If you ask a sailor (no matter current or former) the question “how far did your ship sail?” - there is a considerable probability that the answer will be the following: “the g... floats, the ships sail!” (Another option: “What kind of ships did you sail on?” - “sails g..., they go on ships!”, or “... sailors go!”)
So, those sailors who are a little more cultured usually replace the most indecent word in this phrase with the phrase “fly in the jam.” And you are unlikely to ever hear this saying from truly cultured sailors (but are there such people?).
Initially, apparently, it was invented by “old” sailors with the goal of showing off in front of the newly arrived “dushars”. It leaked onto land, of course - through those transferred to the reserve... And there it already began to spread like an infection - thanks to the stable rule “one fool blurted out - the rest caught it.”
Well, okay, to hell with it. Moreman knows better what swims in the sea and what walks. But, it’s very funny that nowadays inflatable rubber boats, kayaks, catamarans, rafts and other lake and river troughs (by the way, have nothing to do with the sea) together with their “captains” and crew ( who might not have served in the army at all, let alone the navy). None of the above-mentioned persons, apparently, want to inadvertently turn out to be the very waste of life that appears in the sea saying.
Obviously, all this substitution of concepts is also done with the aim of stroking one’s vanity. They say, I’m so experienced, in fact, I’m a sailor. True, the lion's share of such “sailors” only saw the sea from the shore, or, at best, from the passenger window of a pleasure boat. Therefore, from the outside, all this “seafaring” looks like a kindergarten and banal monkeying, but from a scientific (psychiatric, of course) point of view, it looks like a manifestation of some kind of inferiority complex.
But according to the Russian language dictionary, the word “swim” in relation to sailors and their ships (and therefore - in general to any ships and watercraft) is much more relevant in meaning and “literary” than “walk”, which is reserved only for professional use. colloquial (specifically nautical!) application.
But that's not all. It turns out that the great and mighty Russian language itself has tripped up someone here. From the same dictionary it turns out that in medical colloquial use the word “walk”, in addition to its main meaning, also implies (cough-cough) the actual biomechanical process, as a result of which the substance that floats in that catchphrase is born.
“Swim” and “walk” have synonymous words that have some semantic difference from them. This is “swim” and “go”. According to the dictionary, “swim” and “walk” mean repeated movement without a specific direction (by “swim,” by the way, also means not only movement, but also simply being in the water), and “swim” and “go” mean a single movement in a certain direction.
What’s funny is that these two words got me into the same madhouse as “swim” and “walk,” although they are not even used in the favorite Moreman saying. Moreover, the unpleasant substance mentioned in it is, by itself, without the application of external force, physically incapable of floating. But explain this to illiterate people. All that remains is to answer ironically - “well, that means I’m a g...!”, and continue rowing with the oars.
This is a Latin saying, an ancient sailor's proverb: “It is necessary to sail on the sea...” Once upon a time the sea for a person was endless, boundless, unclear and therefore constantly alluring - and what is there further, beyond the horizon? In ancient times, when no one knew that the Earth was a ball, this wisdom was born. The full saying is written as follows: “It is necessary to sail on the sea, but it is not so necessary to live.” The depth of thought lies in the fact that people have always valued knowledge of the world around them more than life itself. Discovering the unknown is always risky. But man has consciously taken risks since the cradle of his history. Otherwise, we would not know the outlines of the continents, the depths of the ocean, the expanse of deserts, the heights of mountains and the thickness of snow. Everything was gained by daring. Every step is marked by courage, a challenge to danger and hardship.
It is impossible to list everyone who, bit by bit and piece by piece, has assembled the current image of the Earth; their name is Humanity. But our memory keeps and will keep the brightest names forever: Columbus, Magellan... Our century has added two names to this list: Gagarin, Armstrong...
It is necessary to sail on the sea... Gagarin and Armstrong had the good fortune to affirm the philosophical breadth of this thought, because it was no longer about the sea, not about the Earth as a whole, people stepped into the space beyond the Earth.
Everything that happens after the first step always exceeds the size of the first step. But those who walk the beaten path and the wide road will certainly remember the first effort, the first time they dared. People now live in space for weeks, months. But it took more than a hundred minutes of life for Gagarin to make everything else possible.
“It is necessary to sail on the sea...”
