Tales of the history of tales about work on icebreakers. Sea stories and tales

Alexander Kozlov

Naval stories

Sailors have no questions

Two hours before the new year

I ask "good" to defeat

love for the sea

sea ​​loaf

We swam - we know

Forbidden reports

Canape sticks

Sailors have no questions

The most intelligent people are us, military sailors. Explain to us, the military, don't explain - we will do it our own way anyway! Therefore, any encroachments on freedom, expressed by provocative questions: "Do you understand everything? Do you know how to do it?" - we always and without hesitation stop, answering: "Of course!" And, of course, we add: "The sailors have no questions!" At the same time, no one: neither the one who asks, nor the one who answers, has any doubts that everything will still be done not as it is said, but most likely - exactly the opposite! Such is our, among military sailors, intractable character.

Of course, this quality has invaluable advantages. So many fools command us that if we strictly followed their "brilliant" instructions with medical precision, the fleet would have died long ago, buried by the "debris" of their senile ideas. But we survived no matter what. Because they always clearly said grief to the commanders: "Yes!" And they did everything in their own way. Moreover, outwardly maintaining a deep devotion to a stupid instruction. Well, what matters is the end result.

The main thing is that the order be executed accurately and on time. How you do it is up to you. Of course, not in the way your "wise" commander explained to you. After all, you are not your own enemy, and you have no intentions of breaking your head or going crazy... No, we are not talking here, of course, about combat work and even combat training. Combat work does not tolerate amateur performance. Laughing at this is blasphemous. An order is an order. It is not discussed, but carried out.

We are talking about something completely different here. For example, the boss sends you to the warehouse to get freon cylinders for the ship's refrigeration units. And you are a newly minted lieutenant, who has just come from the school, and has not even had time to switch from a jacket to a jacket. At the same time, your boss instructs you that each cylinder must be with a cap, weighed on the scales, and each cylinder must have a standard stamp. And he sends you from the ship alone, on a dilapidated "lawn" connection, with the same first-year driver-sailor as you. And he gives the deadline before dinner, because after dinner the ship goes to sea.

Your boss promised, believing in a strange way that they were waiting for the representative of the ship in the warehouse almost with bread and salt: both loaders, and the beautiful warehouse manager, and almost the warehouse manager himself. And you come to the warehouse and see: the storekeeper Aunt Masha, who has been retired for ten years, but is still working, the loader Uncle Vasya, who seems to be at work, but has been gone for a long time, and, of course, a dusty pile of your cherished cylinders with freon. What kind of scales are there? ... Three hours in a brand new jacket, with a young executive driver-sailor, you throw these heavy cylinders into the body and curse the boss and yourself at the same time that you accepted his instruction, in the first and last time, at face value.

The next time, when you are sent to receive fuel and lubricants, you will no longer be asked: "Do you have any questions about the briefing?" "No! - you will answer, - The sailors have no questions!" And you yourself will send a midshipman with a dozen brave sailors to the warehouse in advance, and even just in case you will put on a "special outfit" and take with you a full set of entrenching and locksmith tools. And then you will complete the task for sure, accurately and on time. The sailors have no questions. They themselves know how to complete the task, and not to mess up the jacket.

Two hours before the new year

On New Year's Eve our ship was at an anchorage "point" twelve miles from a foreign shore. Ordinary duty in a long Mediterranean campaign. And suddenly the chief of staff of the brigade, Captain 2nd Rank Teply, the senior on board, noticed some kind of green object floating on three cables from the ship. "Mine! Enemy buoy! .. Alarm! .. Boat on the water! .." - commands were heard like machine-gun bursts. Finally confusing everyone and everything with them, Teply himself rushed to lead the launch of the craft.

Maybe that's why the boat was lowered exactly forty minutes. It was complete chaos. During the operation, the chief of staff managed to announce seven reprimands, four "strict men" and one NSS (incomplete official compliance) - this was personally for the first mate.

Finally, the boat was lowered. The rowers powerfully swung their oars... The green object turned out to be... a dead bird of an unknown breed and from no one knows where it came from. Perhaps she was brought here by the current from the shore.

The bird was immediately delivered to the chief of staff. Warm, having built the crew, spoke for a long time about the vigilant adversary, about the need to be vigilant on a weekly basis, about the standards for launching watercraft ... But then his eyes came across the ill-fated bird, which for some reason was held in the hand of the boat commander. The chief of staff instantly forgot what he was talking about before, and said sternly, addressing the crew of the boat: "You ... you ... Savages! If you had lowered the boat earlier, this bird might have been alive now. It was flying to us from a strange shore, but she did not have enough strength. And you ... And we, Russian sailors, could not help her ... "

He also suddenly fell silent, apparently trying to remember the topic of the previous speech. And without remembering, he waved his hand and began to climb the bridge.

What to do with the bird? the first mate called after him ingenuously.

Bury ... according to naval rituals ... - threw the chief of staff resolutely.

The bird was buried from the forecastle by those same twelve punished sailors. Starpom - the main victim - ordered:

Bury the bird!

At this command, the boatswain, who got off with just a reprimand, took the unfortunate little animal by the paws and threw it overboard.

The bird was honored with a moment of silence. And another five minute break. It's only two hours before New Year's Eve...

I ask "good" to defeat

The anti-submarine ship carried out in the Barents Sea the most famous and, probably, the most interesting shooting of all annually carried out by military sailors. The shooting was called briefly: "According to Khrushchev." In the staff language, this is artillery firing along the coast, or, in short, AC - 80. Well, in fact, this shooting is not even along the coast, but at an old, abandoned ship that has been lying on the shallows near Cape Podgorodetsky since time immemorial. And for some reason the cape was called the name of one of the "leaders of the world proletariat" of the period of the post-Stalin thaw. Either the ship itself once had this name, or because it sank in Stalin's times, or the rounded stern of the sunken ship strongly resembled the expressive bald skull of Nikita Sergeevich Khrushchev, but the name stuck with this place and even the shooting at this place firmly and forever!

And so the ship lay down on a combat course. The navigator of the ship, Captain 3rd Rank Bondarev, finally decided on the course, reported to the navigation post and the target distribution post (PRC): "Target bearing 320 degrees." At the PRC, the commander of the missile and artillery warhead (BCh-2), Captain 3rd Rank Mishin, having accepted the report of the navigator, rehearsed it in the antenna post of the firing station. But purely mechanical. At the same time, he made a mistake and called the bearing not 320, but 220 degrees! The commander of the artillery battery, Senior Lieutenant Akulin, reports in response:

"Target designation accepted. I'm observing the target!" The commander of the BCH-2 reports to the commander at the navigation post:

"Ready to shoot!" The commander commands: "Volley!" ... A volley follows. Everyone runs out to starboard, looking at Khrushchev. And there is absolute silence! And only fat cormorants soar peacefully over the "drying"! The commander gives the command for the second salvo. And again follows a volley. And again serene silence in the area of ​​​​the ill-fated ship.

