousand small and beautiful ways.

I built a house within your name,
believed the floors, ignored the frame,
until one quiet moment showed,
the cracks that ran beneath our beloved home.

Not all of it was false, I know,
the warmth was real, so was the glow,
but truth was never quite the whole
and love alone can't fill that hole.

So I walked out through fox and dune,
through wild horse fields beneath the moon,
past forest depths where fear ran cold,
until the sea, wide, blue, and old,

opened before me, vast and true,
not what I lost, but something new,
the sound of my own steady breath,
a bond reformed not love, but depth,

a steadier self, hard-won, complete,
found not in you, but in retreat,
in every step that carried me
away from you and towards the sea.

And still I turn the question round,
why break such thing so hard-earned, found?
No answer comes, and none is owed;
I only know I walked the road.

And somewhere past the dunes and pine,
I found a house that's fully mine.

Harbor & Horizon

Evening light, after a day that needed outrunning.

How running is not only a trend but a necessity

Zuiderstrand, Den Haag

A beautiful summer day, not too warm, not too cold, the perfect summer bliss. Sunshine, temperatures around 24 degrees, and a slight breeze cooling the house and the body. A day full of work, the mind bloated with new ideas and errands to be done, plans for future projects. A natural way of concluding a day like this would be to go to the beach, soak in the warmth, occasionally jump into the slightly wavy sea to cool down, with the added thrill of not getting stung by a jellyfish. And to top it off, after drying a bit, to chug down a couple of beers or a nice rosé with a view over the bay, letting the soul wander.

But the body and mind are demanding something more action-filled. All that cortisol from a stressful day, the mind still racing, ready to let loose. And just at the perfect time, my new running shoes arrive. Unsure of the feel, the shape so different from my worn-down tennis shoes, I get an extra boost of energy, ready to make myself a name in unboxing and product testing. A definite sign, sent by the running shoe company: go run! One step after another.

A couple of stretches, a nicely composed running outfit topped off by my new orange running gods, and I march away. Up the small hill by my house, through the harbor neighborhood, where a group of business-convention types block my way across the bridge to the seaside. But my adrenaline and the sheer happiness of moving are so intimidating that they leap aside, delegating and warning others to make room for me. By now I am almost flying along, a bundle of pure energy. A short wave of thankfulness, full of pride and an extra boost, and I sprint away toward the second harbor and on to the sea

Off toward the North Sea, past the harbourmaster's post.

Now my muscles tell me to calm down. That first phase, coming out of the starting blocks like a rocket, pays its dividend in shortness of breath and a few muscles tweaking. I slow down and settle into a sustainable tempo, one I can survive for the next half an hour. I soak in the environment around me, looking at the boats in the harbor, from small sailing yachts to the big coastguard cutters and fishing trawlers. A fresh sea breeze hits my face, and tells me: just one short ramp up past the harbor, and the seaside and the harbor entry are in front of me.

Magically drawn to the sea, my tempo increases, but more rhythmically now than before. A big smile runs across my face when I see the wavy sea and the beach washed in that perfect summery yellow. A wide stripe of open sand runs right along the water. The perfect arena to jog along the coastline.

Open sand, right along the crashing waves

Watching the crashing waves, trading runner's greetings, I observe the dunes and the people roaming the beach. I feel superior as a runner right now, almost snobbish, striding along the coastline, taking in nature's beauty, an uncontrollable feeling of happiness and bliss overcoming my brain and my body.

That is what running is about. The perfect moment when you surrender all the thoughts from before, clearing out your mind and ending up completely in the here and now. The further I go, the more kilometers I stack up, the more I feel myself resetting, further and further, back into some default baby setting.

On the horizon a big ship enters the harbor and blows its horn. A sign? A greeting? Sometimes we do not have to chase the deeper meaning of everything around us, or everything about who we are. Sometimes the solution is just a run, to see the beauty of it all.

Coming home, a feeling of calm and relaxation washes over me.

Reset complete. Life is good.

Surf.

The art of being in the moment, and one with nature

Nothing pulls you in with such elegant fascination as surfing. Not padel, not sourdough baking, not cold showers or natural wine tastings. It's one of the most beloved activities around - the trend sport of the moment, even though it has been with us forever. In a coastal town, conversations these days go something like this: "So, do you actually surf?" Here in The Hague, it's like being asked whether you like Kimchi, or whether you are in a run club; delivered, if the answer is no, with a faintly reproachful tone. And instantly the advice follows, "You should really try it," completed with where to start and what to buy. It doesn't matter in the slightest whether the person opposite you is a bloody beginner or a seasoned surf pro.

Surfing between worlds - rose-coloured sky over Europe's biggest port, Rotterdam

Most advice we receive a dozen times a day is noise; people want to share their community, their sense of belonging, and that is fine. But this one feels different. It sounds less like a recommendation than an invitation into a faith.

Hard chargers go foiling

Mostly, people mean wave surfing, or its flashier cousin, kitesurfing. The self-declared hard chargers go foiling now, especially wing foiling. The equipment alone is intimidating: it gives off the vibes of a survival expedition and practically yells in the face of the ordinary beachgoer that this is serious business, not a leisure activity. Respect it and stand aside. All of it underscored by a self-confident gaze out to sea and a studied ignoring of the non-surfers admiring the setup.

I always find myself smiling. Not because the behaviour puts me off, or because I find it ridiculous, but out of pure awe for that person's anticipation of an incalculable adventure, for their deep focus on the conditions at sea. What has Mother Nature cooked up today? How am I going to navigate this choppy wave salad of the North Sea? What's the best way out past the break? And where, down the line, are the best conditions hiding?