Gagarin has two birthdays. The first, quiet and inconspicuous, is in a peasant house. The second is in full view of the whole Earth. The second birth evoked many feelings: “He is a man - a messenger of the Earth,” “he is ours, Soviet.” And, perhaps, the most important feeling is “he is the same as everyone else,” he was born in a peasant house, he ran barefoot as a boy, he knew the need... The highest pride of ordinary people is to see a person from his environment at the pinnacle of success. This gives a person hope, strength and faith. That is why the Smolensk guy overnight became a citizen and favorite of the Earth. Fifteen years have already passed since that April (how time flies!). We remember: in maternity hospitals in those days, most boys were given the name Yuri. These guys are fifteen now. Gagarin is already history for them. The living appearance is gradually overshadowed by monuments, songs and poems, the names of ships, villages, stations and squares - the usual and natural path from life to legend. And therefore it is very important on Gagarin’s birthday to remember him as a living person.
I knew Gagarin closely. I met him at the cosmodrome, at a wedding, fishing, at a meeting of scientists, at the honorary presidium, in a cheerful Komsomol flea market, and at home surrounded by children. I saw Gagarin in clothes hung with honorary orders of many states. And I saw him in satin shorts, when the astronaut slapped his legs with his palms, fighting off mosquitoes. There are people who knew Gagarin closer and deeper. I think the best book about him that has not yet been written will be a book of memoirs. Simple, unsophisticated, each one or two pages long. Mother, childhood friends, spaceship designer, statesman, Gagarin's wife, rocket scientist at the launch, cosmonauts, the man who sent him on his last flight... Each in a word - and we will receive a living testimony about a person very dear to us.
If I had to participate in this book, I would write my page about the first meeting. Then, on April 12, 1961, we still did not know who this person was, we only knew his last name and some biographical details. We couldn’t wait to see the astronaut, and reporter Pavel Barashev and I, having overcome mountains of obstacles, received permission to fly to the landing area. We were the only passengers on the huge IL-18 plane. The flight attendant clearly knew some secret. And without much effort we became its owners: “This plane will take Gagarin to Moscow tomorrow.”
In Kuibyshev new obstacles awaited us, but around four in the afternoon we still made our way into the fortress guarding the astronaut. It was a house on the banks of the Volga. There was billiards in the large hall. We began to chase the balls, looking impatiently at the large oak door. It was from here, as it seemed to us, that the astronaut should have emerged. We mistook the thin, handsome lieutenant, who ran down the narrow wooden stairs from above, for an adjutant, who, of course, should be here...
Are you from Komsomolskaya Pravda? - the lieutenant said, smiling welcomingly.
The sparkling train of elderly generals and doctors in civilian clothes on the stairs from above immediately clarified everything - we were talking with Gagarin! But there is nothing heroic in the person. Height is below average. It's cut, however, extremely well. There are cheerful sparkles in the eyes. An endearing smile. All the thoughtful questions that we had prepared for the astronaut turned out to be out of place. I should have asked something very simple. Gagarin helped us out.
How's Moscow?
We had newspapers with the first story about the astronaut, with pictures of his house. This was the first mirror of glory, and Gagarin looked into it with boyish curiosity.
Yes, this is Valya and her daughter...
We recovered and hurried with questions about our health and well-being. They asked us to play billiards. Gagarin readily took up the cue and immediately showed that he did not intend to lose. The game, however, did not work out. One of us was fussing with filming, and the medical generals had their own duties - with jokes, hand in hand, but they persistently took Lieutenant Gagarin away from us. Turning from the stairs, he winked and showed his hand, saying, “We’ll finish the game.”
The astronaut slept well that night, as always. But Barashev and I did not fall asleep. Having sent a note to the newspaper, they answered the same question for a long time. Everyone in the editorial office wanted to know: what is he like? Then almost until the morning we sat near the receiver - the word Gagarin was continuously repeated on air in different languages.
In the morning, the hall where we started the billiard game yesterday was filled with eminent citizens of the city of Kuibyshev - plant directors, heads of various departments. Everyone had a gift for the astronaut. . And everyone was brought here by boundless curiosity: what is he like? And then there was a sea of people in which the IL-18 seemed like a small fish. Gagarin, wearing a brand new major's uniform, stood on the stairs, raising his hands in greeting. But people didn't want to let him go. One word flew over the field: Ga-ga-rin! At that moment it was clear: the guy would not have an easy life.
Then we flew to Moscow. These were two hours in Gagarin’s life, when everything was behind, and everything was just beginning. The honorary escort fighters were visible through the windows. The commander of our plane came out to say: “What is happening on Earth, brothers! Our radio operator cannot fight back. Journalists beg, threaten, demand, ask for at least a word from the astronaut..."