And suddenly, like a thunder from the sky, the report of the signalman: "I see! I see! ... Explosions of shells in the area of ​​​​the fishing seiner, 100 degrees to the right of the firing area!"

The shells landed 50 cables from a Norwegian fishing seiner, which was peacefully fishing in the area. From a small anti-submarine ship (MPK), which covered the firing area and was not far from this seiner, shell explosions on board a foreign vessel were clearly visible. But on the ship itself, apparently, they did not expect such agility from the Russian military, and the cannonade went unnoticed.

Meanwhile, on the anti-submarine ship, everyone was clearly in shock. Shooting at a foreign peaceful ship is no joke to you! This is not far from an international scandal. But the calm did not last long. He was interrupted by the same commander of the artillery battery, Senior Lieutenant Akulich. In absolute silence, forcedly ridiculous radio silence, a peppy report from the battalion commander was suddenly heard over the loudspeaker:

"Comrade, commander! I'm observing the target. Undershoot 200. Correction introduced. I ask for the go-ahead!..."

What!? How!? - the commander wheezed and after a moment he screamed with all his might, - Fraction! Dro-o-b! Don't watch!

He yelled with such force that even the cormorants in the Khrushchev area broke from their homes and flew somewhere towards the coast, away from the unpredictable military sailors.

love for the sea

So much and beautifully said about love for the sea - it's breathtaking! Blue expanses, snow-white gulls, gentle surf... And you, excuse me, didn't call the "ichthyander" in the ship's latrine overflowing with excrement during a storm? Did you try to dine, even in a 5-point storm, in the wardroom? ... And didn’t you stand by the “dog” (night watch from 4 to 8 in the morning)? Well, then it will be difficult for us to find with you in a conversation about the sea mutual language. You will obviously be drawn to romance, and romance is unusual for real sailors. And if it arises, then with a touch of irony. What the hell is beauty in a hopeless series of shifts and exhausting shipboard work. Where to get the charm of the ocean and enjoy the cool sea breeze in the 70-degree "steam room" of the boiler room. Only amateurs dream of the sea, professionals perceive it as an inevitable inevitability.

Recently, a funny and, I must say, very instructive incident happened at the Northern Fleet Hydrometeorological Center. Senior Lieutenant Nepogodin Nikolai at the drill review of the GCM (hydrometeorological center) decided to file a complaint with his boss, Captain 1st Rank Pryamonosov ... What would you think? You will never guess! ... On the "lack of romance" in the coastal service! It was necessary to come up with this! Those who have served on ships for ten years will immediately understand me. And for a long, long time they will laugh. And what about the lieutenant, who only saw the sea in the picture? For him Kola bay, which opens to the gaze through the muddy windows of the Hydrometeorological Center, and really does not give a complete picture of the naval service. Sometimes, somewhere in a smoking room or in the company of experienced friends, magic words like: "gathering-hike", "hands-on", "anti-submarine zigzag", or even cooler: "leading", countering a submarine ", " sea ​​battle with the enemy", "working out L-3". And then strange, inexplicable desires are born in the lieutenant's head.

And, by the way, senior lieutenant Nepogodin at the drill review may not have had any desires to improve his service. It was just that the mood was playful, so I decided, to put it mildly, to show off. "Little," he says, "romance in the coastal service." And the commander, take it to him and say with all seriousness:

Well, Nepogodin, we will take into account your desire!

Well, Ivan Petrovich, and you say we have no one who wants to serve on ships! Prepare an order to move Nepogodin as the commander of the hydrometeorological group at the Kuznetsov TAVKR ...

And then the lieutenant realized that he was joking. All his cloudless service rushed before my eyes in an instant, and some kind of black cloud, approaching from the sea, clouded my mind. How could he know that the commander also liked to joke. And he, unlike Nepogodin, knew well the specifics of naval service. Previously, before getting ashore, officers had time to serve on ships for a year or two.

They say that the lieutenant ran for a long time to various offices in search of documents on his transfer to the ship. Nepogodin's friends-comrades at each meeting with him now joked:

Well, Kolya, serve you on the Flagship of the Russian Fleet.

Or asked in surprise:

Nikolay, are you not at Kuznetsov yet?

Others, experienced, simply frightened:

Listen, do you know how many rooms there are on this "crocodile"? Over a thousand. In the meantime, you don’t pass the credits for admission to duty on the ship to the chief officer - you won’t see the gathering like your ears!

Nepogodin did not find a place for himself. And only 100% convinced that there were no documents for his transfer, that the commander really joked, he finally calmed down.

He no longer dreamed of the sea. Moreover, for some time now, any reminder of him in Nikolai caused slight nausea and weakness. That's all love, as they say.

sea ​​loaf

A large anti-submarine ship went to sea for minelaying, according to the plan - exactly for a day.

Having successfully completed the training and combat mission, the sailors asked for the go-ahead to go to the base. And they received an order:

"To intercede in the protection of the area, since the minesweeper on duty broke down, and there is no one to replace him!" An order is an order - it must be carried out. Three days later the ship ran out of bread, another day later - fresh water. The valiant mechanics, having launched the desalination plant, “brewed” the water. It was the turn of the suppliers to take adequate action.

The commander calls the chief supply officer - the assistant supply commander - and tells him:

Come on, bake me, pom, a test loaf. Yes, more! Yes blush!

Eat! - the assistant answers, and he scratches the back of his head.

Why are you scratching your "turnip"? - the commander asks him.

And how to bake it, I have never done it?

Everything, assistant, once you have to do it for the first time. Go before I order the crew to eat you. It was necessary to take a supply of bread not for three days.

Well, I didn't think...

That's it! Oh, you have to think of an assistant. And the head! Take action! The commander summed it up.

Bread has not been baked on the ship since the day of sea trials, as they say in such cases: "since the time of Nero."

The dough mixing unit and the baking oven were covered with a "meter" layer of dust. But, oddly enough, after a little preparatory work, both the unit and the furnace started up, and gave out almost factory, working parameters! It was up to the test. The supply men conjured over him all night. But for some reason it never came up. The loaf was molded at once by three sailors at the same time. The dough surprisingly resembled raw rubber: it was just as sticky to the hands and stubbornly refused to take the shape of a loaf. With grief, they made a loaf in half, huge: two meters in diameter. The baking oven, heated to 300 degrees, accepted this mass reluctantly and with obvious disgust. The bread, of course, was not baked inside, covered with a black crust on the outside, similar to the armor of a tank.

In the morning at 8:30, immediately after the flag was raised, the commander scheduled a review of the newly baked bread. On this occasion, a whole retinue gathered at the GKP, a kind of commission: commander, deputy, first mate, commanders of combat units. There was a quiet conversation. Those present doomedly discussed the current situation with the food supply of the ship. And then some kind of revival passed through the ranks of those present. After some time, the first mate, who was on duty at the entrance and was the first to meet the bakers, ordered:

Bring in the loaf!

