ON THE OTHER SIDE OF DESPAIR – 1 (life story of the disgraced seaman).

From the author.
It’s hard to express feelings without expressing emotions. But I’ll try. This is the story of a sailor’s fate. The truth burns like pure alcohol, which not everyone can drink. So it’s watered down with fiction and sweetened with lies. But I’m old-fashioned, I was never taught to lie. So I will pour you the truth as it is, undiluted.

In all civilized countries, seafaring has long been considered a high-risk profession. Seafarers are protected by an international trade union, guaranteed high wages and various benefits. The International Trade Union did not protect Soviet sailors and fishermen. With all the resulting, as they say, disenfranchisement. Because the Soviet political system is feudalism and they are far from civilized countries.
They say that a fisherman is twice a sailor. Soviet fishing trawlers used to go to sea for fishing, the voyage lasted for half a year. The main food of fishermen was frozen meat, tinned food, and cereals. The meat was from the army fridges, where it had survived all the expiry dates. Fresh fruits and vegetables were not part of their diet, as Soviet fishing companies did not spend money on replenishing stocks in foreign ports. In addition, their diet included freshly caught fish which helped. Only in six months, after the end of the fishing season, the trawler was allowed to enter a foreign port for a day or two, where the fishermen were given some money in local currency. The crew was taken into town in small groups for a few hours under the supervision of informers. There they had to proudly present the image of the country of victorious socialism and, of course, avoid drinking places, taverns, and bars.

When they returned to the ship, the crew and the goods they had bought were inspected. In their home port, the ship and the fishermen were searched again by customs officers and border guards with dogs. There was a Soviet song ‘Where the Motherland Begins’. For the sailors, it began with a search for contraband. The fishermen were not supposed to arouse the envy of their fellow citizens with jeans bought from the damned bourgeoisie. They had to heroically overcome the difficulties of their profession and receive the modest wages of a Soviet worker. There was no compensation for risks or injuries. The fishermen’s adherence to the moral image of a builder of communism was closely monitored by the ever-present and omnipresent KGB, which had its eyes and ears on every ship that sailed the distant seas.

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PART 1. WHY A SEAGULL WALKS ON THE SAND…
Leha’s childhood smelled of the sea and campfire smoke. There was also the music of Giuseppe Verdi. Leha’s mum loved classical music, especially opera, and all boys love what their mothers love. Historians claim that the great Italian began studying music and playing the organ in the local church at the age of five. Coincidence or not, when Leha was five, a family friend, the conductor of the local symphony orchestra, began teaching him to play the violin.
Leha grew up an inquisitive boy, learning to read at the age of four, and with a good ear for music he found it easy to learn it. When he was not accepted into primary school at the age of six, he cried bitterly, he wanted to learn. But he had to wait another year. He studied at home. The following year he was admitted to school, and in his first lesson, Leha surprised the teacher by beginning to read the textbook fluently. Two weeks later he was promoted to the second grade. This allowed Leha to catch up with his friends who had started school a year earlier. But even in the second grade, he was bored. And in the third too. Leha finished four years of school with honors. With his mum he spent that summer in the Caucasus, at his grandfather’s home. For curiosity and success in his studies, grandfather honored him with a gold family watch. It had Roman numerals on the dial, an antique watch that his grandfather had inherited from his father.

His beloved mother died tragically in September. Leha had already lost his father. The authorities put him in an orphanage and his childhood was over. All the children in the orphanage are like mad dogs. Leha got into trouble and realized that in his new life, strong fists would be more reliable than a violin. He began to learn boxing, running five kilometers to training school in the city and soon had a good punch in both hands. Leha became a biting dog, learning the lessons of survival. He beat his tormentors painfully, and soon even the older pupils began to fear him. After the 8th grade, Leha was expelled from the orphanage. The headmaster was a kindly uncle, a front-line soldier. He taught chemistry and the orphans nicknamed him Plumbum:
“You ruin discipline and set a bad example for the other pupils,” Plumbum looked at Leha sternly, “that’s why you’re expelled. If I give you an F for behavior, I’ll have to send you to a work colony. You’ll be lost there. You have studied well, and you have even been an excellent student. So I’ll give you a C-minus and you can decide how you want to live from now on…”. Plumbum handed Leha the certificate and closed the door behind him.

***

Vasily Ivanovich Volobuev, a long-distance captain and a romantic in love with the sea, taught them the basics of navigation. He taught the boys to navigate by compass, read watch logs, understand the nature of currents and tides, and feel the wind. The captain taught them the signs of the sea: “If the sun is red in the morning, it means a change of weather is coming.” If the sun is red in the evening, the sailor has nothing to fear.” “If the sun hid in a cloud, a sailor should expect a storm at sea.” “If a seagull sits in the water, expect good weather.” And “If a seagull walks on the sand, a sailor is troubled at heart.”
The last omen especially intrigued Leha. So he asked the captain what the seagull was pining for. The old sailor smiled: “You see, Alexei, according to the legends of the Vikings, the first brave seafarers, the souls of dead sailors move into these seagulls. Seagulls are always at sea, and when they fly over the masts, it means that your ship is on a safe course. I wish you never to see a seagull on the sand…”.

Leha learned to read the sea and the stars and to smell the wind. Later, in his adventures at sea, he will pass through heavy storms and hurricanes, and survive in Antarctica and the treacherous waters of the North Atlantic, where rocks and reefs lurk in the thick fog off the coast of Ireland. He will remember the the compass cartouche taught to him by his couch, he will learn to navigate sea ships and one day become a captain himself. But that will come later.