This was the second birth of Gagarin. Thus began a test of human strength, a more severe test than crossing the boundaries of space. Did he himself expect to be at the pinnacle of attention, curiosity and worship? Five minutes before boarding at Vnukovo, I sat down next to him. The plane was flying just over the Kremlin. The streets were crowded with people.
In honor of you... Did you expect it?
Gagarin was embarrassed and visibly agitated. He knew, of course, the price of everything that he had done the day before yesterday morning, but he clearly did not expect it, did not imagine this avalanche of feelings centered around his name...
And then there were seven more years of life; stressful life in front of people. Job. Family. Friends. Everything was like others. But there was still a difficult, lifelong honor - to be a symbol of the nation, the personification of everything that stood behind his hundred-eight-minute flight. The full severity of this load was known only to Gagarin. But he never complained. He knew how to be on time everywhere. His famous smile has not faded with time, nor has it turned into just a protective device. Superman? No, he was an ordinary man of flesh and blood, but he was a man of good leaven and very strong temperament. This is what makes it so dear. Have you ever dreamed of flying? Dreamed. I didn’t talk about it often, but I did. And he had certain plans... Such people should have been given two centuries to live, but he lived an offensively short time. But he lived well. Until the last minute he lived by a high standard: “It is necessary to sail on the sea...”
The exclusive right to publish Alexander Bushkov’s book “Alien Sails” belongs to OLMA Media Group CJSC. Release of a work without the permission of the publisher is considered illegal and is punishable by law.
© Bushkov A. A., 2002
© OLMA Media Group CJSC, 2013
It is necessary to sail on the sea.
Living is not so necessary.
Gnaeus Pompey, Roman general
Part one
“I still don’t see,” Xang repeated gloomily.
He didn't like emergency situations. When an unaccounted factor suddenly creeps into an impeccably streamlined work, this is wrong. It shouldn't be this way. This means that it was his fault, the storm captain’s, that he did not take into account all possible contingencies...
However, such it was almost impossible to foresee an accident.
He folded the useless pipe with a crash and threw it on the chart table: it was not only the smoke that made it difficult to inspect the shore - the outside glass of the porthole was covered with soot and soiled with bird droppings. The sailors could not cope with cleaning the deck - ash fell from the gray skies incessantly, in large flakes, like fluff from a torn pillow, and the hordes of birds that occupied the masts and superstructures of the Admiral Frast in search of salvation from imminent death, crap so much that the Admiral Frast ", this pride of the Gidernian fleet, gradually turned into a formal chicken coop.
Xang turned to Raban:
- Show me again what they conveyed there...
Raban readily handed over the folded piece of paper.
“To the Storm Captain. Spur. I order you to immediately send a patrol boat to the point of departure of this message,” it read. “I have information that is vital for the future of the entire city.”
- This is all? – Xeng asked, for some reason turning the dispatch over. The reverse side of the paper, of course, was pristinely clean. - Without a signature?
- Without. The message was repeated eight times, word for word... and the last time it was interrupted mid-sentence.
“Spur” from time immemorial in the Hydernian system of code signals meant: “Extremely urgent, conveyed to the addressee immediately.” Plus, “I order.” He orders, you see... But on the Tourant coast there are now no residents of the island state. Can't be. Must not be…
- So. – Xang re-read the mysterious message, written in the calligraphic handwriting of a full-time cryptographer, for the third time. But it didn’t become any clearer. “Let’s do it all over again...” He winced. – Yes, and relax, in the end. Not at a report to the Admiralty.
Raban barely noticeably changed his position to a slightly more relaxed one (the noble baldric with a sword at his side clinked quietly), glanced briefly at the ship's chronometer mounted above the hatch door from the control room, and monotonously repeated the report, looking somewhere over the commander's head... It seems, even the word repeated in word:
“Three quarters of an hour ago, the poop watch observer received seven, with a one-minute break, of the same type of encrypted messages from the shore. The fact of reception, according to the Code, was confirmed by a signal from the poop spotlight. Since each message was preceded by a general naval signal “Special attention,” the dispatch was immediately sent for decryption. Then the signal “Identify yourself” was given, but there was no response... After decoding, the dispatch was immediately delivered to the storm captain in the wheelhouse... The report was completed.
Baron Xang remained unperturbed, although his lips turned white.