At this command, three messengers from the officer's wardroom, dressed as they say "to the point", brought in a huge red loaf similar to bread ... Dead silence fell on the GKP. Through the closed ranks of the "spectators" the bewildered assistant commander for supplies timidly squeezed his way to the orderlies.

Sea loaf, - the assistant answered frightened.

These lumps of spoiled flour, these, damn it, stone sculptures of naval debelism, you call the noble word "loaf" breaking into rudeness, the commander expressed himself and yelled:

Take away!..

They tried to cut the loaf specially for this case with sharpened knives, then they began to chop with axes and crush with sledgehammers. In vain. As a result, the sailors were given crackers for breakfast.

For the rest of the day, the sailors merrily sang the same song in the cockpit to the guitar:

How we baked a loaf for "Pomovsky" name days!

That's the width! Here is such a height! ..

It's been a fun event! Fortunately, the minesweeper soon arrived at his home base and the need for baking bread disappeared.

We swam - we know

It is difficult to surprise a sailor with anything. And he knows everything, and he has seen everything. Sometimes it seems that the theme is unique and the case is extraordinary, but, you see, the sailor keeps talking to you: "Ah, I know. There was such a case with me ..." And starts another story of his own.

“You won’t be surprised by anything over a mug of beer with me. Every year, it seems, only emergency workers come to classes, it seems, only emergency workers. as a hand immediately reaches out from the hall:

Comrade teacher! It wasn't like that.

How it is not so - you will be surprised, firmly believing in the truth of this case.

Yes, it's not like that. I myself was a direct participant there! ...

Well, of course, the direct participant in the event always knows more. It is known that always the true causes of what happened are trying, if not to hide, then at least to retouch. You move on to another case.

You give an example from another fleet. But before you have time to paint on the board in chronological order the chain of events and the reasons for what happened, a hand reaches out again from the hall.

Anatoly Vasilyevich, - another witness addresses and somewhere even the direct culprit of this accident, - I'm not to blame. It was the commander who ordered to increase speed ...

The whole harmonious report, made with scientific precision and rigor, is falling apart before our eyes. What the hell are the assessments of what happened from the point of view of the governing documents, if a direct participant stands in front of you with a live focus, he is the culprit, he is also the victim. Yes, and all those sitting next to you are not looking at you, but at him, and about your conclusions they smile skeptically and sentence.

It wasn't like that.

Everything in the Navy is different.

Here you are not there. There you are not here.

The official version is not yet a fact.

We swam - we know ...

“Now I,” the teacher ends his sad story in a private conversation with me, “always, before bringing any case in detail, I always ask:

Are there any eyewitnesses, victims, direct participants of this event?!

And only after receiving a negative answer, I calmly continue my lecture:

We know you warlords. All that you know. They've been everywhere. All that you managed to spoil and break. Teach you to try something.

Forbidden reports

Almost from the first days of the young sailor's arrival on the ship, the unit commanders teach the "elements" of naval wisdom, wean them from civil carelessness, sluggishness and childish spontaneity. No wonder. Every six months, another call "gets into operation" - and everything comic and funny, everything absurd and stupid is repeated here with enviable stability. Reports of subordinates are a special case. After all, the sailor does not answer the boss, but reports! The art of reporting is taught not only by statutes. In the Navy, on almost every ship you can find printouts of the so-called "forbidden reports". "I wanted the best ..." "I came, but you were not there ..." "I thought you were told ..." "Everything worked yesterday ..." Such reports truly constitute "naval folklore", are eloquent evidence fidelity to "stupid traditions".

Never, - the battalion commander says to his subordinates standing in the ranks, analyzing the actions of one of the sailors, - do not tell me: "But you saw ... I passed by you"! Hack on your nose: there are many of you, and I am one. I command - you execute. And after you complete it, report in person. Clear!?.

At this very time, the chief mate in his own cabin is raising another sailor, a ship's messenger, who did not wake him up at the appointed hour, but explained this with a "forbidden report": "I did not want to disturb you."

I gave you a command, idiot, - the first officer is indignant.

You rested, - an inexperienced messenger adds fuel to the fire ...

But reports like: "washed, but did not dry", "just came off", "searched, but did not find" will never be eradicated in the fleet. And here you can't get by with bans alone. After all, they themselves are a product of a sailor's fear of punishment. How can you stop being afraid. An obvious absurdity in desires.

Another thing is the report: "We have always been like this" or "We have done this all the time." It's a delusion. It is always easy to dispel.

It is enough to command: "And now it will be as I said. And that's the point!"

But in general, unnecessary reports should not be banned, but made so that their sailors themselves do not want to produce and produce in great numbers. Therefore, I propose to rename them throughout the fleet from "forbidden" to "bad!" You can't ban anything from the "Russian peasant", but to put a label, to put it mildly, "not smart" - oh, how effective!

Canape sticks

The assistant commander on the minesweeper is the second person after the commander. On a small ship, which is the minesweeper, the "lieutenant commander" is almost the most key figure. After all, here even the lieutenants are already rushing to the handles of telegraphs.

Lieutenant Commander Tyurinov - assistant commander of a minesweeper who performed a combat mission in the RRP (fishing area) near the borders of Morocco in South Atlantic, was a fully formed "naval commander". The commander of the minesweeper boldly entrusted him with both the management of the vessel and the daily organization. But one day Tyurinov let the commander down, causing almost an international scandal. Here is how it was.

The minesweeper came to the next mezhpohodovy rest in the port of Guinea Conakry. The event took place in the late eighties, then it was still possible. A well-known case, the commander left for the embassy on important business, entrusting the entire organization of leisure to the assistant. The assistant, by the way, was a cheerful person, which, although not a rare occurrence in the fleet, still deserves special attention. Funny people are really the gene pool of the fleet.

And Alexander Tyurinov also loved to "scream". It means delicious and sweet food. In this weakness, as a rule, he was supported by two friends: a mechanic and a navigator. It was they who suggested to him the "grand plan": how to unwind the stingy battalion of the food midshipman Frumkin for a "dinner party" ...

The assistant calls Frumkin to his cabin and says anxiously:

Well, Vasily Petrovich, we are in trouble! There is no commander, and will not be until tomorrow, and the French have come to visit us. Tomorrow at 14 o'clock they will come.

Are these the ones on berth 5? - asks the battalion.

And it should be noted that indeed on berth 5, not far from our minesweeper, there was a French warship, of the same class as ours. The Georgian tanker "Leselidze" also stood there next to it.

Yes, yes Petrovich! - Tyurinov confirmed the hunch of the food worker, and again became preoccupied, - What are we going to do? It is supposed to hold a buffet according to etiquette.

We'll do everything right. Let's not disgrace our country! Frumkin replied with pathos.

Well done! - his cunning assistant supported him, - To begin with, Vasily, you need to cut the cannabis sticks. You know those little sandwiches they serve on the table?

