The wind carries fine dust, not from here. The sun casts long shadows on the hills. Volcanic ash, lava gravel, sparse shrubs clinging where nothing else will grow. The Atlantic rolls onto the shore in long waves.
Up on the cliff, temporary nomads. They cook on gas stoves, surf the waves, sit facing the horizon. Below, between black lava rocks, a man steps into the water with a surfboard. He does not hesitate, throws himself into the wave. Seconds later, a breaker, a surge, then he glides through the blue as if it were easy.
The landscape is raw. No trees, no shelter. Only sky, wind, and stone. A few footprints in the sand, soon to be erased. For a moment, I think: If tanks roll through Central Europe, one could come here, with a surfboard in the luggage. To the edge of the world. As long as such an edge still exists.