– And decryption took forty minutes? – he asked calmly, studiously ignoring the overly formal tone of his interlocutor. Deliberately statutory. One might say - mockingly.
No, he’s not a bastard, is he?! Even now, when the slightest delay is like death in the most literal, non-metaphorical sense, Raban poses as a kind of stupid staff officer, for whom the letter of the Code is more valuable than anything else. And thinking and making decisions is, they say, the commander’s concern... Xeng did not like the gram-captain and, in general, did not hide his feelings. And in general, which sailor, pray tell, loves the bloodhounds from the PRB Department? It’s one thing to endure on board, but to love – that’s a no-brainer...
“The code used by the sender was changed by the Admiralty a year ago,” the gram-captain answered, still not looking at the commander. - The codebreakers had to work hard before they found the required code and...
Navigare necesse est!
Vivere non est necesse
It is necessary to sail on the sea!
Living is not so necessary.
An ancient Latin phrase said either by Pompey or Pliny.
When you walk along the Lycian Way along the southern coast of Turkey, your gaze often rests on the inaccessible coastline of amazing beauty, with numerous islands and beaches accessible only by yacht. And the tourist is consumed by an inquisitive thought - how to swim, how to get there to places accessible to few. I nurtured this dream for a couple of years, until I accidentally saw a super offer: “I’m looking for a partner on a sea kayak trip.” Roma is a specialist in Southeast Asia, who has visited thirty countries, sailed two oceans, several seas and bays, and was looking for someone to go kayaking along the Turkish coast of the Mediterranean Sea with. I could have done it alone, but I reasonably reasoned that doing it together would be more fun. For me it was a jackpot, a lucky lottery ticket.
So I left Kharkov
Now all the technical issues have been resolved and I’m on my way. I was looking for the cheapest air ticket and certainly to Dalaman - near the beginning of the route. And I found him. Therefore, I left two days earlier than Roma. He was carrying his kayak. The "Harpoon" kayak, framed and inflatable, weighs 20 kg and was purchased specifically for sea trips and ease of transportation on airplanes, where it is often necessary to meet the weight limit of 20 kg. I carried most of the general bivouac items and general food purchased at home. Turkey greeted us with a hot sun that was not our style, and the water in the sea... well, not warmer than in the Black Sea, but twice as salty. By the way, salt water penetrates more actively into all kinds of sealed packaging, and dries more slowly than fresh water.
Straight from the airport I go to the sea and swim for two days, walk around the neighborhood, eat oranges from ownerless trees. It should be noted that in Turkey, a person walking with a backpack along the road is very likely to be given a free ride. Once a taxi driver gave me a lift. For free! Another time, German retirees who have a cottage there near the airport. I’m going to the meeting point and the beginning of the route on the shore of the large lake Kocegiz. There is the city of Kocegiz.
This is a rough route map
Early morning. At the end of the embankment I meet Roma. We collect the kayak and set sail. I suggest the first meters on the water along the embankment. There, all coastal cities and towns have embankments with berths for numerous ships and yachts, with cafes and wandering tourists. So: we row slowly along the embankment and see whether they notice us or not. They notice! Even in Russian! So all this is not in vain!!!
First night on the peninsula. The breath of the sea can already be felt. Strong wind blows. This almost never happens here. This makes its own adjustments. We set up the tent only in the evening, when the wind has died down. Otherwise it would have blown away. Another thing is that Roma likes to sit on a hill with a good view of the lake and sea. But also with the wind in the load. 
The next day we walk to the end of the lake. We walk along the river connecting it to the sea. Along the banks there are mountains. In general, the entire coast of Turkey is mountainous and rocky. The stones are all sharp. So you can't dock everywhere.
On the shore is the city of Dalyan.
There are hundreds of ships and boats at the piers. We have been looking for a long time for somewhere to land. Two water snakes and a sea turtle about a meter in diameter swim nearby. Actually, turtles are not allowed into the Lake. There is a fence in the river to keep out turtles and a gate for ships. But the turtles are apparently waiting at the gate and breaking into the lake after a passing ship to lay eggs in an unusual lake environment to the delight of predators. When we swam up to this gate, apparently we didn’t look like turtles, and they opened the gate for us and let us further into the river.