***

His first maritime experience was on the passenger liner ‘Admiral Nakhimov’. It was an exceptionally beautiful trophy liner ‘Deutschland’ that the USSR had received after the war and re-named. The shipping company had no legal documents for the liner, so it was not allowed to go further than the Bosporus. The liner carried Soviet tourists around the Black Sea.
The god of the deck crew was the bosun Stepanych, who looked like a real pirate from Stevenson’s stories: hands like hooks, an animal grin on his face. But Stepanych had a golden soul. He loved his boys and taught them the sea profession, taught them hard. And there was no other way to teach them.

Early in the morning, they approached the Georgian port of Poti. The bay there is shallow, so the berth for ships with a decent draft stretches out to sea. It was stormy, and Stepanych ordered all the cadets to go down to the forepeak to knit mops. The amplitude of the rocking is the greatest in the forward part of the ship, and it is in the forepeak it is felt in full measure. “You have to beat out the wedge with a wedge,” laughed Stepanych. This was his way of accustoming cadets to the sea rocking.
The wave in the Black Sea is high and steep, there is not much room for acceleration, not like in the ocean. And then it happened. The wave rocked the liner and at the entrance to the bay it hit the keel against the ground. Good thing that the bottom of the bay was muddy, the hull withstood. The cadets flew out of the forepeak onto the deck. Bosun Stepanych looked at his bewildered charges and laughed. The alarm was sounded and they prepared to start patching the leak. But there was no leak. The Germans built ships of high quality, like everything else they made.

It was December, the season for persimmons and tangerines. All these fruits were cheap at the local market and the cadets ate them. Leha was one of the three helmsmen, the “white bones”, as they called those who kept watch in the wheelhouse and on the upper bridge. He knocked on the bosun’s cabin on an official matter. Stepanych opened the door and Leha’s nose was assaulted by aromas. The whole deck of the cabin was littered with boxes and crates of persimmons and tangerines. The cabin smelled like the Garden of Eden. Seeing his consternation, the bosun laughed:
“…Leha, my wife likes to make persimmon jam, so I’m bringing home Christmas presents. Why don’t you make some for your family?
“No family, Stepanych. I hadn’t thought about that,” Leha hesitated.
“Listen to the old fool, boy,” the bosun hugged him. Buy this citrus with all the money you have, it’s worth a penny here! You’ll sell it for five times as much in Odessa because we’re coming home on New Year’s Eve. And you’ll have some funny rubles for the holiday, for wine!
“Stepanych is right, and why not,” Leha thought. He bought persimmons and tangerines with all his cadet money. In Odessa, in the first restaurant, they bought everything from him and asked for more. The roubles crunched in his pockets and Leha wanted to go back to Poti to repeat the purchase. It was his first business. “The money is a virus!” smiled Leha.

He was on night watch, on the gangway. Tomorrow the ‘Admiral Nakhimov’ would leave for Varna. But Leha had no visa. They say, “A chicken is not a bird, and Bulgaria is not a foreign port!” But KGB wouldn’t let Leha go there either. “Assholes!” he lighted a cigarette and blew out the smoke.
It was drizzling, and the snow that had fallen during the day turned to mush underfoot. This is winter in Odessa. At the neighboring quay, a dry-cargo ship from Beirut was unloading its cargo of oranges, bound for Moscow, onto a freight train. The smell of citrus fruit hung over the quay. Leha could see from above how a loader was dragging a crate, obviously stolen. Then a police whistle blew. The loader dumped the crate and ran up the gangway, straight for Leha:
“Hey, kid, where to run, help me!” The burly man was breathing heavily, and behind him, a policeman was clumsily climbing up the gangway. Leha didn’t like policemen.
“…Run over the superstructure and jump into the water there…” he whispered to the loader, showing him the way.
In a few minutes, it was a body splash and a gunshot. A scowling policeman came down the gangway. The fugitive was gone, it was a dark night.

The next day, Leha was drinking wine with his mates in the local bodega. A tall man in a raincoat smiled at him from a table in the corner. He looked very much like that night loader.
As the evening wore on, Leha remembered the story and decided it was better to trade than to steal. However in the USSR, entrepreneurship was a crime, and all street traders were considered speculators and criminals. They were in the same bunk as thieves. The population was ordered to work in factories and plants. Except, of course, the wives and children of the party bosses. These were privileged not to work, for them, communism had already come. By looking at these idlers, the whole population was lazy to work. People used to say: “…they pretend to pay us and we pretend to work…”. There wasn’t enough money from one payment to the next, so they borrowed from their neighbors. That’s how all Soviets lived.

His next maritime practice was on the steamer ‘Crimea’. At the beginning of its life, the ship ran on coal, then its furnaces were converted to diesel fuel. The old ship smoked badly. During the Civil War, she probably carried a White Army soldier to Turkey. Now it was a voyage on the Crimean-Caucasian route, from Odessa to Batumi and back. The Yalta film studio chartered the steamer. The ship was repainted in black and white and the name “Tsesarevich” was written on it. Famous actors Nikolai Kryuchkov and Svetlana Svetlichnaya took part in the filming.
At sea, the ship groaned under the waves, all its rivets and bulkheads creaked, and only the god of the sea, Neptune, knows why it did not sink. This was the veteran’s last voyage, and on his return to Odessa, she was sent to be dismantled. Madame Svetlichnaya Leha was seen only once, probably she was too shy to appear on deck. Or perhaps she was seasick. And the cadets didn’t see the cameramen either. But Nikolai Kryuchkov was always in sight. Happy and gregarious, he loved the sea, and the sea and the sailors loved him. He was a man of great kindness. Cadets called him “Uncle Kolya”.

