The happiness of the fisherman...

„…In einem Hafen an einer westlichen Küste Europas

lies a poorly dressed man in his

Fischerboot und döst…“

So fängt die „Anekdote zur Senkung der Arbeitsmoral“ an, welche Heinrich Böll 1963 schrieb. Heute habe ich intensiv über diese Geschichte denken müssen, dürfen. Sicherlich kennt der ein oder andere Selbige im Original oder in einer der diversen abgewandelten Kopien. – Doch bevor ich Selbige zitiere, möchte ich erst einmal berichten, wie es dazu kam, dass sie mir wieder ins Gedächtnis kam.

Nachdem wir gestern* noch einen Abstecher zum Tiny House Hersteller Woodee gemacht haben, hat uns die Sehnsucht nach Seeluft in die  kleine Gemeinde Wisch, im Kreis Plön verschlagen. Wisch, plattdeutsch für ‚Wiese‘, ist für uns Programm, stehen wir doch kurz drauf auf einer kleinen Wiese direkt hinterm Deich. – Oli, welchen ich seit vielen, vielen Jahren kenne, hat uns hier auf ein Bier eingeladen. – So sitzen wir kurz drauf mit Oli und seine Partnerin Britta auf dem Deich, blicken aufs Meer und es macht plöpp, plöpp, plöpp. Kennt ihr die Flens Reklame? – Genau so, „erfrischend anders“, ich liebe dieses herbe „Bügelbier“. Doch hier im Norden, mit Blick auf die untergehende Sonne schmeckt es besonders gut.

Oli makes a strangely relaxed impression. - He talks about fishing and about the kate - the kate is located directly behind the dike. From a window you can look directly at the sea. - One of Britta's ancestors built this cottage to house his studio. Even today, the whole thing looks a little like something out of the paintbox of some impressionist. In front the dike and the sea, in the back meadows and fields. - Am I dreaming? - Everything seems so relaxed and peaceful, even Oli.

Was will man mehr? – Dies scheint sich auch Oli zu fragen. – So lange ich Oli kenne, hat er gearbeitet, viel, sehr viel gearbeitet. Für seinen Job ist er jede Woche, nicht nur knapp 1.500 Kilometer gefahren, um die Woche über im Hunsrück „stationiert“ zu sein.  Fern der Heimat ist er darüber hinaus einer verantwortungsvollen Tätigkeit nachgegangen, ein Managerjob, so heißt das wohl. – Doch so lange ich Oli kenne, wollte er eigentlich nur eines: Angeln. – Später mal – Und ab und zu auch mal zwischendurch, wenn man mal Zeit hat.

Jetzt könnte ich sagen, alles hat seine Zeit. – Es mangelt uns nicht an der Zeit. – Denn Zeit ist ja immer gleich. Ein durchschnittliches Leben: 80 Jahre, 960 Monate, 29.220 Tage, 701.280 Stunden, 42.076.800 Minuten, 2.524.608.000 Sekunden. – Hört sich verdammt viel an, oder? – Da kommt es am Ende auf ein paar Sekunden, Stunden oder Tage nicht an, oder? – Doch letztlich ist jede Sekunde nur ein Wimpernschlag, ein Augen-Blick in der Zeit. Zupp, Vergangenheit. Und schon sind mehr als fünfzig Jahre vorüber. Mensch, bin ich alt geworden. – Da bekommt „alles hat seine Zeit“ eine ganz andere Bewandtnis.

Jetzt und hier weiß ich nur, Oli wollte immer nur Angeln. – Ich stell mir die Frage, was wäre wenn? Was wäre, wenn Oli einfach „nur“ angeln gegangen wäre.

Hört ihr da Reue raus? – Nein, keine Spur! – Und ich habe auch nicht das Gefühl, dass Oli etwas bereut. – Alles hat seine Zeit – Ich würde alles wieder so machen. Alles? – Doch da fällt mir noch was ein. Wie hieß es da noch in den 80er? – „Schule braucht Zeit – Zeit ist Geld – Geld ist Luxus – Und Luxus können wir uns beim besten Willen nicht leisten“ – Nur ein Sponti-Spruch? 😉

And what about Oli? He fishes, that seems to make him happy. In any case, he seems relaxed, more relaxed than ever before. Relaxed, happy and somehow younger. I wish him that it stays like that. 