Let's figure it out! Petrovich said matter-of-factly.

The plan worked. "The wheels of the imaginary buffet table" spun with great speed. The assistant himself was no longer glad that he had started this hopeless business. Only with chopsticks for canapés Frumkin got Tyurinov half a day.

The first ones were as thick as a felt-tip pen, you could prick whole loaves of bread on them. Only from the tenth time they acquired a presentable, "alya-fourshetovsky" look. Tyurinov did not expect such agility from the messengers of the wardroom. Having learned about the event of an "international scale", the messengers took out their still untouched, "demeb" things from the stash and began to reshape them in accordance with the coming moment. In this case, Zaitsev would simply rest. In naval fashion age-old traditions and secrets. But most of all, the assistant head of the table in the wardroom was surprised by the young groupman Lieutenant Vanya Molodtsov. Succumbing to the mood of general euphoria, Vanya managed to run away in the evening of the same day to the Leselidze tanker (still domestic at that time) and take there a complete set of beautiful, expensive dishes for diplomatic receptions.

By 2 pm the next day, the table in the wardroom was bursting with food. Everything was here: from red caviar to five-star Armenian cognac! Moreover, the assistant had already prepared an answer to Frumkin to the alleged indignation at the failed fact of international contact between the two nations: they refused, they say, the French. But before they had time, completely satisfied with the organized event, the assistant, mechanic and navigator sat down with all the other officers gathered for this occasion, at the table, as a frightened messenger for the ship ran into the wardroom and reported in a trembling voice:

Comrade Lieutenant Commander! The French delegation arrived on board! ...

Here the assistant himself looked at each other in bewilderment with his conspirators: the mechanic and the navigator, and somehow smiled stupidly. A frightened assistant ran out to the pier. And on the pier, indeed, there are some two Frenchmen on bicycles and ask to show the way to their French ship. In broken English, Tyurinov explained to them how to get to berth 5 and even eloquently indicated with a gesture where they needed to go and in which direction to go. And, delighted with such an unusual and highly symbolic coincidence, he calmly returned to the festive table.

Imagine his surprise when, an hour later, the military attaché himself unexpectedly appeared on the ship Soviet Union in the Republic of Guinea Conakry! Moreover, the military attache was in such a hurry that he even left the commander somewhere at the embassy. It turned out that he received a report from the relevant staff "agent" of the tanker "Leselidze", that the assistant commander of the minesweeper "personally" expelled the French delegation from the ship! And the fault was Lieutenant Vanya Molodtsov's initiative to "rent" dishes for official receptions on the Leselidze tanker.

From that moment on, the minesweeper was under the vigilant eye of the relevant authorities, and the eloquent gesture of the assistant to the French cyclists was perceived as a signal to prevent an international scandal!

Pierced, as they say, on a trifle. And everything was so beautifully conceived! The assistant was scolded. The commander, of course, was punished. The commander expressed gratitude to the food battalion for the high organization. The products have been written off. And in order to rationally use the accumulated experience of "international receptions", the next day the military attache appointed a real reception of the French delegation on the ship from a nearby warship. Cannabis sticks, skillfully carved the day before, came in handy!

Tour with a non-professional.

Let's start with the fact that each watercraft must have (and has) a proper name. The main place where the name of the ship is written is a bronze tablet, somewhere inside the room, in a conspicuous place. There is also carved the name of the shipyard, the year of construction, registration number and other important things. On the bow, where we are most often used to reading the name of the vessel, it can be written in mother tongue. All in the past years Soviet ships were signed in Cyrillic. Now you can find many ships where the nose is decorated with some kind of hieroglyphs and their dubbing in Latin. Also, in the native language, the name is written on the stern of the ship, only the name of the ship's home port is still present. On land - his registration.
The name of the ship in Latin must be written at the level of the uppermost deck, slightly behind the captain's bridge. This is necessary so that any foreigner can read the name and not rack his brains with an unfamiliar alphabet. Although, some names already made many pilots and dispatchers beat their heads against the gunwale (railing). There was a tanker "Fiftieth Anniversary of Soviet Georgia" in the Georgian Shipping Company.
Here he is:

Can you imagine some Spanish pilot calling "Pyatidesyatiletie sovetskoy Gruzii" on the radio? There were many stories about this in Batumi.
Ships are built in "families", called "series". In English it sounds like "sistership". And in our opinion - "of the same type." Inside the type of vessel, they differ from each other in some trifles and features - somewhere additional equipment is installed, somewhere they improve something, based on the experience of operating the first ships of the series. But they look very similar (they are often even painted the same way) and bear names from the same sphere.
In Soviet times, there were series of "cities", "republics", "cosmonauts", "rivers", "engineers", "revolutionaries", etc. ad infinitum. Although, within one type, say "pioneer heroes", one of the ships could be named, for some reason, in honor of an urban-type settlement. (Probably confused the enemy))). There were also numerous series of practically unnamed "Volgotankers", "Lenaneft" and "Volga-Don", differing from each other only by serial number. But that is a river fleet. At sea, I don’t remember such a lack of imagination.
Although now many shipowners do not puzzle over the names of their property. And thousands of "Sea Star-88" and "Morning Breeze-56" plow the oceans
The name of the ship was assigned by its "godmother" - a specially invited woman who solemnly named the ship after him and broke a bottle of champagne on its side. And now, in the age of priests and their obligatory rituals, no one canceled the participation of the "godmother" in the ceremony of naming the vessel.
In the course of life, the ship can change its name many times. The latter, as a rule, is given to him before being sent to last flight- to the place of its dismantling.

Have you ever wondered how life works on a ship?

Land citizens go to work, return home, sleep (usually) - at night, and (usually) in their bedroom. Every day they bring up children and, sometimes, they are brought up by their halves. What if you are a sailor in the merchant fleet? (I practically did not communicate with military sailors, so I can’t say anything about them). For me, from early childhood, the profession of a sailor was close, loved, and I could not imagine myself anywhere in life except on the captain's bridge, so I can tell you something that you may not have known.

What does a person feel when they board a ship? Please note: even if the side of the vessel is located below the level of the pier, then you are CLIMBING aboard. Accordingly, leaving the ship, you DOWN ashore, no matter how high it is. The first sensation is pitching. I have never seen a ladder that was rigidly fixed and did not swing (the ladder should gently “play” when the ship is rocking, and not beat against the pier from each wave). This feeling is enhanced by the fact that the steps on the ship's ladder are not flat, but convex, so that the foot gets up confidently at any angle of inclination of the ladder to the horizon.