In Yalta, the city of aromatic Crimean wine, Uncle Kolya had drunk a little too much of it, and the hot sun overheated his head. The cadets carefully hold him under his arms and helped him up the gangway to the ship. And Uncle Kolya was hugging them and saying: “…you are my boys, my good ones…”. He was a good man. And a good actor! And a real sailor, he never got seasick!
In Batumi, the cadets were sent to the funeral procession. They were burying Nadya Kurchenko, a local airline stewardess who died at the hands of Lithuanians who hijacked a plane bound for Turkey. After his mother’s death, Leha could not hear the wailing of the funeral orchestra, it was beyond him. He escaped to the embankment. There, palm trees hung their huge leaves, birds fluttered and whistled in them, the smell of the sea mixed with the smoke from the kebab shops. Leha sat down in the shade and smoked. His thoughts were of the killed stewardess:
“Why did you resist, you fool? You could have lay down quietly on the floor like all the other passengers, and today you would have raised your children and smiled at the sun. But now, instead of sunshine, there will be darkness and cold, where your flesh will be eaten by worms, and no one will remember you..”
She must have been a pioneer and a Komsomol member. All fanatics have the same end…

“Hey, sailor, gild my hand, I’ll tell you the whole truth,” the gypsy interrupted his thoughts. Leha rummaged in his pockets and handed the fortune-teller three roubles, a cadet’s monthly stipend. It was money, after all: a packet of cigarettes cost 20 kopecks, a bottle of wine one ruble. The gypsy woman drew her finger across his palm, then looked strangely into his eyes:
“… Go with God, handsome, God bless your destiny,” without taking his money, she disappeared as suddenly as she had appeared. Many years later, being in trouble, Leha often remembered that gypsy woman. But at that time he paid no attention to her words. His adventures continued, and he dreamed of the Bosphorus.

***

Four excellent students stood in front of a row of six hundred graduates of the naval school. The rumble of the drums and the wailing of the orchestra frightened the sparrows away and they hid in the leaves of the flowering acacia trees. Excellent students received diplomas and commissions on the best ships of the Black Sea Shipping Company’s merchant fleet. Two of them were particularly lucky: they were sent to be part of the acceptance teams for newly built ships. Being part of a ship acceptance team was like hitting the jackpot at the casino in Monaco. The two-month trip to a shipyard in Germany meant money that could be used to buy a council flat in a good area or the most prestigious Soviet car, the ‘Volga’. The amount of money the sailor received on such a business trip was beyond the reach of nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand of his compatriots. The lucky ones were applauded with envy. But not all four were rewarded. The awarding officer averted his eyes and sent Leha to the personnel office.
There Leha was given an envelope with an unknown office called “CherAZMorPut” on it. The office was not far away, around the corner, in a shabby one-story building. An elderly woman took an excellent diploma from the envelope and stared at Leha:
“…Boy, there’s an obvious mistake here, go back to your personnel department. We’ve got drunks, smugglers, … the bottom of the fleet!”
Leha smiled crookedly: “…the papers are in order, please, hire me.”

Having received his ticket to life at sea, Leha set off on ‘Primorsky Boulevard’. The bronze founder of Odessa invited him to the blue sea with a friendly gesture; pigeons made love on the bronze duke’s head in broad daylight, in full view of pedestrians. His best friend in Odessa was Zhorik. They lived not far from each other and studied at the same college but in different departments. They both loved rock music, these were the years of the famous Liverpool Four. They formed their band at the college, Leha was the drummer, and Zhorik loved the guitar, and it sang in his hands.
The system didn’t give Leha a visa because he was an orphan. The system didn’t give a shit about his honors degree. Leha had no hostages on whom the system was to take revenge when a sailor who was out of the country decided not to return. His friend Zhorik was denied a visa by the system because his father was Jewish. His mother was Ukrainian. Such people are not considered full-blooded Jews in Israel. That’s the reality of Marxism-Nazism. People don’t understand it today.

Leha opened a bottle of beer and smiled at the bronze duke. In two days he would fly to Kerch, wherein the cargo port, his small ship was rubbing its rusty side against the quay. Looking at the statue from the side of the Pushkin monument, the scroll in the duke’s hand resembles a protruding masculine “dignity”. An observer of socialism from the first days he pointed to the sea with one hand and held his “dignity” with the other, consciously alluding to it:
The sea is sparkling,
But the fog is thick
Dreaming of a visa?
Suck my dick!

The next morning, after the graduation show, Leha went to Zhorka’s place. Together with their friends, they went to their favorite wild beach. There, in the coastal rocks, they had a stash – a couple of bottles of dry wine and a piece of tin on which they roasted their catch of mussels and crabs. The crab is a silly creature. If you tease it with your right hand, it will try to grab your finger. And then with your left hand, you have to press the crab from behind into the sand. Got you, you fool!
Zhorka rubs his eyes…. is he crying?
“It’s nothing, the salt stings,” he laughs.
Leha knows that Zhorka is in as much pain as he is. They dive into the salty sea. To hell with the KGB, life goes on!

