A petite woman with brown eyes and a smile that smelled of olives, figs and freshly grilled fish.
"The sea is not just water," she liked to say, sitting outside her stone house, drying laundry and chatting with neighbours. "The sea is life. And life is to be shared."
She grew up with the sea. She was at home with every breeze, with the smell of fishing nets, with the call of seagulls. She did not need luxury. She had her own home - a simple house in the centre of the city, which she eventually renovated into an apartment that she rented out to tourists. This enabled her to survive, at least in the high season, and in the winter she worked in a nearby inn. Time was scarce, life was not always easy, but she remained as soft, broad-hearted and warm as the August sun over Izola.
But what was particularly wonderful was its tradition - one that many people did not know about until they experienced it. Every year, just after the biggest crowds, when the tourists were slowly leaving the coast, she opened the doors of her apartment to families who could not afford a holiday.
"The sea belongs to everyone," she once said when I asked her why she does it. "Every child needs to fall in the water at least once and learn how salty it is. Every mother deserves to watch the sun rise behind the fishing boats in the morning with her coffee. And every father to take off his shoes and step into the sand, even though everyday life rarely allows him to do so."
Radojka didn't just give a roof over her head. She cooked, prepared breakfasts; roasted sardines, fresh tomatoes from the market and bread with olive oil and basil. Lunches smelled of childhood. And of gratitude.
"You know," she said one September evening, as her family and I said goodbye to her after another unforgettable holiday, "it's all come back to me. Every hug, every childish smile, every 'thank you' is more than I ever expected."
A few years ago, Mrs Radojka quietly left over the rainbow. But still many people walking around Izola look towards her house and smile. We who were lucky enough to have known her, every year, when the sun begins to fade, take a moment of silence and remember her.
And somewhere in the evening wind coming off the sea, it still whispers: 'The sea is home. And home is where the heart is open."
Zala Krupljan, 6. 4. 2025
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