When climbing the ladder, you will hear the splash of water in a narrow gap between the pier and the side of the ship, from falling into which you should be protected by a stretched safety net. In addition to the splash of water, you will definitely hear a dull rubber grinding. It is the fenders that do their boring job - cylinders, circles, thick rubber balls, and often old tires that soften the friction of the metal side of the ship against the fixed concrete wall of the pier. The vessel is always in motion - even if it is securely moored. It is rocked by waves, currents, of which there are a lot in any port, it rises or falls, depending on the ongoing cargo operations, it can even heel and move the wind. The ship is connected to the land by thick hemp or synthetic ropes, which are called “ends” in the Navy and each time, depending on the characteristics of the port, form an original web pattern that braids metal hemp-bollards.

First step on passenger liner you are unlikely to remember - everything is even, smooth and covered with carpets. Another thing - cargo Ship. There, most likely, you will need to jump from the ladder to the deck. Not high. No more than half a meter. Maybe less, but the ladder is made in such a way that it always “sticks out” above the deck. Do not be shy about the hand given to you by the sailor on duty. It's a sign of a good maritime upbringing to shake hands with someone coming on board, even if you're a drop dead tough dude. It's on the shore - you're a drop dead cool dude. There is already such a dude on the ship - this is the Captain. But more about him later. In the meantime, having accepted the help of a greeter, you land on a soft wicker or hard cork rug, called the "mat" at sea. Don't forget to wipe your feet on it. Even if your shoes are clean. Show that you don't want to carry land dirt around the ship. Even if the deck is covered with a layer of iron ore dust, which is now being loaded into the hold. Entering any room do not be lazy to trample on the mat. (When boarding a fancy yacht, 99.9% of you will be forced to just take off your shoes and forget about it until the moment you go ashore).
The cargo deck smells of what this ship carries. I have been most often on oil tankers and smelled the aromas of gasoline, diesel or aviation fuel. I always wanted to visit a wine carrier (yes, there are such ships!) and smell the air on its cargo deck.
The ship has wonderful high rapids - coamings. This word came from the English "come in", which was heard by everyone who knocked on the cabin door and waited for an invitation to cross the threshold. Poseidon forbid you step on the coaming! No, you will not be sent to feed the sharks, but it will definitely not add respect to you. There is a rule in the Navy: do not step on the threshold, but step over it, no matter how high it is. And do not forget - you can enter any room on the ship only after receiving an affirmative answer after the question "Permission?"

Having penetrated inside the superstructure, as the “building” that rises above the side is called on the ship, you will feel how the ship smells from the inside. If on the outside you hear the smell of sea salt, rust, paint, transported cargo (if it is not in containers), then inside you will be met by warm, air that has passed through the ducts of the ventilation system, and changes its taste depending on which part of the superstructure you will be.
If you go down to the engine room, you will feel the heat and hum of the main engine of the ship - the machine. The air there is filled with the aroma of fuel, grease, oily rags. Artificial bright light burns there around the clock - as a rule, there are no windows in the engine room. The rumble and clatter of machinery is strong, and is repeatedly reflected by metal surfaces. Talking to the guides, asking them questions is practically useless. Your question will not be heard. And you won't get an answer. UNLESS YOU SHOUT IN EACH OTHER'S EARS. In some distant corner you can easily find a couple of machines - drilling, turning, milling.

If you walk along the ship's corridors, on the walls of which there is always a handrail, which you must hold on to during a storm, then, passing by the infirmary, you will feel a slight smell of something medical. Next to the artel worker's farm, it will smell like ship supplies - flour, cereals, vegetables and canned food. Approaching the ship's galley or dining room, you will smell food. There is always a ready portion of food in the galley - despite the fact that the crew's meal is on schedule. Every minute there is a possibility that the crew members who have changed from the watch will come to eat. Entering the dining room - wish everyone a pleasant appetite. And when you finish your meal, thank with a simple word “Thank you” those who served you: the cook and the barmaid. The menu on the ship is varied. But during a strong pitching, first courses are not prepared - they will splash out of boilers and plates. And during a storm, tables are covered with wet tablecloths - plates do not slip on wet fabric. And one more feature of the ship's tables is a low rim along the perimeter of the tabletop. So it is less likely that every little thing will roll and fall to the floor.
The corridors and cabins of the ship can never be confused with other rooms. They smell like plastic of thin walls-bulkheads, vibrate with a small tremor in time with work. power plant ship, creak from the rocking of the ship on the sea waves.

Next to the captain's bridge is the navigation cabin - a room without sunlight, with a large table on which the running map is laid out, illuminated by a table lamp. Whatever the degree of automation, computerization and satelliteization of the navigator's profession, a large-scale paper map, on which the ship's route is drawn with a pencil, with time stamps for passing control points, will not go anywhere.
Also nearby is a radio room. What it looks like now - in the age of the Internet, I have no idea. And earlier there was a smell of soldering rosin in it, tube radio transmitters were buzzing, and in the most prominent place a radio key was installed for transmitting messages in Morse code, and a clock hung with three-minute sectors of silence allocated every quarter of an hour. At this time, all the transmitters fell silent, and the radio operators listened to see if the SOS signal sounded on the air.


The captain's bridge usually smelled of tobacco. Even the constant draft from the two side doors that gave access to the wings of the bridge did not dispel the smell that even one watch officer or sailor who smoked in the crew left behind. The fact is that smoking on the wings of the bridge was unsafe from a fire point of view. So they smoked inside. Cigarette smoke penetrated the installed equipment, impregnated the signal flags rolled up in rolls and laid in wooden cells, settled on the wooden gunwale railing, which ran along the entire row of wheelhouse glazing. The navigation bridge has never been silent. Even in the calmest hours of the night, the silence was broken by the measured quiet hum and buzz of the equipment, each apparatus of which emitted the sound of its own timbre, eventually merging into a monotonous quiet hum, which you get used to very quickly. The on-duty ship's radio station clicked with discharges of atmospheric electricity. The seat creaked under the weight of the watchman's helmsman.
This is how people live on the ship, nowhere, for six months, without leaving work. Can you imagine living in your office or factory for half a year? At the same time, your office (at best) will constantly buzz, vibrate, sway ...

The working day on the ship is divided into four-hour shifts. Those who are not on watch usually work from eight in the morning until the evening with the obligatory "admiral's hour" - lunch and the opportunity to take a nap from noon to one in the afternoon.

Each watchman has two shifts per day for 4 hours after 8 hours of rest. Each watch had its own name:
8:00 - 12:00 - "children's" or "pioneer" watch. Morning, the beginning of the day. No difficulty. You can put the most inexperienced sailor. The Captain will look after him.
12:00 - 16:00 - the time of the second officer and his helmsman on watch. It's called "doggy". Why? - I'll explain below.
16:00 - 20:00 senior assistant watch. Remarkable watch in terms of time: I defended and managed to have an evening team rest: a movie, dominoes or a leave on the shore for dancing with the girls. Therefore, it is called "Good" or "Royal".
20:00 - 0:00 Again the Captain, or his third (if any) assistant, "rested after a working day", and his inexperienced young sailor, who is still too early to go to the shore with the girls. Therefore, this time is called - “Farewell to youth!”
0:00 - 4:00 Again at the second assistant "Dog". The entire crew went to bed after a hard day's work, and those on duty had to struggle with sleep. You squat - you fall asleep. Therefore, this watch is also called "flat-footed". During the day, the story is the same - the crew is on a lunch break and rest, and the "second" is again deprived - it costs "Dog".
4:00 - 8:00 - romantic senior officers named this watch "Diana" - after the name of the morning star. Although for me - the same "Dog"!
In general, the topic of naval humor and slang is so vast that it deserves not only a separate post, but a whole book!