KERCH.
The dredgers are cleaning and deepening the channels, and the shuttles are taking the mud out to sea and drowning it in the designated areas. The shuttle captain took Leha’s papers and sent him to the bosun. He showed him a bunk in a four-berth cabin and said he should be ready to go to the dredging site tomorrow.
That evening, Leha was at dinner with his new friends. According to tradition, he put two bottles of vodka on the table. Three of the boys were his age, obviously not trained to drink, and they got drunk quickly. Leha suggested they take a walk along the seafront to get some fresh air.
“Boys, Kerch is a bandit town. There are no serious bandits here, just scum, but it’s better not to go out in the dark…” the bosun warned.
On the table was a galley knife for cutting meat, a weapon of terrible beauty. After the bosun’s warning, Leha couldn’t resist and slipped the knife into his sleeve, just in case.
His new friends noticed and scattered the table knives in their pockets.
“Guys, don’t do that,” Leha laughed, “it could ruin your life. I know, I’ve been in street fights, I’ve smelled bloody shit you haven’t smelt…”.
But the sea is knee-deep for drunks.

The two pussies walked in front of them, enticing them with their asses. They followed them, and soon the girls led them to a dead end. Several people were waiting for them there:
“Ahhhh, so you want to hurt our girls?” said the tallest of them, “It will cost you all your money, assholes…!”. He defiantly tried to attack Leha.
But he didn’t know who he was attacking.
“…You filthy bitch, you’re attacking Odessians…?” Leha pulled a knife out of his sleeve, and the attacker’s eyes began to glaze over at the sight of the knife.
The knife was scary, and even scarier was Leha himself. He swung the knife in his right hand and hit the scumbag in the head with a left hook. The scumbag collapsed on the asphalt. One of Leha’s drunken buddies jumped up and added a boot to his head. That’s not necessary. Leha orders them to hail a cab.
The scum lays unmoving, his partners in shock, probably thinking Leha had killed him.
“If anyone moves, you’re dead!” – Leha shouts to them, and they press themselves against the wall.
The girls on the bench are silent. When Leha passes by, he grabs them by the hair and pushes their heads together. They howl in pain. No, he probably didn’t hit them as hard as he wanted to. Otherwise, their brains would have fallen out.

***

PRIVATE CHUGUEV.
In the autumn, Leha received a summons from the military commission in Odessa. He was to be drafted into the army. The army did not require a visa. He went to his hometown of Odessa. In the office, the military officer pounded his fists on the table:
Chuguev, you must do your duty to the Fatherland and the Party. You have the honor of serving in the submarine fleet, in Sevastopol. Since you are a trained sailor…!” he finished.
Leha left the office and lit a cigarette. He agreed with the duty to the motherland. And he owed nothing to the Party. He wore a pioneer’s tie, but he was not a member of the Komsomol. And now he didn’t want to give years of his life, maybe even his life, to this party. Besides, he liked surface ships and the blue of the horizon. And you can’t jump out of a submarine or a plane in an emergency. So he was late for the draft, a day late. The officer was furious. He promised to send Leha to a place “where Makar would not graze his calves”.
He didn’t lie.

The train rattled its wheels across the deserted snow-covered plain, over which forests were blackened and crows circled. The well-tended Ukrainian gardens and groves were far behind. It was November, and it was already winter in Russia. Outside the windows, Leha glimpsed dilapidated huts propped up with sticks and covered with blackened straw. Leha thought that the soldiers of Napoleon’s army were still inside these barns, trying to escape the cold. Makar did not graze calves here; the officer was right. Leha found himself in the eighteenth century.

They were unloaded onto a platform in the middle of nowhere. Women walked in dirty cotton coats, men kneaded mud with boots, blew their noses, and wiped their fingers on their trousers. Everyone was drunk. Leha remembered the cadets of his marine school who had come from Russia. They would wipe their arsis with their fingers and then wipe their finger on the wall in the crew toilet. They were caught and forced to lick their artwork off the walls.

In this remote area, there was a military unit where Leha was to fulfill his duty to the Motherland and the Communist Party. The battalion of three companies was commanded by a major, and his deputy was a lieutenant colonel, an elderly man. He called himself a front-line soldier, but he had only jubilee honors and had spent the whole war on the home front. Since he was higher in rank than the unit commander, he resented being subordinated to a major. The old fart’s views were narrow and primitive, and to the young soldiers, he was full of arrogance and ambition. Having been an educated sailor and now a reluctant recruit, Leha teased him with provocative questions in political classes. He often stunned the lieutenant colonel, the old fart’s face poured blood, and he sent Leha to the brig.

In the soldier’s trade, Leha quickly learned the automatic rifle and performed day and night shooting with excellence. He regularly ran a dozen kilometers on skis with guys from the sports company, took part in army sports competitions, and twice went to military district exercises. But he was not given an excellent service badge. The badge was intended for excellent combat and political trainees, who were considered zombied by propaganda and were ready to give their lives at the first order of the commander. Leha was excellent in combat training but bickered with the deputy politician in matters of politics. And did not want to be zombified. For this, the political officer had often sent him up in the brig.