There are a lot of such towns on the banks of rivers in our country, but what a resort the Turks turned it into! No worse than those promoted on the sea coast. And tourists are taken on boats to the sea beach. That’s why there are hundreds of boats at the pier. I'm going to the store to buy bread and fruit. We fill all the bottles with about 30 liters of water. Suddenly a local little dog jumps into the kayak and says in no uncertain terms that he will sail with us. I have already encountered this behavior of dogs in Europe, when they attach themselves to tourists and accompany them throughout the trip. I stroke the dog and console him. And despite her persistent demands, I leave her on the shore.
We are approaching the sea. There is a strong wind there. The sand spit, the bay and the beach are about six kilometers away. During the day, imported tourists wander there, and at night, local turtles lay eggs. There are ropes and wire fences to prevent people from walking on eggshells. But there are a lot of people walking everywhere. Strong winds carry sea spray and sand. And tourists walk around a little lost, trying to hide from the wind and sun.
Having paraded along the beach, we go out into the sea, into the waves and wind. Well, I've never walked on such waves before. I believe that the wind was about 50 km per hour according to cycling sensations, and the waves were over a meter high. We walk about 200 meters from the shore. sideways to the wave. While maintaining balance, we make a proactive movement with the body and oar on each wave. I’m sitting in front, the wave sometimes hits me hard in the face and rolls over the boat. At the moment of impact, I momentarily lose orientation in space and balance. I hope that Roma will keep us afloat at this moment. We pass the beach. You can't spend the night on it. Our overnight stay is on a small rocky beach in a bay. After such a bumpy ride and the fact that everything ended well, I feel strong feelings: victory over the waves, my fear, in general a bouquet of positive feelings.
Morning. Turkish spider sleeping on a kayak!
The next day, to avoid the waves, we go out on the water at 6:30 am. We sail to the cape on the horizon with a fair wind on a calm sea. The sun slowly peeks out from behind the high mountainous shore. On the cape, chaotic waves appear from different directions. We rounded the cape and then it began... a headwind and short, pointed waves in the face. It seems that the kayak is standing still despite our desperate efforts. We take closer to the shore and, hiding behind the coastal mountains, we go around a large bay. In a strong crosswind, the kayak constantly turns around and rowing from a kayak becomes similar to a canoe, on the one hand. Because of the waves and sharp rocks, it is impossible to moor to the shore, so stops are rare, only on the beaches. Sometimes we row for four hours straight. Everything you sit with becomes numb to the point of impossibility. I noticed that after a couple of hours of rowing I started to feel seasick: I started to regret that I had breakfast in the morning. But as soon as you get into a strong bump, everything immediately passes and is forgotten.
We pass by the airport in Dalaman. There is an endless beach about ten kilometers away. There are night tracks of Caretta-Caretta turtles and other living creatures on it. Airplanes landing and taking off fly overhead very close to us. We spend the night at the end of the beach. There is a quiet, deserted place. In the morning we get up again at 5:40, at 6:30 we are already on the water. We round another cape protruding strongly into the sea. This time, beyond the cape, the sea was relatively calm and, having walked about twenty kilometers that morning, we were already at the parking lot at 11:00. There is no point in going any further today. The parking is super great, and the waves get stronger towards midday. Dry sticks and pine needles burn in my wood chipper with a crackling sound, as if poured with gasoline. It is surprising that with such an amount of ultra-dry fuel, not a single trace of forest fires is visible.
According to the plan, we were supposed to reach the city of Fethiye, but in order not to dismantle the kayak and not dry out on a crowded embankment, we decided to finish the hike in Yaniklar, near the mouth of the river.
By the way, it seems there is no word for river in Turkish. There are words stream. I noticed this there while talking to the locals. We washed off the salt and dried it. I accompanied Roma and his kayak to the airport. And I still had two more days at sea in Dalaman and sixteen hours between flights to wander around Istanbul. There are two airports in Istanbul: one named after Ataturk on the European side, and the other, where I flew “Sabiha Gokcen” on the Asian side. Sabiha is the adopted daughter of Ataturk, who became a pilot. From the airport there is an express bus "Havatas" to Taksim Square. All sorts of festivals and fairs take place there.
Fair in Taksim. For some reason they are obsessed with the topic of dancing dervishes.
A typical Turkish samovar with a teapot on top.
Paradise for foodies.
There are many historical monuments within a radius of five kilometers. I got to take a night walk across the bridge over the Golden Horn Bay. There, dozens of locals constantly catch some small anchovy with fishing rods right from the bridge. Small but a lot. I found the historical temple of Hagia Sophia - a stronghold of Orthodoxy in Byzantium. Now there is a mosque there, but the name has hardly been changed, it is Ay Sophia. I also saw the fortress walls of Constantinople, built in the fifth century by Emperor Roman, which defended the city for a thousand years, but did not withstand the assault of the knights of the fourth crusade in 1204 and the dramatic last siege of the city by the army of Mehmet II in 1453. Where, for the first time in history, they were fired at by siege artillery, the diameter of which sometimes reached one meter!