The Captain's assistants, in addition to the watches, each also bear their own burden: responsibility for the moral and psychological climate in the ship's team, for cargo and cargo documents, for navigational calculations, equipment and manuals, for the use of the material part of the ship, for rescue and safety equipment.
The boatswain, also known as the "Dragon", leads the deck crew. This is a kind of foreman of sailors. All deck and hold facilities are in his area of ​​responsibility.
The chief mechanic rules in the engine room. His name is "Grandfather". The importance of Grandfather is evidenced by the fact that his salary is often equal to the captain's.
All electrical facilities are managed by the Electrician. It is hard for electronics - he, as a rule, is alone on the ship. And, if something happens, there is no one to ask for advice. Since no one wants to understand electricity. And there are more and more circuits, boards, sensors and other wiring every year.

Captain. He is: Master, Cap, Uncle or Dad. But he is alone on the ship. With the right organization of work, the Captain can do nothing. Just take responsibility for everything. Do you think this is not enough? But even after that, the captain has a lot of duties, the fulfillment of which, except for him, no one on the ship can take on.
The captain has a beautiful uniform - a cap with a "crab" and oak leaves on the visor, a tunic with embroidered sleeves (three straight stripes and a fourth, upper one, with a monogram), shoulder straps with the same four stripes and an elegant badge - Badge of the Sea Captain .

In his hometown The captain is called not just by his last name, but with the addition of his proud title. And if the Captain dies, then on his gravestone they will definitely indicate that not just a person lies here, but the Captain.

If I were the Captain, then I would be happy to receive guests on board and organize for them educational excursions. Probably because when I, as a kid, got on board the ship, the sailors gladly took me around all the nooks and crannies of the ship, talking about their life and work at sea. But I did not become a Captain, and I have to conduct virtual tours, using the memories of more than a dozen years ago.
I never had to become a captain of a sea vessel. Paradoxically, my most beloved Captain, who made me fall in love with the maritime profession, dissuaded me from this - my grandfather. But that's another story...

True stories from naval life

Sea minesweeper. Photo from the book "Weapons of Russia"

FRIENDSHIP!

And, as sometimes happens when performing official duties away from superiors and family, not without a small sin, known to everyone as passion for the green snake.

On one of the wonderful fine days, the trawl was driven into the sea. To protect the already mentioned borders. For it was in the days that in a certain country, where, according to its natives, the sun rises, once again they celebrated the "Days of the Northern Territories." I do not name the country, so as not to cause unforeseen diplomatic difficulties. A smart man will guess, but a fool does not need to know.

So, these same vile samurai, considering some of the original Russian stones as their own, went out at that time on their fragile boats, called junks, into the sea. And the picture turned out like this.

Our heroic sea minesweeper cruises in the sea space, and around it are dozens, hundreds of junks, fluttering here and there, like butterflies over the field. The pandemonium is almost Babylonian. That and look someone will drown if you give a little more speed. And it is impossible to lie down in a drift, because cross-eyed friends strive to climb aboard the minesweeper.

Kolya-Drake, seeing such a thing, nevertheless made a move. And added turnovers. And since the 254th move is gaining quickly and imperceptibly, the maneuver turned out to be very successful. A couple of junks managed to dodge the stem, and one was torn in half, like an eggshell. The fisherwomen, who a minute ago dreamed of returning Kunashir and Shikotan to the Land of the Rising Sun, have already begun to dream about how they would not drown. Because no matter how you grab posters with bright hieroglyphs, they don’t add buoyancy.

Kolya-Drake, let's give him his due, despite some drunkenness, did not lose his head. Played "Man overboard!" and dragged the semi-drowned men onto the deck. Brothers in arms, by the way, were in no hurry to help them. As the fighters for land were hauled aboard the wheeled corvette, Drake thought for a moment. Because it turned out, of course, an emergency with a touch of an international scandal. And Kolya did not like scandals.

So I had to give the radio to the base. There, of course, they were somewhat stunned by the surprise, and since the main thing in the fleet was to report in time and clarify the situation, they sent a boat to the area of ​​​​the incident with high headquarters.

In the meantime, the boat was going to the meeting point, Drake decided to sort things out with the owner of the junk. Which, of course, could not speak Russian. In addition, he began to cough and sneeze suspiciously. And Kolya had to heal the samurai, for which the commander's reserve was removed from the safe.

A couple of hours later, the boat with the commission moored to the minesweeper. Not listening to the inconsistent report of the watch officer, the chairman of the commission - a thin, energetic caprice - quickly walked into the commander's cabin.

The rest of the inspectors did not lag behind the chief. Kapraz paused for a moment at the cabin door and pushed the door sharply. The latter opened and an unforgettable picture appeared before the eyes of the commission.

Drake, embracing the foreigner by the thin shoulders, loudly sang: "On this day the samurai decided ..." The captain of the junk diligently sang along with him. On the table stood a hefty bottle of alcohol. The commander's safe was opened to its fullest. The handle of the Makarov protruded from its belly and the roots of some documents were visible.

Drake looked up at the newcomers with dazed eyes and, with difficulty moving his tongue, uttered the only foreign word he had learned over the long years of school and later life: "Freundschaft..."

A month later, Lieutenant Commander Nikolai Bulgakov commanded the base minesweeper of the Mashka type. In the darkness of the Pacific Fleet called Timofeevka.

True, and there he did not last long. Possessing truly horse health (Kolya swam in the sea from April to November - this is at the Pacific Fleet!), Drake believed that his subordinates should also be like that. Therefore, the subjects of his ship kingdom went forever half-dressed and half-shod, with holes in the "reptiles" and in tatters to match the pirate attire.

Somehow, another commission raided Colin "Masha". Arranged, as is customary, drill review. Drake brought his own, built. The view of the sailors, of course, was terrifying. But what a morale! The highest level!

The stunned inspectors, moving from sailor to sailor in the ranks, heard from the ragamuffins in uniform only valiantly cheerful: “Sailor Pupkin. Well-fed, shod, I like service in the Navy. Ready to stay on overtime!”

The patience of the high authorities snapped. Kolya was demobilized. Now he is a pilot somewhere on the Dnieper.

SHURICK

- Well, everything, kabzdets "Kobchik". About him here is an article in the most excellent colors. So it either sinks or burns...