At the end of the summer, a company of sturdy soldiers was sent to a logging camp in the Kalinin region. They lived in tents in the forest. It was August, the water in the buckets froze overnight, and to wash you had to hold the bucket over the fire for half an hour. Food supplies were irregular, and the thermos flasks contained a mixture of rotten vegetables and scraps of meat. For two months Leha wielded an axe on the logging site, experiencing first-hand the so-called ‘heroism’ of the Komsomol construction sites that journalists talked about on the front pages of the Kremlin newspapers. The work for the Komsomol on these sites was done by convicts. They did not sing Komsomol songs, but prison songs, and their whole life was reduced to survival in dog-like conditions.

Leha played guitar and drums in a soldier’s rock band. He knew how to work with poster markers and cardboard, and decorated classrooms. In general, he was clever. At the very beginning of his service, Leha was sent to sergeant courses. But the same lieutenant colonel canceled his studies and the badge of excellence in combat and political training. For him, Leha was an anarchist and anti-Soviet. By the end of his service, Leha had accumulated fifty days in the brig, all for quarreling with the lieutenant colonel. The lieutenant colonel wanted to destroy the rebellious soldier by sending him to a disciplinary battalion. And then an officer from the special department (military KGB) decided to recruit the rebellious soldier as an informer by blackmailing him.
One evening Leha was called to the headquarters. An unfamiliar officer was waiting for him in the unit commander’s office. It turned out to be the same officer from Special Branch.
“You’re not a bad soldier, Private Chuguev,” the officer began from a distance. Noting Leha’s efforts and successes in military disciplines, he moved on to blackmail:
“But the deputy commander considers you a persistent violator of regulations and an anti-Soviet. You have 50 days in the brig, all because you are a troublemaker. Are you anti-Soviet? We can easily send you to a disciplinary battalion. There you will learn to love your country!”
Here Leha remembered Plumbum’s warnings from the orphanage.

Having stunned Leha with threats, the officer moved on to recruitment. He offered to inform on fellow soldiers and officers. Leha was shocked by such blatant insolence to turn him into an informer.
Lying in bed after lights out, Leha did not sleep a wink. He knew there had been embezzlement and shortages in the unit. The thieves were petty officers, freelancers, and local alcoholics. But Leha didn’t care about them.
This was the army, and to him it stank of a disciplinary battalion, a prison. He’d beaten up snitches in the orphanage. So the only thing left to do was to play the fool. The next time the KGB officer came to the unit and asked his questions, Leha answered like those three monkeys “I didn’t see, I didn’t hear, I don’t know”. And the officer finally let him go. And then came the end of his service term.

One evening Leha was called back to headquarters. This time it was the commander of the unit who addressed him:
“Private Chuguev, I’ll be frank. If I send you to the disciplinary battalion, as the lieutenant colonel insists, I will not get the next rank, a star on my epaulets. And there’s no telling how long the delay will be. So thank fate that your service has come to an end. The order to demobilize you has been received. It would be better for you if you disappeared immediately”.
The major handed Leha a package: “Here is your military card and a prescription for the military draft office in the place where you were drafted. Your service is over. I’ll give you twenty minutes to pack and leave!”
“Dear Commander! Ten minutes would be enough for me!”
Leha saluted with one hand, grabbed the package with the other, turned on his heels, and flew out of the office.

(translation in progress. Please come again, later)

В одесском военкомате Лешке поставили отметку в военном билете, он был зачислен в запас. И вышел на родной Приморский бульвар. Море слепило синевой. И небо было цвета моря. Лешка улыбнулся бронзовому Дюку и ему показалось что тот ему подмигнул. И стало так хорошо на душе! Ведь он дома и его море плещет рядом!
Он пришел в свою мореходку, нашел командира группы: “..Валентин Степаныч, что мне делать? Я же моряк, в океан хочу!”. Они вышли на задний двор покурить.

“..Леша, тебе уже двадцать. У тебя за плечами детдом, мореходка, армия. С такими университетами ты должен знать мир в котором живешь, лучше любого из твоих сверстников. Но вижу что ты как был наивным донкихотом, так им и остался!” – командир затянулся дымом сигареты.
“..Пойми одну вещь, Леша, – продолжал он. Родных у тебя нет, потому Система тебе не верит. Насмотревшись нормальной жизни за морями, ты однажды сбежишь, тебя ведь ничто здесь не держит, ты как вольный ветер. Короче, хочешь увидеть Босфор – женись и сделай системе заложника! – он хлопнул ладонью Лешку по колену и заканчивая разговор добавил, – и забудь об этом гнилом черноморском пароходстве, там одни барахольщики и стукачи. Иди в китобойку! Там всегда нужны настоящие моряки. Там ты пробьешься!”.

Лешка усмехнулся: “..Валентин Степаныч, я помню ваше напутствие, Вы написали его на обороте моей выпускной фотографии: “Ты правильно сделал свой первый шаг. Пусть будет второй таким же!”
“..Так вот и делай этот шаг, Леша!” – улыбнулся ему командир роты.

Жизнь показала, что командир дал Лешке верный совет. Спустя месяц он женился, а с рождением сына подал документы на визу, в китобойку. Из отдела кадров управления ему вскоре сообщили, что нужна также характеристика из воинской части, в которой он служил. Лешка вспомнил замполита, пятьдесят суток гауптвахты и у него заскребли кошки на душе. Но делать нечего, поехал.