Catching a small roller

It may be the ultimate task of our times: to find calm and focus in the open air, unreachable, pure happiness. No ringtones, no messages popping up on a screen, no one demanding your attention from a thousand miles away. Just the self and its abilities, trying to master an art that can never quite be mastered, supported and sometimes hindered by the fellow surfers scattered across the wavy scenery. I truly admire the dedication to self-fulfilment. It is a life lesson in patience and endurance, disguised as play.

A petulant observer on the pier

The sun is still high in the sky at this time of year, mid-August, around eight o'clock, and it still carries real power. The water has reached 21 degrees, unprecedented for this corner of the earth: almost a bathtub by Dutch standards, and one of the stranger gifts of a changing climate. I feel an instant urge to buy a board on the spot and throw myself into the waves with the surfers now arriving in droves, ready to shed the day's work sorrows and reset their inner balance. But as a petulant observer, still handicapped by a summer flu, I choose instead to study, laugh, enjoy, and blissfully watch the spectacle from the concrete pier, guarded by its wave breakers.

There is something quietly astonishing about sitting at the edge of the ocean, almost at eye level with the surfers, just slightly above them, watching them paddle out and fight the relentless crashing waves to reach the sweet spot where the perfect wave might carry them in, seemingly without effort. You can spot the beginners: still intimidated, battling not only the power of the water but also their own balance and their own boards, just to make it out at all. And then there is the selection of the waves themselves. Some look promising at first, only to crash down and collapse; others die away a few meters on, just when someone has committed to them.

Evening lineup at Zuiderstrand - the North Sea winding down slowly

It is like trying to make the right decisions in life. Some work out and some don't. Some look glorious and fizzle. Some build slowly, quietly, and become absolute monsters.

The wave washing machine

I find it fascinating how the more advanced surfers ride the slow rollers with immaculate patience, knowing exactly when to accelerate, when to carve the turn, and when to pump the brakes and throw themselves out before the wave collapses or the shore arrives. That instinct, reading your surroundings and the conditions while not taking out your fellow surfers in the process, is a spectacle worth watching in itself.

But in the moment, I confess, it's the beginners I find most entertaining. Good old Schadenfreude, as we say in Germany. Not because I celebrate their failure, maybe a bit, comes with the heritage I guess, but because I have been exactly there: hanging in by a thread, desperate not to be swallowed by the wave washing machine, collecting the smiles and silent nods of acknowledgement from the surfers around me. Everyone started out like that. Everyone knows the battle.

Last light, last waves, no hurry to paddle in - just soaking in the moment

What strikes me is the relentless will to keep going, to try again and do it better, even when the exhaustion is palpable and the power is dwindling. Every failure is a lesson: read the next wave differently, pop up on the board immediately, attack the angle of the wave down the line and ride its flow naturally instead of fighting it. It is exactly what life demands of us. Failure is pre-success; to reach it, we have to keep trying and find our rhythm and flow. Out here, that lesson is taught with nothing but a surf plank and Mother Nature's endless wave force.

Surf's up

A perfect moment of awe, even for a mere spectator on the harbour pier, in the now-setting evening sun, with the thunder of the waves shattering against the breakers. It occurs to me, watching them, that the surfers are not escaping the world so much as returning to it, to the version of it that existed before all the noise.

Maybe tomorrow I will be out there myself: tossed around, navigating the ocean's unknowns, finding solitude in the sheer endless rolling of the waves.

For sure. Surf's up.

Morning delight

Zuiderstrand, Den Haag - early morning at the North Sea

Zuiderstrand, Den Haag. Early in the morning the sun slowly creeps up behind the dunes, filling the whole beach with a tender morning yellow. The North Sea waves calmly roll to the shore, almost flat, interrupted only by the occasional sandbank.

Zuiderstrand, the native beach in The Hague that can be crowded, full of beach chatter and buzzing beach bars, children building big sand castles on hot summer days. That one is electric too, but that’s not the one I'm talking about.

The one worth getting up for is earlier. The light is still deciding whether it wants to fully reveal its colours. The sand is cold underfoot and there is almost no one, just the occasional runner, the tired dog walkers throwing tennis balls to entertain their four-legged friends, and the seagulls sitting in the sand, enjoying the first rays of sun or searching the waterline for food. The North Sea is crystal clear and completely peaceful. Exactly what I need in the morning.

In summer you feel the pull towards the water. It doesn't take much bravery, just the willingness to commit before you talk yourself out of it. You go for it. A morning dip. The cold hits you all at once and then for a few minutes you are entirely, unambiguously awake. No thoughts. Just water, sunlight, the sound of small waves, the taste of salt in your nose and mouth. Occasionally your foot catches something besides the soft sand, maybe it’s a stone, a fish, a crab. The sea has its unknown secrets. Immersion is the key, not panic.

You slowly come out of the water, one final dip of the head under the surface, and walk back up the beach. The day hasn't started yet and you already feel ahead of it. A wave of happiness washes over you as you throw the towel over your head and feel the warmth of the sun on your skin. The sun is rising steadily now. More morning dippers arrive, and strangers exchange glances of quiet admiration and nodding, sometimes an occasional Goedemorgen. There is an invisible connection between people through nature's beauty. That's the whole thing. That's what matters.

A perfect moment of morning delight.

Morning swimmers and dippers in the North Sea