Ancient walls.
Saint Sophia.
I was amazed by the embankment with bicycle and jogging paths stretching beyond the horizon.
And homeless people and tourists sleeping there on the rocks. And most importantly, the friendliness and goodwill of the people of Istanbul and all the people in Turkey.
Happy Turkish dogs.
This trip cost me 200 dollars for tickets taken 4 days before departure, 900 hryvnia for food bought at home and 25 dollars spent for 10 days in Turkey on buses, bread, ayran and fruit.
I knew before that it was necessary to sail the sea, but now I have a clear vision of why I need to strive to visit the southern countries, seas and oceans.
What will be left of us besides
What the cross means in the lists
After all, living is not so necessary
And necesse is only navigare est.
“Swimming the sea is necessary. Living is not so necessary.” A familiar phrase from childhood flashed on the Internet page, which, as far as I remember, belonged to one of the Roman commanders. Desperate selflessness, in its literal sense, does not evoke in me the unambiguous admiration today that it did in my youth. Rather, it frightens with its recklessness.
Pompey Sextus, commander of the Roman fleet in ancient times. I would like to know more about him. I'm searching online and suddenly I find an advert and offer:
Book.
“Ice splashes. Victor Konetsky."
This is the seventh book in the series by V. Konetsky
Travel prose, that is, prose about the sea
Labor, marine production.
Hardcover book in perfect condition
condition. I'll exchange it for something
love story.
A book by V. Konetsky on “some kind of...”! Who is this madman?
What a wonderful sea romance the reading of my childhood was filled with. “Children of Captain Grant”, “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea”, “Fifteen-Year-Old Captain”, “Treasure Island”, “Scarlet Sails”, “Island of Lost Ships”, “The Old Man and the Sea”, “Amphibian Man”... But even after the sea the topic did not go away. Thor Heyerdahl appeared and captivated with his “Kon-Tiki”, “Ra” and “The Secret of Easter Island”. Zh.I. Cousteau and his "Whales".
My latest hobby is Viktor Konetsky. A wonderful singer of the sea. Smart, ironic, subtle psychologist of human souls in extreme circumstances. Once again I am indignant - V. Konetsky’s book is just some kind of love story! Yes, just listen to how this one writes
“All around there was a green swell, the expanse of the ocean, fluttering fields of seagulls over a school of fish, red-black hulls of trawlers, a breeze, and the sun, and distant streaks of fog, empty bottles on the swell overboard, soggy pieces of bread that the spoiled seagulls did not pay attention to . And the first thing we heard fifty miles from New York on the radiotelephone was:
- “Dostoevsky”! "Dostoevsky"! “Dobrolyubov” says. Reply via communication!
“Well, I’m Dostoevsky,” answered an old, grumpy voice, “why are you rushing?”
“Hello, Fyodor Mikhailovich! – I thought – there’s someone I didn’t expect to meet in the Gulf of Maine, it’s you!”
***
Or more:
“Nearby is Vera Fedorovna Panova:
- It seems to me, Viktor Viktorovich, that you forgot our first meeting.
It was a terrible meeting. Vera Fedorovna Panova called for a conversation after I asked her to read my next opus and sat sweaty with fear on the edge of her chair.
Vera Fedorovna slowly and carefully put on her glasses and stared at my opus:
-You wrote here on page sixteen “the cow that my father bought when he returned from the front died.” Did you write this?
“Yes,” I said and laughed, because in my youth I was funny. And suddenly I clearly imagined that my cow defended Moscow and reached Berlin, and when she returned from the front, the poor thing died.
But Panova did not smile. She was full of severity. There is no humor when it comes to something sacred."
No, it’s incomprehensible, Konetsky, writing a sea captain, no matter what kind of love story, I’m indignant at the monitor.
And, however, now my love for the sea extends no further than the pages of books. For some time now, I firmly know that I will never set foot on the deck of a ship again. Anyone. I'm afraid of the sea.