Вокруг воинской части ничего не изменилось — те же сапоги, та же грязь, пьяные рожи баб и мужиков. В штабе он постучал в дверь кабинета замполита. За столом сидел молодой капитан, тут явно произошли перемены.
“..Чугуев Леша, я тебя помню и твою гитару тоже!” – улыбался ему капитан. Он раньше был командиром второй роты. Они болтали о том о сем, пока девушка-лейтенант стучала на машинке в соседнем кабинете характеристику для Лешки.
“..Да, как видишь у нас перемены!” – капитан смотрел в окно. Ты это прошел и я могу тебе о них сказать. Тот подполковник, что донимал тебя, оказался кляузником, он писал в политотдел округа доносы на наших офицеров. Приезжала комиссия. Кляузника отправили в отставку. Наш командир получил погоны подполковника, его тоже перевели в другое место. Так что жизнь продолжается, Леша. Тебе нужно еще заехать в политотдел округа и там припечатать характеристику. Удачи тебе, парень!” – он подписал характеристику и пожал Лешке руку.

Спустя несколько месяцев Леха получил вызов на собеседование. Управление Антарктического Китобойного и Рыболовного Флота находилось на Дерибасовской, в самом центре Одессы. В кабинете на него уставился мордатый чекист:
“..Партия оказывает тебе доверие, моряк. Мы тебе даем допуск и надеемся что ты нас не подведешь”.
Лешка долго ждал своего моря. Сейчас они одалживали ему его. В обмен на сына-заложника. Суки!

АТЛАНТИКА.

Лешка был зачислен в команду рыболовного траулера. Предстоял рейс в Атлантический океан, к самому югу африканского континента. Рано утром Леха стоял вахту со старпомом, по курсу был Босфор. В проливе у Лехи колотилось сердце, он видел перед собой другой мир – минареты, собор Святой Софии, белоснежные виллы. Лодки и маленькие паромчики сновали от одного берега к другому, не обращания никакого внимания на их траулер. Отовсюду неслась музыка. На азиатском берегу начинали строительство моста, который скоро соединит Азию с Европой. Сменившись с вахты Лешка наскоро выпил свой чай и поднялся на пеленгаторный мостик. Босфор не отпускал, Леха вертел головой, он попал в другой мир. Далее было Мраморное море, за ним пролив Дарданеллы. Вода была цвета бирюзы, а острова пахли цветами и хвоей. Таких ароматов нет в Черном море. Ночью Лешка уснул сразу и спал спокойно. Его мечта сбылась.

Там, за Босфором
В Мраморном море
Утонула однажды луна
В Мраморном море
В дымке Босфора
Пахнут ромашками острова
Там за Босфором
В ромашковом море
Живет душа моряка
Пахли губы ромашками
Целовали пьяно меня
Не знал что она русалка
Утонул в том море и я…

Океанские рейсы у рыбаков долгие, по полгода без земли. В библиотеке управления Лешка запасался книгами. Брал с собой сочинения классиков, поэтов, философов. Женщина-библиотекарь узнавала его, отмечала аккуратность и предлагала редкие книги. В море Лешке было намного спокойнее, чем в людском муравейнике на суше. В море была любимая работа и книги. Но Система следила, дышала в затылок. На каждом судне был первый помощник, он же помполит или «помпа». Ну как в Красной Армии в первые годы советского режима при командирах полков были комиссары из ЧК. На траулере помпа был точной копией армейского подполковника. В его задачу входила слежка за всеми членами экипажа. По возвращению из рейса помпа сдавал в особый отдел подробный письменный отчет. За то что Леха не забивал козла в компании, предпочитая этому книги, помпа писал ему в характеристику «необщительный». Это означало что раз Леха не такой как все советские моряки, то стало быть себе на уме, подозрительный тип.

Помпа был еврей. Заведующим продовольственным ларьком или завпродом тоже оказался еврей. Лешка вспомнил своего друга Жорика, которому не открыли визу по национальному признаку. У Жорки умерла мама, чудесная была женщина. Чтобы он не спился, отец увез его в Израиль. Хотя мама у Жорика была украинка, наверняка даже в Израиле его не признавали за своего. Лешка окончательно потерял контакт с другом.
Этим же прохвостам не только открыли визу, но и посадили на денежные должности. Мореходок они не заканчивали. Они пролезли, потому что пошли в обход. А Жорик шел напрямую, потому у него не получилось. Многие считают их умными. Но хитрость и изворотливость, присущая им не требует ума. В этом Лешка убеждался много раз. В советском социализме воровали все, у кого была возможность украсть, но эти всегда были первыми. Перед рейсом завпрод на выделенном ему грузовичке мотался по городским базам, получая снабжение здесь и там. Запас продовольствия на полгода для команды 80-100 человек – это тонны мороженого мяса, полный ассортимент консервов, колбасы, черная икра и армянский коньяк для капитанских приемов, много другого. У завпрода была возможность продать налево, обменять здесь и там. У жулика всегда бегают глазки. У этого завпрода они бегали. Лешка считал что таких можно вешать на рее через одного, без суда и следствия.