Either he croaked, or he foresaw. Exactly a week later, "Kobchik" - also the TFR of the fiftyth project, burns with a blue flame right at the wall. As always, turmoil and panic, fire trucks came in large numbers, a couple of fire boats moored, everything is in smoke, hoses are spewing with might and main ...

Screech of brakes, a black Volzhanka flies up, the commander of the base, Vice Admiral Shchadrich, comes out of it. Only a foot in a polished boot steps on the concrete, heart-rending is heard:

- Smi-i-i-r-on!

This is our Chief of Staff Shura Kardash coming to greet the high authorities. Stroev, as on a parade ground, lifting his legs high. Shura is a construction worker. And a decent dude. Flies up to the admiral and growls:

- Comrade Vice Admiral, on the 30th division of patrol ships ...

The crazy Shadrich stares at the zealous servant for a moment and interrupts him with an even more menacing growl:

"Go to hell, Kardash!"

And somewhere in the crowd accompanying:

A month later, Shura is serving in Riga. Already a division commander. Punished, it's called...

By the way, I have always loved Shura. For his immutable:

“Hey lieutenant, come here!”

Suitable:

- Comrade Captain 3rd Rank, Lieutenant Riskin...

- So, Riskin, call me this one ... how is he? Yes, this ... Well, in general, you know yourself ...

And you leave. With a clear conscience.

Disassembly at the headquarters. Already in Riga, where Shura is the commander of the "canning" division. Brigade Chief of Staff:

- And you, comrade Czardash, sailors went to self-propelled yesterday!

- I, comrade captain of the 2nd rank, not Czardash, but Kardash ...

- So I say: you, comrade Czardash, the sailors were not only in self-propelled, but also got drunk there ...

In Riga, in front of the headquarters of the "canned food" division, there was either a bronze or cast-iron football player. The body of the statue is tilted, the right leg is swinging, and the ball is in front of it.

And if a football player hit him, the ball would fly right into the window of the Kardashian office.

All this picture was presented to me live. A blow, the ball is in flight and ... flies through the window, meeting there already with the brother-in-law's forehead. And it shatters!

In Riga, Shura received captva. And retired. He got a job at a choreographic school. By whom, though, I don't know.

And I was too shy to ask.

Marine stories

As you know, sailors are for the most part cheerful and not boring people who love to tell all sorts of funny stories that happened to them or their friends while working at sea and being discharged ashore. such stories or sea ​​tales there is a great variety on completely different topics: about working days on a ship, about commanders who are harmful and not very good, about young and inexperienced seamen, and of course, about the weaker sex. Most of these stories have a real historical basis, the rest, of course, is the wild imagination of some gifted storytellers. I bring to your attention one funny story about the cook Zina, who wanted great and pure love. Whether this is a true story or fiction, it's up to you. But the fact was there.

During the Union, in the Black Sea Sea Shipping Company worked on some sea ​​vessels cooks are women. And then there was a position in use - pompolit or political assistant. To make it clear what kind of animal this is - it was a very responsible and harmful position, the only meaning of which was to search for an "unreliable" element among the crew, unworthy of being a Komsomol communist, and disgracing colleagues and the whole country with their supposedly immoral actions. Pompolit held meetings every week. Archival event. Everyone gathered and listened as he ranted about the bright prospects for a communist future.

One day, one of the ChMP ships came to work in Kerch. During the day he worked on dredging, and in the evening he was moored for the whole night. It is clear that the entire crew very quickly acquired "wives" on the shore. And on this ship, during the next meeting of the crew, for the purpose of political information, after the speech of the pompolit and the captain, the “debriefing” begins. It seems that everything was found out, discussed, at the end the standard “Are there any more questions?” The crew is silent, everyone wants to scatter already ... And then the cook Zinaida gets up and asks .... “Why doesn’t anyone f @ eet me?”. She herself in appearance, let's say, was not the first freshness. And everyone is languishing on the shore, what kind of Zina is there. The crew is in shock, they know that they will force someone now. Pompolit bellowed, the captain scratched his turnip and said to the boatswain: "Mikhalych, well, you, take care of this issue." Mikhalych pondered and decided that somehow this issue would be resolved by itself, without his participation.

Some time passed, and once, the crew went down to the dining room in the morning and found it tightly closed, without any smells of food coming from there. Everyone crowded in bewilderment near the entrance, when a cook without overalls appeared, and to all the hungry and angry exclamations, she said one phrase: “No love - no food!”, Turned around and left. Everyone was just in shock. The captain began to solve the problem with the crew there.
- Mikhalych, you were her boyfriend, what happened!? asked the master boatswain.
“No, Nikolai Ivanovich, I haven’t been friends with her for two weeks now,” the boatswain found, “I have such a stalker here, what the hell do I need her for!”
- Sanych, maybe you will start to be friends with her, you liked her, you even tried to drive up to her, - the captain asked the electrician.
- Nikolai Ivanovich, but when was that! I have such a wild love here with a crane operator, it’s already creepy, - the electron snapped.
- Guys, - the master began, - do you understand that we will work hungry all day if no one is friends with Zinochka!?

About an hour passed in disputes and proposals, but everyone had sweethearts on the shore, and no one categorically wanted to devote time to the ship's cook Zina.

Here a new character appeared, in a suit and tie (which was rare for a shipping company), and with a large bag, who politely asked the captain, and immediately introduced himself: "Your new pompolit, just arrived from Odessa." Everyone immediately fell silent and stared at the new pompolit, sarcastically shifting their eyes from his tie to the captain. The captain did not lose his head and immediately took the new crew member into circulation, explained the state of affairs and the only way out of this situation. Pompolit was a new man in the company, and most importantly, a bachelor, and probably hungry from the road, because he did not resist for a long time ...

The ship worked all day in the strait without hot food, and in the evening the whole hungry crew watched the picture. A new political assistant, with a tie, a tape recorder (given by one of the young), a flower (someone had already driven ashore at his request), a bottle of strong drink, which he brought to pour into the crew, but everyone unanimously agreed to donate her on the amorous deeds of pompolit. He knocked on the door of the cook's cabin, from which he immediately heard the answer: "Let's go to ..., I won't cook for you!" captain, I got to know everyone, but I didn’t bother to meet you during the day, allow me to introduce myself. After a couple of seconds of silence, the door opened...

The next morning, a wonderful smell of freshly baked bread spread throughout the ship. There was radiant cleanliness in the galley and the dining room, the tables were filled with beautifully looking and tasty food, Zinochka herself fluttered between the tables in a clean dressing gown and cap, and very politely, with a happy smile on her lips, asked about the desire to get an addition ....

Please enable JavaScript to view the

In fact, I have the most distant relation to the merchant marine, except for the fact that my favorite writer is Viktor Konetsky, whom sailors clearly do not like.

And yet I happened to spend on Russian merchant ships a total of four months as a passenger and not quite. Three times I sailed on a huge container ship - to Australia, back and back to Australia. Twice of them with my family. In every journey, something extraordinary happened, which I want to tell you about.