Doch ich hatte Euch ja noch die „Anekdote zur Senkung der Arbeitsmoral“ versprochen. – Hier ist sie:

„Ein schick angezogener Tourist legt eben einen neuen Farbfilm in seinen Fotoapparat, um das idyllische Bild zu fotografieren: Blauer Himmel, grüne See mit friedlichen schneeweißen Wellenkämmen, schwarzes Boot, rote Fischermütze. Klick. Noch einmal: klick. Und da aller guten Dinge drei sind und sicher sicher ist, ein drittes Mal: klick.

The brittle, almost hostile sound awakens the dozing fisherman, who sleepily sits up, sleepily angling for a pack of cigarettes; but before he finds what he is looking for, the eager tourist has already held a pack in front of his nose, put the cigarette not exactly in his mouth, but in his hand, and a fourth click, that of the lighter, completes the hasty politeness. That barely measurable, never verifiable excess of nimble politeness has created an irritable embarrassment, which the tourist - speaking the local language - tries to bridge through conversation.

"You'll make a good catch today." Shaking of the fisherman's head. "But I've been told that the weather is favorable." Nodding of the fisherman's head. "So you're not going to go out?" Shaking of the fisherman's head, rising nervousness of the tourist. Certainly he cares about the welfare of the poorly dressed person, gnaws at him the sadness of the missed opportunity. "Oh, you don't feel well?"

Finally, the fisherman moves from sign language to the truly spoken word. "I feel great," he says. "I've never felt better." He stands up, stretching as if to demonstrate how athletically built he is. "I feel fantastic." The tourist's expression grows increasingly unhappy; he can no longer suppress the question that threatens to blow his heart out, so to speak: "But then why don't you go out?"

The answer comes promptly and succinctly. "Because I already went out this morning." "Was the catch good?" "It was so good that I don't need to go out again, I had four lobsters in my baskets, caught almost two dozen mackerel..." The fisherman, finally awakened, now thaws and pats the tourist reassuringly on the shoulders. His worried expression appears to him as an expression of misplaced but touching concern.

"I even have enough for tomorrow and the day after," he says to ease the stranger's soul. "Will you smoke one of mine?" "Yes, thank you." Cigarettes are put in mouths, a fifth click, the stranger sits down on the edge of the boat shaking his head, puts the camera out of his hand, for he needs both hands now to give emphasis to his speech.

"I don't want to get into your personal business," he says, "but imagine if you took a second, a third, maybe even a fourth trip out today, and you caught three, four, five, maybe even ten dozen mackerel - imagine that." The fisherman nods.

"You would," the tourist continued, "go out not only today, but tomorrow, the day after, indeed, on any favorable day two, three, perhaps four times - do you know what would happen?"

The fisherman shakes his head. "You would be able to buy an engine in a year at the latest, a second boat in two years, in three or four years you might have a small cutter, with two boats and the cutter you would of course catch much more - one day you would have two cutters, you would...", the enthusiasm catches his voice for a few moments, "you would build a small cold store, maybe a smokehouse, later a marinade factory, fly around in your own helicopter, spot the schools of fish and give instructions to your cutters by radio. You could acquire the salmon rights, open a fish restaurant, export the lobster directly to Paris without middlemen - and then...", again the stranger's enthusiasm takes his breath away. Shaking his head, saddened in his deepest heart, almost losing his vacation joy, he looks at the tide rolling in peacefully, in which the uncaught fish are jumping merrily.

"And then," he says, but again his excitement takes his breath away. - The fisherman pats him on the back, like a child who has choked. "What then?" he asks quietly. - "Then," the stranger says with quiet enthusiasm, "then you could sit here in the harbor with peace of mind, dozing in the sun - and looking out at the magnificent sea."

"But I'm already doing that," says the fisherman, "I'm sitting calmly by the harbor and dozing, only your clicking has disturbed me." In fact, the tourist, who had been instructed in this way, left thoughtfully, because he had once believed that he was working so that one day he would no longer have to work, and there was no trace of pity for the poorly dressed fisherman left in him, only a little envy.

*Almost three weeks have passed since I started this blog post. I simply had no time. There was the apartment cleaning, there was... Everything has its time. 

How is it with your time? - Has it changed, or what has changed, because of Corona?