Помпа в судовой роли значился первым помощником капитана. Но моряком он не был. Это был гебист, пес режима. Проводил обязательные для всех политинформации, следил за каждым моряком, вербовал стукачей, шпионил в иностранных портах, фотографируя военные корабли и объекты. После рейса он сдавал свой подробный донос в особый отдел управления. За это получал капитанскую зарплату, которую ему зарабатывали рыбаки, на которых он стучал.
Одного такого Лешка знал лично, они были соседями, жили в одном микрорайоне. Имея доступ к служебной информации, этот грабил квартиры моряков, находившихся в рейсе. Его жена была напарницей, стояла на шухере, пока муж набивал чемоданы ворованным добром. Семейный бизнес. В рейсе он читал экипажу лекции о морали советского человека, о чистой совести и тому подобную чушь.
Когда он попался на краже, его убрали тихонько. Без суда и огласки перевели в другое место. Система своих не сдает.

Закончив промысел рыболовные траулеры заходили на пару дней в Лас Пальмас, на Канары, бросали якорь на внешнем рейде. Команде выдавали немного валюты, чтобы купить барахла или как это у моряков называлось «отовариться». Моряков разбивали на группы и когда в город на катере уходила одна половина экипажа, вторая занималась косметикой траулера, замазывая краской ржавые борта.

В каждой группе были стукачи, как правило из партийных. Так и ходили группами, от магазина к магазину. Шаг в сторону мог расцениваться попыткой к побегу, стукачи обо всем докладывали помпе, ну а тот писал донос в особый отдел. Набив авоськи барахлом, группы тащились строем в порт и местная публика потешалась, глядя на дикарей из коммунистического рая. На борту моряков ждала досмотровая комиссия во главе с помполитом, они выворачивали авоськи, рылись в купленных тряпках. Так было на всем советском флоте.

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Однажды, в ожидании подъема очередного трала, смена сидела в рыбном цеху, моряки курили и трепались о том о сем.
“..Пока мы тут ждем, помпа свою рыбку ловит, – сплюнул один. Шмонает наши рундуки, контрабанду ищет. Я его на этом застукал, в своей каюте”, – он зло погасил окурок.
“..Ну так чего треп разводить, пошли к капитану!” – привстал Лешка.
Смелых нашлось пять-шесть человек. В каюте капитана они все сникли. Лешка излагал общую жалобу один, остальные сидели, опустив глаза. Этим своим молчанием они его и подставили. Капитан выслушал жалобу, вызвал помпу и старпома, предложил повторить жалобу в их присутствии. После этого отпустил всю делегацию. А Лешку попросил задержаться.
Леха был старшим рулевым и в сложных условиях всегда был за штурвалом. Кэп уважал его как опытного моряка. Но Леха не знал что у кэпа были шашни с буфетчицей. Об этом знал помпа и капитан был у него на крючке.
Кэп был краток: “..Леша, ты хороший моряк, но не подбивай команду на бунт..”.

После этого Лешку вызвал к себе в каюту помпа. Брызгая слюной он шипел что диктатура пролетариата в СССР не отменена. На что Лешка улыбнулся и спросил кто из них здесь этот самый пролетариат? Бездельник, который проводит нелегальные обыски и пишет доносы? Или стоящий перед ним матрос траловой команды, который работает на карман бездельника? Лешка повернулся и вышел. Это был вызов.

Вахту он нес со старпомом, опытным моряком. На траулерах не предусмотрена должность четвертого помощника капитана, но Лешка им был, не в судовой роли, а по факту. Звали старпома Феликс, у него была богатая практика работы в северной Атлантике. Лешке он доверял работать с картами, лоциями, приборами, обучал карте звездного неба и работе с секстаном. Они рвботали в тандеме, используя систему Loran-С выводили траулер на рыбные косяки. Вычерчивая на кальке рельеф морского дна, они знали рыбные места и какими курсами нужно по ним тралить. Во многом благодаря своему старпому Лешка впоследствии стал хорошим штурманом, закончив еще одну мореходку, снова с «красным» дипломом.

А после того случая помпа собрал парт-актив на котором требовал от всех подписать его донос, закрыть Лешке визу. После собрания, на ночной вахте старпом долго молчал, потом сказал:
“..Леша, хочу чтобы ты понял кто есть кто. Фронду замутили матросы, но в каюте капитана они струсили и подставили тебя. Они этим показали что не друзья тебе, так чего ты рвешь за них задницу?”.
Днем траловый мастер шепнул Лешке, что на том парт-активе в ответ на требование помпы старпом потребовал закрыть инцидент или закрыть визу и ему тоже. Такая закрутка уже могла и помпе стоить карьеры. У старпома были связи в конторе. И помпа замолк.

По приходу в порт на судно из управления неслись чиновники. Нагло, не обращая внимания на жен и детей, встречающих своих мужчин вернувшихся из долгого рейса, чиновники требовали отчетов. Хотя никакой срочности в этом не было, отчет мог потерпеть до завтра. Но чиновники мчались на борт с одной целью – успеть получить взятку заграничным тряпьем. Пока моряк не успел увезти это домой.
От капитана и ниже, штурман, механик, каждый, кто подлежал бумажной отчетности – покорно вкладывал долю в разинутый портфель хапуги. Если взятка была неувесистой, чиновник запросто мог заменить моряка более послушным. Система поборов вынуждала моряков рисковать, привозя барахла сверх таможенной нормы.

