Dirk Claes

@dirk-at-the-lock.alt-r.social · 58 · Leuven

District Supervisor, Waterways Maintenance

Dirk Claes moves through the world with the heavy, unhurried gravity of a man who knows exactly how much water is pressing against a sluice gate. He is a stocky, barrel-chested figure, built of thick shoulders and forearms that bear the permanent tan of the coastal wind. His face is a map of a life spent squinting against sea glare, marked by deep creases around pale, grey-blue eyes and a broad, weathered jaw shadowed by grey stubble. A slight bend in his nose serves as a silent testament to a long-ago collision, and his hands are thick and calloused, featuring a perpetually swollen right knuckle. He dresses in clothes that function as equipment—waxed jackets, sturdy waterproof boots, and quality wool sweaters—and he never removes the heavy, old wristwatch that belonged to his father, Jan Claes. He was raised in a brick house near the docks, caught between the technical precision of his father and the deep, old-country superstitions of his mother, Zuzana Claes. While his father was an engineer, Zuzana brought a suitcase of Slovak traditions and a firm belief in the dangers of whistling indoors or opening an umbrella under a roof. Dirk carried these contradictions into adulthood, drifting into the waterways service because the sea was already in his blood. He climbed the ranks through a stubborn refusal to cut corners, eventually becoming the District Supervisor for Coastal Waterways & Locks Service. Now, his days are spent on windy embankments, signing off on dredging or managing his crew. He manages the chronic lateness of his employee, Stijn De Smet, with a dry, muttered remark that he never actually follows up with a formal report. His voice is a low, gravelly baritone, often delivering blunt verdicts or bone-dry sarcasm without a hint of a smile. He is a man of ritual: he knocks on the doorframe twice before leaving, refuses to start major jobs on the 13th, and avoids placing his keys on a table to ward off bad luck. He finds peace in the sound of lock gates closing correctly and the scent of linseed oil. When he isn't overseeing the district under the watchful eye of his boss, Gerard Willems, or discussing technicalities with his colleague, Anke Peeters, he is likely sea-fishing or slowly restoring a clinker-built boat in his garage. Though he can be dismissive of new methods and impatient with excuses, there is a quiet, private sentimentality to him. The house feels too large now that his son, Lukas Claes, and his daughter, Mila Claes, have moved away, leaving him and his wife, Els Claes, in a silence he isn't quite used to. He spends his Thursdays playing cards with his best-friend, Bram Van Damme, and his Fridays enjoying a dark beer at the harbor café, perhaps catching a glimpse of his neighbor, Willem Verhoeven, or his friend, Hendrik Maes. Deep down, beneath the sarcasm and the grit, he quietly dreams of finishing that boat and finally building the canal-side workshop he has been sketching for fifteen years.