SNEGLEN - BRIAN McNELY
February 14, 2025
Sneglen
The saddle of the purple loaner bike squeaks when I pedal, and the wicker basket hangs from the handlebars with zip ties—if I turn too quickly, it slides around and attacks my knees. It’s a 20-minute ride to Kastrup Søbad from the AirBnB in Christianshavn. I weave through gawking tourists in Christiania, my basket loaded with a beach towel, impatience, and the first sunny day of summer. Everything else is stuffed in my daypack. When I pop out onto Uplandsgade and hang a right onto Amager Strandvei, I’ve finally got a tailwind straight to the sea bath.
I mash the pedals up and over Lagunebroen and see the sound stretched and gleaming. Amager Strandpark bustles with Danes in swimsuits and flip flops pushing prams and eating hot dogs. I park my bike near the plank path to the sea bath. In the bright afternoon sunlight, the spiral wooden structure standing in the sound looks like the cover of Architectural Digest come to life. Sneglen—“the snail.” I’d only ever seen this place on Google Maps and YouTube. I gulp sea air.
I walk past little living rooms all over the rough wooden planks—families and friends and lovers claim space, laying out blankets and towels, plump grapes in plastic Netto containers, tall green cans of Carlsberg, hardcovers, and sunscreen. I nab a spot up high where I can sit with my back to the sound and watch the water and the beach and everything here. I peel off my shoes and socks, tuck my t-shirt between slats on the wall.
At the highest jumping platform, I wait in line behind a group of boys. Their bright, baggy swim trunks drip onto their bare feet, and the rough grey planks darken. A young man orchestrates the action, his tanned forearm against the metal railing. He wears black trunks printed with white pineapples, his arms and legs and neck long and thin; his blonde hair stiff with saltwater. As each boy steps up, he counts them down—“en, to, tre!”—and they fling themselves into summer, kicking and screaming before they hit the water. The young man grabs the railing and follows them in a graceful arc, diving deep into the sea.
I do the countdown, too, mouthing the Danish inside my head, and leap into the Øresund. I tread water and stare at the sound. My lips are salty, and my body is warm, and sunlight flashes in my eyes from ripples in the water. The first of the gang to jump is back on the platform. I dolphin kick to the middle of the sea bath. A little girl with Peppa Pig floaties and pink goggles hops from the low dock as I heave myself up the swim ladder.
The young man’s living room is a few feet from mine. He’s sipping a Tuborg, back against the wall. I sit in the sun and air dry and close my weary eyes.
He says something in Danish, pulling me back from the fuzzy edges of sleep, and I catch sight of his stubbled chin pointing to the crowded center of the snail. I search for clues as to what he’s said. Kids blow water from swimming noodles; a family holding hands jumps from the far dock. People sit in their little living rooms, snapping selfies, playing cards, eating ruggbrød chips, drinking wine, laughing.
“Taler du engelsk?” I say. I crack open a Carlsberg and take a long pull.
“It’s busy—finally summer.”
“Finally.”
“You’re here on holiday?”
“Not exactly. I’m here for a month, working.”
“Have you been here before?”
“To Copenhagen?”
“No, here. Kastrup. Sneglen.” In his mouth, “Kastrup” sounds like oil hitting a hot pan.
“I haven’t. I’ve been waiting for the sun. I swam in the harbor at Islands Brygge, but it was cold. I just want to be in the water as much as I can. This is better.”
“Much better. There’s more light here, it’s more open. You can see more underwater.”
I look out at the open arc of the sea bath, at sunshine glittering on gentle waves.
“I like the way things look from the bottom, the way they sound,” he points his chin again at the center of the snail. “I blow out all my air and stay down there and just look up at all the legs and arms and swimsuits, the docks and ladders.” He sips his Tuborg and grins.
“I never open my eyes in the water,” I say. I can’t even swim like a local.
“No? Why?” He flicks a little black bug off one of his white pineapples.
“I don’t know? Probably because I grew up swimming in pools and the chemicals hurt my eyes. It’s habit now.”
He peels foil from a yogurt cup and tips in a handful of bright organic raspberries. He stirs them with a metal spoon, and the yogurt blushes pink. “It doesn’t hurt.”
I take another long pull of my Carlsberg. “I’ll give it a go.”
At the high platform, I whisper “en, to, tre” and jump. I blow air from my nose when I hit the water and settle like silt at the bottom. The seafloor squishes between my toes, and I open my eyes. I see blues and ochres and shadows cast by hoary green pier pilings, undersea plants and their wispy inscrutable semaphores. I see legs and arms kicking and bobbing, neon swim noodles, puffs of sand, the silver glint of refracted sunlight on the scales of tiny fish. All sound is muted; everything is far away.
I kick off the sea floor and break the surface, then take a deep breath and duck under again, swimming toward the central platform with open eyes. I see Peppa Pig floaties bobbing on the surface, tiny legs mashing invisible pedals.
I stand on my towel, dripping. The young man must be in the water again, but I don’t see him. Maybe he’s sitting on the sea floor, looking up at us.
I sip my Carlsberg and look between the slats of Sneglen towards Sweden. I can see Turning Torso—Malmö’s neo-futurist skyscraper, a bright white exclamation point stamped on the tip of the country. If it’s sunny tomorrow, I’ll take the train over the sound and swim on the other side. Maybe I can see the snail from Malmö’s rocky shore. Maybe I can see Turning Torso from under the water, through the murk and waves, rising above the sound, wringing itself out in the sun.
Brian McNely is professor of Writing, Rhetoric, & Digital Studies at the University of Kentucky. His work appears in Off Assignment, Porridge, Invisible City, Rijden, and in academic journals such as Philosophy & Rhetoric. His 2024 book, Engaging Ambience, explores visual research methods. He also races bikes.