В Лас Пальмасе, по ночам местные жители на своих лодках привозили на рейд дешевую выпивку и различные товары, обменивали это у советских моряков на цветной металл. В городке моряки покупали джинсы, мохер для вязания модных тогда шляпок и кофточек, косынки и шарфики с люрексом и прочий ширпотреб. По приходу в свой порт все это барахло у них оптом скупали цыгане. Порт — режимная зона и как цыгане проникали на его территорию, а затем вывозили тюки товара не было загадкой. Цыгане давали взятки охране. Контрабанда была для цыган бизнесом, а для рыбаков компенсацией за риски в опасной работе. Моряки прятали контрабанду за обшивку и в разные ниши, а таможенники и пограничники с собаками ее искали и часто находили. За найденную контрабанду всю команду лишали премиальных и это была значительная потеря. Поэтому моряки напрягали всю свою изобретательность, чтобы контрабанда не была обнаружена. Ну а стукачи помполита ночами не спали после стоянки судна в иностранном порту, вынюхивали и высматривали. Так и жили в социалистическом соревновании кто кого.

В Севастополе, у валютного магазина для моряков, Леха предложил джинсы симпатичной молодой женщине. Он не признал в ней популярную певицу, местные фарцовщики подсказали. Это оказалась София Ротару, она жила в Ялте и иногда навещала севастопольский торгсин, единственный в Крыму магазинчик с заморскими товарами. Красавица застеснялась и быстро прошла мимо. А зря, джинсы бы хорошо облегали ее попку. Таких штанишек в том торгсине она точно не нашла!

К Лас Пальмасу у Лешки была любовь с самой первой его встречи с этим райским местом в океане. Для советских рыбаков, после шести месяцев изнурительной опасной работы, заход в Лас Пальмас был посещением земного рая. На подходе к островам, едва горы начинали синеть на горизонте, эфир заполняли звуки мелодичной испанской музыки, ее не услышать у африканского побережья Центральной и Южной Атлантики. А на улицах и пляжах курортного городка шумела диковинная жизнь, какую не увидеть в советском телевизоре.
В той стоянке старпома откомандировали в шипчандлерскую фирму “Совиспан”, сделать заказ на партию продовольствия. Вторая половина названия подразумевала испанцев. А первая половина состояла сплошь из советских гебешников. Старпом прихватил с собой Лешку. Закончив дела они сделали остановку в портовой таверне. Там шумела морская братия и они заказали по стаканчику рома. Тут к ним подошел старик. Он услышал их речь и заговорил на ломаном, но вполне приличном русском языке. Оказалось, что его старший брат попал в Россию, когда в Испании горела гражданская война, прожил там много лет и вернувшись на родину, научил русскому языку и своего братишку. Предложенный стаканчик рома был принят стариком с благодарностью и он им рассказал историю.

“..Давным-давно Канарские острова принадлежали Кастилии, – старик почмокал губами, отпив из стаканчика. Португалия враждовала с Кастилией, между ними было соперничество за океан. В те давние времена испанцы искали пути к островам на которых произрастали пряности. Те острова были где-то в Индийском океане путь к ним искали Колумб и Магеллан и они оба начинали свои плавания отсюда, от наших Канарских островов. И сюда же корабли Колумба возвращались из своих плаваний, с золотом и драгоценными камушками, сокровищами Нового Света. В Испании им нужно было делиться награбленным с королем, но кому охота отдавать свою добычу за просто так? Моряки закапывали золотишко в наших горах, в надежде вернуться. Но мало кто из них имел тот шанс. Потому что где золото – там и грабители. В 1553 году французские пираты пограбили в Колумбии и на Кубе, а по пути домой напали на Лас Пальмас, в котором мы сейчас пьём ром, – крякнул старик. Главным у них был пират по кличке «Тумба», у него была деревянная нога. Здесь им пофартило, они захватили в порту богатый корабль и почистили наш городок. Головорезы дебоширили и пьянствовали, отнимали золото у местных богатеев. Кто успел, тот спрятал свои монеты в горах. Пираты таких пытали и многие не вынесли пыток, умерли. А спрятанное золотишко так и осталось в земле, во-о-н там, – он ткнул пальцем в синеющие верхушки гор…”

Вечерело, катер уносил их на рейд, в небе Лас-Пальмаса загорались звезды, и бриз, срывая соленую пену с волн, швырял ее в их разгоряченные лица.
Ночью Лешке снились цветные сны, в которых орали попугаи. Наверное от их криков у него с утра была тяжелой голова и хотелось промочить глотку. Он вспоминал рассказ старика в таверне и с тоской думал о том что все нынешние моряки подневольные люди, а вот пираты были свободными и некоторые даже обрели бессмертие. Тот же Ле Клерк по кличке “Тумба” был увековечен Робертом Стивенсоном в образе Джона Сильвера в его романе «Остров сокровищ». А вот его, Леху Чугуева, четвертого помощника рыболовного траулера никто не вспомнит и в эти тяжелые минуты не притаранит бутылочку холодного пивка.

За Гибралтаром их встретила Средиземка, пошли знакомые места. Ранней весной острова Эгейского моря пронзительно пахнут миртом и хвоей. Таких ароматов нигде больше нет. В Босфоре засуетились стукачи, следили чтоб никто не спрыгнул за борт, не сбежал. Помпа прятался под шлюпкой, украдкой щелкал фотоаппаратом, снимая военные корабли НАТО, готовя доказательства своей собачьей преданности гебешному начальству.
За Босфором их встретило море, самое синее в мире. Но для Лешки оно было черным. Потому что там, на одесском берегу, их ждали пограничники, со своими собаками. Там была Родина – мачеха. Которая ему уже порядком надоела…

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