Bike first

Long journeys are always difficult, especially if you don't have your family and friends with you. And in the sea, where around, except for the water, nothing can be seen for weeks, and even more so. The only thread that connects the ship, lost in the vastness of the world's oceans, with the house is a walkie-talkie. The ship communicates with the base by radio, and the sailors with their families. Usually - this is in the form of telegrams, and if you're lucky, you can talk on the phone.

So let's go. The first couple of weeks everything went like clockwork. Every couple of days telegrams home and from home. But, the farther the native coast remained behind the horizon line, the less reliable the connection became. And now it's time to switch to the latest more powerful walkie-talkie, which, moreover, was modified on the eve of departure to improve the reliability of communication. I don’t know why, but after the modification it was not tested, but sent to the sea at random. And of course, as my reader already expects, it turned out that it does not work.

The radio operator, gray and sleeping with his face, sweated for three days in the radio room before turning to me for help. True, I did not insist, because even though I am a radio engineer by education, I have never worked with walkie-talkies in practice, and in general for the last two years I have not worked with electronics at all. Nevertheless, when all the resources of the radio operator's knowledge were exhausted, he had no choice but to turn to a specialist, though not a marine one, for help. After puffing for half a day (I still had to figure out how it, the infection, works), I found a fairly simple malfunction in the teletype interface. But in general, the system still continued to be stubbornly silent. I won't bore you with the technical details of my research, but I will only say that in the end I was forced to question the authority of the engineers of the shipping company who modified the radio.

After analyzing the modification scheme, I found that theoretically it cannot work. The decision was simple - to cut one wire, to which Pasha, our radio operator, categorically said no. Of course you can understand it. State equipment, under his responsibility. And then, some land slob came and wants to break it. For a couple of hours I convinced Pasha that this wiring was not connected to the detonator of the time mine, and the worst thing that could happen is that the radio still would not work. Of course, she earned, which incredibly raised my credibility in the eyes of the crew, and I was rewarded with a free telephone conversation with my wife. After that, until the end of the voyage, the captain asked me to fix the echo sounder. But there was not even a circuit diagram on board, and I'm not a god.

Second bike

The fact that sailors drink on a voyage is a well-known fact. After all, they have a normal working day there, and why not relax after work. But they drink differently. On my first flight, they drank regularly, but not much and, usually, two or three people a day. closed doors. A completely different picture appeared to us (this time I was already sailing with my wife and son) a year later, when we returned from Australia. I must say that we were accepted into the crew immediately and unconditionally.

There were two reasons for this - on this steamer there was the same electrician with whom I sailed to Australia and became quite close friends. Another reason is that while the ship was in the port for 3 days, I took sailors for a ride around Adelaide. And one day, when they were taking cigarettes off the ship to try to sell on the shore, customs ran over them. While I was talking some nonsense about the fact that these are my cigarettes, and it was I who tried to sell them to the sailors, but they did not want to, etc. etc., one of the guys slipped back on board and warned the crew about a possible “black customs” raid. One way or another, but my "heroism" was appreciated, and we were accepted on board with open arms.

The alcohol was purchased in Holland immeasurably, and by the time of departure back to Russia, not even half had been drunk. It should also be noted that all this happened immediately after the putsch. The team, on their own initiative, raised the then not yet approved Russian flag, urgently re-made from the Dutch one on board. Under this "Jolly Roger" of our day, the spirit of liberalism and permissiveness has blossomed incredibly. Started from the first day. Every evening a company of 5-6 people gathered in the electrician's cabin and drank alcohol. I did not notice how we ended up at the equator, where the revelry reached its apogee.

They drank already in the morning and in the afternoon, after which they went to the bridge, hooted SOS, launched red rockets and checked the ship for stability, laying steep tacks. One evening, in the midst of the fun, they painted the entire cabin of the electrician with greasy indelible felt-tip pens, and the next day, after sobering up, they washed for three hours with the same valuable alcohol, the stocks of which had already noticeably decreased ..

But in spite of everything, the steamer came home on schedule without incident. And this whole story is only a prologue to the third bike.

Third bike

Almost a year and a half passed, and here we are with the whole family, with all the household belongings, including the car, again on the ship. Now we are going to Australia for good.

The crew turned out to be very friendly and affable, contrary to our expectations that we would be treated as emigrants with hostility. A fact immediately caught my eye: in contrast to the previous crew, this one looked completely non-drinking. No, really, I had it with me, and a couple of times I invited a doctor and a mechanic who looked after our car in the hold. But is that called drinking? However, this did not bother me much until the moment when the crew showed their true colors.

And it happened at the equator. Unlike the previous two voyages, this one was a real celebration of Neptune with devils, mermaids, the lord of the seas himself and initiation, that is, bathing beginners. We managed to avoid this fate, because. we have already crossed the equator twice, although some of them obviously itched their hands to smear us with soot and dip. In general, the holiday turned out to be wonderful, smoothly moving from a costume show to a barbecue on the back deck. And this is where it happened. Several cases of cognac and an unmeasured amount of beer were dragged out onto the deck. Well, the people pulled back. They drank until they could no longer drink, then they crawled around the cabins, taking the rest of the beer and cognac.

I woke up late at night, and at first I could not understand what was happening. The first thing I saw was the frightened eyes of my wife. Getting out of bed, and realizing that these were not the tricks of my vestibular apparatus, I realized that the ship had listed to starboard by 20-25 degrees. And as far as I know, containers begin to pour overboard at a heel of 27 degrees. We went out into the corridor and found there the frightened wives of sailors (at that time sailors were already allowed to take their wives on a voyage) in a half-naked state, which I did not even notice at that moment. None of the team was anywhere to be seen.

After ordering everyone to put on life jackets, I went up to the bridge. In the darkness, I did not immediately find the watch navigator sleeping in his chair. Pushing him aside, I asked what was going on and why we had such a roll. In response, it sounded rather incoherently: “Nich-shivo ... An haughty little roll ...” But, apparently, something nevertheless sunk into the brain poisoned by alcohol after a long abstinence, and the navigator slowly crawled to the instrument panel. The sobering came instantly. First, he gave out a phrase that sounded something like this: “No;?**)(?%No. 246*)123-5.” You can use all your non-printable Russian vocabulary and still you won't get anything close to the original. After that, he grabbed the phone and called the engine room. Another phrase: “123-5, what are you eating there, what is going on with you?” After a few minutes the steamer slowly began to level off.

As it turned out later, the engineer on duty, having taken up his duty immediately after drinking, decided to slightly level the steamer, which, in the opinion of his vestibular apparatus, was slightly listing to the left. After turning back and forth a little to find out for sure which side he had left and which right, he found the right switch and turned on the ballast pump. After that, he fell asleep safely. He was awakened by a call from the bridge.

I never found out if they had a system for automatically shutting off the pumps when a critical list was reached, or if only my wife's vigilance and complete calm saved us. And the crew again switched to non-drinking mode.