In the early eighties, or more precisely, in 1982, my husband and I worked at one of the defense facilities. It's been a busy, stressful summer. And no light was expected until the construction was commissioned. The commission that arrived “cut down” the vacations, including for me. And when, as a “consolation prize,” they offered me a business trip with my husband to Sevastopol in August to coordinate documentation for the technical development of the “product” for a period of 20 days, I happily grabbed it, deciding that without telling anyone, I could take it with with my eight-year-old daughter. We’ll get settled somehow, so we can’t leave the child without the sea this year.
We immediately left the plane, allowing ourselves a two-day break from the exhausting race of stage-by-stage delivery of work, buying a separate compartment on the train. I loved the train, shopping at stops for hot smoked fish, lightly salted cucumbers with steaming potatoes in a bag made of rough gray paper, sugared tomatoes, melons, fruits, and most importantly, relaxed doing nothing, a rare pleasure in those years.
The train arrived at about two o'clock in the morning. Sevastopol in those years was a Soviet “closed” city, entry into which required special passes. Only the phone number written on the back of the travel ID gave hope for solving housing and other problems in an unfamiliar city. However, for this it was necessary to wait until morning.
From the hot, stuffy carriage we went out onto the platform and, residents of the dry steppe, where by mid-summer the leaves begin to turn yellow and the grasses become gray and prickly, we plunged into the damp cool of the southern Crimean night. I still don’t even know how the Sevastopol station works. We didn’t have time to look into it to try to settle in for the night when locals surrounded us with an offer of lodging for the night. The old woman, resembling Baba Yaga, as far as the station lighting in the night allowed her to be seen, literally dragged her husband along with her by the sleeve. We looked at each other, it didn’t matter, tired, with a stumbling child, we obeyed.
Apparently, there had been a little rain recently, invisible on the asphalt, but the old woman led us, gliding along a barely noticeable path somewhere up the mountain. We walked, without speaking to each other, through some thickets, barely keeping up with her. And she climbed up the steep hill as quickly as a goat, so much so that her agility was amazing. The image of Gogol’s lady-witch flared up more and more brightly in my mind. But finally, a light flashed between the trees - they came.
The hostess opened the door of the tiny shed, in which there was nothing but a wide bed and a small sofa, disappeared for a minute and returned with two sets of excellent starched linen, took the money and disappeared. We didn't see her again.
We woke up to the sound of a rooster crowing right under our ears. Then the goat bleated. It turned out that our home was only separated by a plywood partition from my grandmother’s barnyard, which we didn’t care about at night. When we went out and looked into the yard, we saw... a beige llama and a gray peacock, eagerly spreading its tail, among the fussy chickens.
The morning was warm and quiet and we, despite the early hour, hurried to leave the “hospitable” lodge. However, going down the path to the station, we were amazed at what a cockroach darkness we decided to climb into at night. All that remained was to marvel at my provincial gullibility.
The phone call had a magical effect and after a couple of hours we settled down perfectly in a departmental hotel, where our daughter did not turn out to be a hindrance for the administration, and until tomorrow we set off to get acquainted with the city, the legendary and beautiful Sevastopol.
We had enough time during these twenty days to wander the streets to appreciate the marvelous topography of this city, when in the rain the streams rush down noisily and we, along with everyone else, took off our shoes and merrily ran to the bus stop. The legendary Count's pier. Primorsky Boulevard. Monuments to Nakhimov, Kornilov. Malakhov Kurgan. Brotherly Cemetery. A touching monument over the Mass Grave of Russian and French soldiers, erected in 1892. Panorama "Defense of Sevastopol". Plane trees, chestnuts, and walnuts are unusual for our eyes. Peaches, luxurious huge peaches, were sold on every corner. Excellent grapes and books, which we imprudently “attacked” on the first day, and then, like a great temptation, avoided them - it was impossible to grasp the immense wealth lying on the street ruins. We made do with Balzac, Shakespeare, Zola and Ozhegov’s new Dictionary, which replaced ours, which was completely worn out.
The enterprises that interested us were located in the wonderful town of Balaklava, with its amazing landscape, embankment, Cliff... And the sea, of course, the delightful sea splashed at our feet.
The designers turned out to be good guys with a concept and, according to the agreed schedule, we carved out a few days at the end of the business trip and enjoyed the luck that accidentally fell upon us, until this event happened on one of the last days.
That Sunday, we once again went on a pleasure boat to a distant beach. Excellent, I must admit, with the finest sand. Now I don’t remember its name. By noon there was nowhere to step. Vacationers kept arriving. We sat away from the water near the steep sandy wall of the shore under an umbrella and carefreely played “city” with our daughter. The husband went deeper into Zola.
We did not attach any importance to the fact that the wind had freshened. On the contrary, seeing how suddenly the waves began to reach our bare heels, carrying us along with them, we mischievously threw ourselves into the water, flying back with the next wave, almost to the wall of our cliff. My daughter was delighted. We're hungry. We went up to the summer glass cafe, standing over the cliff.
While having a carefree snack, we suddenly noticed how boats flashed by, taking out vacationers. It was announced through a megaphone that the next flight was the last, due to the danger of a storm. The spray from the waves had already reached the mirrored walls of the cafe. But we trustingly boarded that last flight, onto a boat full of people. We set sail in very rough seas.
Traveling on a ship along the Volga, I never felt fear. But here! The sun has disappeared. The rain began to drizzle and intensified. The sky and water somehow quickly merged into one gray mass of water. The unimaginable has begun. We flew up to the ridge and fell down. The crowded ship tilted, and all the people, screaming, first of delight, and then of horror, fell first to one side and then to the other. Waves began to wash over the deck. Two elderly women began to pray. We, wet from head to toe, hugged the child with all our might and I, it seems, for the first time in my life, without knowing a single prayer, began to ask God: Lord, help! Help us get to the shore alive! I knew that I would never, never set foot on the deck of any ship in the world again.
The only thing that inspired any hope was the sailor worker on the deck, who seemed to be calmly reeling in some kind of rope.
And suddenly, in this horror of waves, splashes and rain, right next to us, completely indistinguishable a second before against the backdrop of the heaving sea, the silhouette of a huge cruiser appeared. He seemed to pass very close to us along the high gray wall of the building. It looks like you could touch it with your hand. I managed to catch a glimpse of guns, antennas, masts, almost invisible in the darkness, and he disappeared again in the shroud of rain, invisible and inaudible, like a ghost.
A general cry of horror drowned out the noise of the breaking waves, and the sailor who was nearby on the deck suddenly, with a changed face, earnestly crossed himself.
Exhausted, we went ashore. There was no strength to thank or answer the captain’s gloomy question:
"No losses?"
Exhausted, we sank onto the steps of the pier. However, like many others...
But I remember, in the late seventies, during our fun cruise trip along the route Saratov-Moscow-Astrakhan-Saratov, somewhere in the Ulyanovsk region, where the Volga looked like a sea, we woke up early in the morning from a request for loudspeaker communication from the captain bridge of our luxury liner:
- The chief mate urgently goes to the captain!
The ship stood there, humming continuously, and for some reason the bell was ringing. Dense milky fog outside the cabin window. And again, already irritated:
- First mate to the captain!
Despite the fact that we did not move, I began to feel motion sick and lightheaded. Those who went out into the corridor were asked to return to their cabins. We listened with frivolous curiosity as the service began. But the cheerful music played over the broadcast drowned out even our signs of anxiety.
Gradually, the fog cleared, and we moved on, without delving into the details of the crew’s excitement. It’s just that then, in the late seventies, we didn’t yet know that on June 5, 1983 (a year after our Sevastopol), the passenger ship “Alexander Suvorov”, when approaching Ulyanovsk, would go at full speed under the non-navigable eighth span of the railway bridge across the Volga and would be demolished the entire upper deck, where the disco was going on, and the train with coal and grain would fall on the beautiful liner. 176 were announced dead, and there were countless injured. A cross on the shore in Ulyanovsk stands in memory of the victims.
And further! I remember the magnificent steamship Admiral Nakhimov. While vacationing in Gelendzhik, we came to Novorossiysk and wanted to visit the memorial cemetery. We sat on the embankment, watching this luxurious snow-white liner getting ready to sail. A well-dressed crowd of passengers walked on board in an endless stream. Cheerful, happy people. I remember we were surprised at how many boxes of wines, champagne, boxes of fruits and vegetables with foreign labeling were loaded into the hold. The cars drove up hastily, and the loaders, moving in an endless chain along the ramp, in identical black clothes, looked like ants.
We, very close by, fed the tame dolphins with delicious white buns made from Kuban wheat flour. And who then could have imagined that on August 31, 1986, when leaving Novorossiysk Bay, the steamer Admiral Nakhimov would collide with the dry cargo ship Pyotr Vasev and sink two miles from the nearest shore. More than 500 people died. Eternal memory to them.
Never again have I tempted fate on the water. And sailing on the sea, of course, is necessary.
Photo from the Internet.
